wherever you go

Letting go

2009-07-10T23:29:00.001-07:00

Listen, Learn, Let go.

11 months ago I let go of my life in the US and arrived in Zambia. In one week I will let go of my life in Zambia, and arrive in Philadelphia.

In the beginning I learned to let go of family and friends, culture, food, efficiency. Somehow that was all ok.

Then I let go of my identity as I thought I knew it, and my sense of place in the world. Harder.

I was forced to let go of expectations, of what I knew to be "normal", "trustworthy", "respectful", "helpful". I've let go of my previous understanding of "poverty", "development", "aid", "love". I let go of ideals, to try to sort through the reals. Frustrating.

Let it go.

It took a while, but finally I feel as though I've let go of the frustrations which clouded me with cynicism and doubt. I've let go of loneliness overwhelming and stunting my sense of self-worth and purpose. I've let go of despair. And most importantly, I've let go of anger.

And here I am. One week remaining. And only now do I feel as though I have let go of enough baggage to introduce a place for Zambia in my heart. Only now can I see the meaning in relationships and experiences. Only now do I see how letting go was an integral part of listening and learning, for myself and others.

And now I'm forced to let go once again. To the things and people I've listened to and learned from. They will forever penetrate who I am.

I say goodbye. Goodbye to students, and friends. Goodbye to guinea fowl and groundnuts, to pounding and peeling. Goodbye to bucket baths and squat peeing, skirts and chitengis. Goodbye to ironic misspellings and strange zanglish terminology. Goodbye to sharing nshima, ofals, sour milk. Goodbye to traditional weddings, funerals, kitchen parties. Goodbye to fetching firewood and water. Goodbye to teaching maths and science. Goodbye to learning tonga. Goodbye to my host dad's firm hand and soft heart. Goodbye to my host mom's laughter. Goodbye to spoons and crazy 8s with my host brothers and sisters. Goodbye to the precious, crusty old men and women. Goodbye to the babies carrying babies. Goodbye to my "home" in Nakeempa, my home in other people's homes, my home in Zambia.

I let go of my life here, so that I can continue to listen and learn from the past, the present, and what is to come.

Nearly a year has passed. I've learned a lot. But mostly, I've learned to let go.

Strikes

2009-06-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

The majority of the Zambian population (who actually work in the formal sector) work under the government…the Ministry of this or that. Privatization is much needed, seeing as corruption is blatant and obvious. The president, Rupiah Banda, recently decided to do something about the average mortality rate (39 yrs) by purchasing 100 beautiful hearses to take the bodies away in style…logic a bit reversed you might say. But what do you do? Zambia is always spoken of as a “peaceful” country, which is true in certain senses. So how do you fight for rights of the masses who are barely scraping by as subsistence farmers, much less those who are earning scanty salaries? I completely understand the desire to strike against that and those who rob you of adequate allowances, food for your family, education, health. However, the long term effects may not be so positive in all respects (then again I remind myself that forward planning is not a cultural value, contrary to my impulses). Most schools have had no teachers in the last 2 weeks since the strikes began, and a few in Nakeempa have joined the efforts…or lack of effort. Sitting at home awaiting Banda’s reply to their inactivity. The nurses have now joined as well, and the domino effect continues as the staff of most institutions drops daily, refusing to be of service to their fellow Zambians. Students aren’t learning, so they’re running the streets. ¾ of Choma hospital was given the boot, and those expecting to be operated on were handed a panado (Tylenol) and politely told to return next month. Of course the police force isn’t allowed to strike, so their own brand of corruption is now more likely. Yesterday I was asked if I was going to join a union, and I had to remind them that I don’t get paid by the government J Rather, I’m trying to make up for those who don’t work. I guess it’s a welcome change to invite busyness into my life. I’ll not refuse the clusters of students coming to me after school asking for extra help. It’s just a shame that as behind as they already are, they fall further and futher away from sufficient education. I have no answers, only more questions about the results of this movement against the Movement…for Multiparty Democracy (MMD). Ah the contradictions we humans hold so dear.

She

2009-05-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Her skin wrinkles up more when she smiles. Deep grooves creating cravasses which meander down the valley towards the corners of her river mouth. Her eyes are big blue sky sitting up above sharp cheek bones, high hills drawing down toward her clean marbled smile. Dentures. The only thing fake about her. Squared perfectly at her parting lips. If only gravity weren't so cruel to keep pulling them from her gums with each word. She grabs my hand with her sandpaper grip and pulls me to look inside deeply. "Where's my suga" she sternly enquires and only cracks the hills of laughter after my accumulating tonga wit. I submit to gifting 1kg and see the sparkle of a woman who's eyes show gratitude only suffering can bring. 80 plus years of life gives her a clarity that I see but rarely. She knows things I have only splashed through in a shallow puddle. Her path has taken her across oceans of understanding, save having ever stepped out of the village. She encompasses Zambian women to me, and experiences I don't know how to talk about. Walking barefoot with a confident, yet broken gait. She is mostly silent, yet has a firm depth in which I sense anger, pain, fear, loss, betrayal, apathy, courage, confusion, understanding, strength, compassion, love. She is solitude, playing with solidarity, and mere words don't encapsulate her existence. She is the essense of why I can't write recently, because condensing an inarticulate summary doesn't work. I don't know what to say really, and don't feel as though I have a whole lot to contribute. Honesty isn't all that pretty most days, and I don't like being insincere. To romanticize flashes of my experience seems like a cover up for the majority of days which leave me cynical. Timing is seeing me through an encounter, one which I have yet to gain distance and perspective on. So sitting in the thick of it brings me a range of unsorted emotions. I am ready to go, yet I'm not. I will continue to learn, and I am already aware of what I will miss. It's women like her, who's unforgiving persona penetrates the core of me, and overwhelmes me with both clarity and questions. She has strength to overcome things I never will need to, and she articulates without a word. She is a mother, she is profoundly complex, she is Zambia, she is the world.

Notes from a Funeral

2009-05-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

Biking for a few kilometers, flat tire, heavy heat, sun
flies everywhere, the body and me in a concrete hut
handshakes around the room, women everywhere
sand, water
a burlap sac, the body on top, banana leaves covering the little boy
vibrant colors, chitengis, and dirty feet, life in the midst of death
mothers and women, friends and family
the men hammering outside, building a coffin out of a broken chair
bring it inside and women leave
wailing, fog horns
no tears, just shouts
she cries out into the horizon, yelling, hands verticle, lungs emptying with each shrill
little boy asks grandma "who lies under there?"
he crosses his dusty legs like an old man, pondering life as the choir sings outside
we sit for 20 minutes, men chase us out. hammering, the body nailed inside
"the prophet" strolls through the crown in a bright red robe
seeking money and a following
we walk, wailing to the burial plot
small hole for a small coffin
2 large sticks across, 2 piles of dirt
song, prayer, preaching
jump into the hole, lower the box down
cover it quickly, shoveling violently
pounding, sticks flailing
mother and father place flowers, turn and leave their son
Ashley called to participate
father speaks, and cries out at the end

Munsaka Cileleko ("Blessing" was his name)
September 16 2005 - May 16 2009

3 1/2 years of life. Death, once again unnecessary.

An Educational Tour

2009-05-24T06:39:00.000-07:00

Chickens and mealie meal, dry beans, cold drinks, cabbage, a suitable semi-reliable transport truck, instructions on behavior, note-taking, packing lists and laundry, crayons, plans.

So many things to keep track of, so many people to put trust in. Fingers crossed. The result unseen, unknown, even still, maybe forever. Educational tours are no small endeavor in this setting. In fact, it's quite possible that it will be the greatest adventure of their lives.

28 students ages 14-21 piled into the blue truck. Limbs which were not squelched by bags or other people, protruding through the ripped canopy. I pulled myself up to scan for my spot only to meet questioning eyes who weren't ready to answer my enquiry. There's always room for one more, except when there's not. My legs went numb, but the blood not spent circulating through my lower extremeties was sure pumping through the questions in my heart and mind. Firstly, will we actually make it across this bridge? And if so, will we make up the time lost on earlier police predicaments and chicken issues? Will the schedule actually go as we had planned, and will we really see the whole hospital, all the school, the research center, and the airstrip? Will they keep their food in at both ends when they find out they're taking flight? Will they understand enough english to be appropriately shocked by what they see and hear, yet not so overwhelmed by the electricity, hot showers, and buzz of hospital activity that they become completley immobilized?

They listened, they learned, they saw, they touched, they questioned, they ate, they slept. They experienced things they never had before. Their own bed and blankets, not a dirt floor shared by other family members. They ate first, priority theirs, not secunded to their elders. They got x rays of their bones. They played on a jungle gym. They took flight. They smiled more than I've ever seen them smile, and they hugged me individually, for once without fear. They now want to become doctors, accountants, nurses, pilots. They want to see more outside of Nakeempa's limits.

They are happy in a way I've never seen before, and this makes me happy. If that's all I accomplish in one year, I'll somehow feel I had purpose. And for those of you who contributed toward this incredible journey, you will soon see the impact you had. Thank you again : )

http://picasaweb.google.com/machaworks/NakempaSchoolFlightsOverMacha#

uli kuli?

2009-05-16T00:19:00.000-07:00

You may be wondering where I've been.
So have I.
A month of movement to masticate.
I'll spit out the abridged version for myself and others to digest in due time.
For now, the photos can speak the words I'm still trying to retrieve.

Matthew and I can be found here...that is, in South Africa, Lesotho, Botswana, and Zambia...

http://picasaweb.google.com/akraybil/MatthewAndMe02

I'd advocate for this to win as our most ambitous, and most successful trip yet. Epic.

TBC

2009-03-12T21:23:00.000-07:00

a penny for your thoughts

2009-03-07T01:23:00.000-08:00

I don’t actually have a surplus of cash on hand, let alone hundreds of pennies for all of you. Kwacha probably isn’t the currency you’d be hoping for either, but I could use some pro bono advice, or merely your thoughts on the matter (This applies to everyone reading).

My future, that is, and the question at hand is nursing school. I know I still have about 5 months to go, but seeing as how the last half of anything and everything in my life has blown past me like a hurricane, I figured I’d try to be proactive this time. So as an update and a way to provoke your opinions, I wanted to share my current ideas about my future. (I know one of the only trained psychologists reading is my Dad, but work with me). I’ve learned here that planning usually doesn’t result in exact expected results, but I do think it’s important to plan this sort of thing.

So there it is. I’m thinking of starting nursing school upon arrival in Pennsylvania. The reasons are many, but mostly I think I would really enjoy it. It would be a 2 year masters program which may lead me elsewhere, but could lead me back to a complimentary masters of social work post graduation. The latter is what I previously considered, but the GREs are still a future goal and I know that as I come back to the States, I’ll need to involve myself somewhat immediately. It will likely be a tough transition so I think a quick move into a program that seems exciting, fulfilling, and stable could be positive. That said, who knows what will happen. I’m open to suggestions, comments, or questions. Give me any of your thoughts, and if they’re worth it, I may give you something monetary…but probably not :)

Morning excitement

2009-03-07T01:21:00.000-08:00

Kuli? Where? I guess if you’ve seen the same paths your whole life, you’d notice things like the imprint of an unknown vehicle on the sandy path, or the visible sauntering steps of an animal’s tracks. Of course, I thought that my senses had sharpened to become more attuned to the unknown and unseen, but obviously I’m still decidedly deficient. I’ve met only one elephant since I’ve been in Africa, and I have to say that’s kind of a disappointment. Not that I came here intending to spend my days viewing game, but really, just one?

My Baama was scared. They’re known for trampling people, crops, and vehicles alike. They’re just ridiculously large animals, and their footprints along our road into town were proof of their size. It was the droppings that confirmed the young ones were trotting behind them too. But I guess elephants don’t trot no matter how old they are, they stomp. Thank goodness they didn’t find us though, and we didn’t find them, since mothers are always protective of their young, and likely would have come at us in full force.

I pictured her defensively hurling her monstrosity of a fleshy grey body, horrific groans reaching our ears only seconds before we felt the crunch of our vehicle being crumpled up quickly like a small matchbox car. Reality was less exciting. We didn’t even meet. But at least we were safe from their stomping grounds as we saw their tracks trail off into the bush. Disappointed as I was, I was happy to make it to town to use the internet to write of our exciting adventure!

p.s. a few days after writing this, I was informed the 44 Elephants are wandering through the neighborhood. Exciting, yes, but it does create a variety of problems for the people who’s fields they devour and demolish. Apparently the lack of stability in nearby Zimbabwe has given way to other problems besides useless currency, dictatorship, and no food. It’s not only the people who are fleeing, but the wild animals who have strayed from game parks and travelled north to find a home in Zambia. It can be a dangerous journey for people and animals alike.

A trip to Macha

2009-03-07T01:18:00.000-08:00

It seemed as though we had started out on the wrong foot, or feet. Boots are supposed to keep your toes dry, but obviously I’ll need to purchase some thigh high waders in the near future. The rain was pouring down in buckets, wind whipping right through the very fibers of our clothing. I had to smile at the irony of our umbrella which covered and kept dry approximately one square inch of the top of our heads and not much more. (I find myself noticing and smiling at these sorts of oddities often). We waited in vain for 2 hours, which left plenty of time for wandering thoughts and reflection. My mind regularly dawdles through a series of deliberations which don’t follow any particular order except my nomadic brain firings.

We shared the corner leading to Macha with a pack of goats and their owners. It incited the notion that they could come in handy for milk or meat depending on how long we lingered. Good company, I thought. It’s always a fun sort of escapade to try and hail a willing and empty vehicle for a ride, but our efforts seemed wasted, so eventually we nodded our heads down and saunter back into town. It wasn’t all for lost though We found a bus that would take us almost all the way to our destination. Score.

I was eager to get there. The town of Macha is a place the houses quite a number of amazing institutions and people. The Macha Hospital is internationally known and supported, and more recently, an attached Malaria Research Center has been getting a lot of attention. There are frequent out of country visitors who stay for short stints or for longer terms of service, so compared to many other places in Zambia, it’s a hotbed of activity.

After visiting I realized it was perfect. The perfect place for my students to explore and use as an inspiration for what they can become. Since I’ve come to Zambia, I have been burdened by the thought that Nakeempa’s children have no models. There are only 1 or 2 people in the area who have completed a grade 12 education (besides the other teachers). And even the chairpersons and headmen have very little education. So who will the students use as their example? Who can they look to as a guide, or as a person they strive to pattern their lives after? Where can they visibly see the yield of their educational investment?

It was after discussions with others that I came up with the idea of a field trip. Planning has now begun, and we’re forming the schedule of an “educational tour” through Macha from April 13-15. 30 students will accompany the 5 other teachers and I to the hospital grounds, the research center, the radio station, and the nearby girls school. Not only that, we hope to give a few lucky kids the opportunity to take flight at the neighboring air strip. The Director’s of each institution in Macha are preparing lessons and activities for the kids, and we’ll try to feed them well for a few days too.

The prices add up quickly when travelling, but thanks to a number of family members who decided to come together during Christmas and donate an unbelievable amount of money, we’ll give these children the chance of a lifetime. (For those of you who gave to my parents, I’ll fill you in with a more personal update very soon. I can’t thank you enough for entrusting to me, and providing for so many families. Your gift is greater than you may know).

Most kids that will go on this trip have never seen anything beyond Nakeempa, and if they have, they’ve only ventured to the nearby town of Choma. Their experiences are so lacking, and their knowledge of their own surroundings is so limited. So as we take to the road, we’ll hopefully impart a sense of curiosity, a vision of what education can do for them, and a hunger to work hard and improve their lives. As the dates come closer I’ll try to inform you about the latest events, so stay tuned to find out more!

Names

2009-03-06T01:30:00.000-08:00

I was asked to type class lists for everyone in the school. It makes sense bearing in mind that I am the only one here who knows how to operate a computer. Plus I’m proud to say that I can type using all 10 fingers. Yup, I can navigate words without pecking only using my pointer finger. Anyhow, I’ve decided I was glad for the opportunity to type out all 800 plus names because I could finally have a complete list of all the ones I’ve heard and said “your name is what?!” So here’s my laundry list of favorites, some sad, some outrageous, some hilarious, and others just outright ridiculous. I find myself asking, what have we as a western culture and English language done to this poor generation of African children?? It’s a Disaster….sorry, I mean it’s Disaster, the little boy…

Disaster
Gravity
Bilgay (?)
Nobody
Obvious (duh)
Sure
Phizzy
Petty
Perfect
Humble
Duumbo (this poor child)
Ichiness (always?)
Needy
Trywell (I hope so)
Sharfly (I don’t even know)
Hide
Catlite (hmm)
Memory
Hisfull
Obby ( I think this was supposed to be Bobby)
Delivery
Vespa (sweet ride)
Royness
Flagless (so un-patriotic)
Far
Soviet (former union)
Loveness
Hidden
Effort
Fear
Minister (his destiny awaits)
Dissolve (did you just hear this word in science class?)
Stranger (not to me)

What If...

2009-03-06T01:24:00.000-08:00

“Ba-Ashley” they announce along with Tonga greetings and big crooked smiles. Ba is for respect, and it’s that which leaves me feeling guilty that their names have slipped my mind as mine slides (not so easily) off their tongue. Ashrey is more like it, since “l” and “r” can be interchanged at any time. There just is no r in Tonga, so praying is the same as playing, and “wrong” is heard as “long”…you get the idea. Lucky for me I can call any woman Baama and she’ll take it with the pride and respect deserved of an African mother, or any mother at that.

The swarm of women sit me down on the ground, legs perpendicular to torso, and straight in line to match the tweed mat on which we park. A flurry of scraps surrounds me, brightly colored trash. Shimmering golden plastic wrappers, mirror –like cellophane from biscuits, crinkles of vibrant blues, oranges, greens, yellows. I would have called it unbearably gaudy and distasteful in my former life, but here my views have changed, decorative beauty being the least of these. Laughing and chatting away, they hand over the crooked sewing needle, threaded by a long sinuous scrap of the mealie-meal bag. The accordion folds add life to the litter and as they teach me their art. And soon enough what once was rubbish is a colorful porcupine-like decoration to hang from their humble home. When you have a mud hut in a place like Nakeempa you need to be truly creative in order to spice up your life. Salt in your nshima just doesn’t do it.

They’re surprised that I can sew, and about 1/10 of what they mutter about me I can understand. They slap my knee and finger my light skin as they enjoy my mere presence since communication ceases in due time. Today it’s my worn out brown crocs that bring the most mirth, so I lend them to the seasoned old woman who slowly and gingerly takes them, but swiftly puts them on her own feet. It might be the most entertaining fashion show I’ve seen yet, as they swallow her up to her bony ankles, kind of like the shoe-name crocodile suggests. She scampers about the dusty path in hysterics. The younger girls look up at their grandmother in hilarity and continue “platting” each others hair. They say it’s my turn next week, and I agree with a wince as I see them pulling and tugging at their friends who are bobble-heads awaiting their modish do. The small children seem to enjoy the idea also as they approach me, but run away in a torrent of giggles after making eye contact and sharing a smile. They always come back though, this time because of the lure of my locks. They’re mesmerized by my “long”, “slippery” hair that gravity pulls all the way down my back, rather than their stiff spiky hair that looks surprised as it shoots out in patches, electrocuted.

Emelda’s tresses are finished and she makes her way inside to her crying infant Brighton, who seems to be wanting the attention I was getting, or maybe just her mother’s breast. It’s baby Brighton who I came to see, but only in the extensive wake (an hour or two) of sitting on the ground origami-like and eating boiled guinea fowl eggs can we begin talking about the real reason for the visit. If I were to explain the relationship, including the history of orphan-hood, guardianship, and the slew of unexpected children, it could take all day. Nevertheless, it was important for me to visit Emelda, the mother of a sick child. Here, if you don’t visit the sick you are a heartless fool, or maybe you just don’t understand the culture. I was trying not to be titled the former, and attempting to build on the latter, so I went.

I love visiting homes, being invited in to experience and share in people’s lives. But there is still a challenging distance, a wall that I keep trying to penetrate month after month. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to knock it down. It’s tough without language and it’s frustrating in a traditional society that doesn’t approve of differences, or change. If tribalism is still so rampant, imagine the faux pas of my more distant, more modern ideas infiltrating.

I enquire about the illness, trying not to be too direct. But like always, questions are answered in the most round about of ways as if I were chasing my tail to get real, unambiguous information. “Sick” can mean an infinite number of things, and here, there is always a chance that it could somehow imply the influence of witchcraft or something else beyond my realm of understanding. But if there are more details swirling around, it’s still unlikely that they’ll gather them up to share with me. So I stop at that, wondering if it’s worth asking more questions.
It’s true what they say about possessiveness. That Africans are overly generous with material things, lending out anything and everything they have (often times to a fault). But it’s their information that they guard with an army of indirect words and a dead bolt lock on their quiet lips as they curl into a “knowing but not telling” smile. We (North Americans) will share our hearts with the lady at the check-out counter, and our frustrations can be word processed for the world to see on blogs such as this. But it’s our things, our precious relics, important and unimportant treasures, and all the other junk (not always) which gets hoarded. Far be it for someone to displace or even handle our stuff with the idea of prodding through with sticky fingers.
My evidence is a case study on myself. Why is it so deeply engrained into me that the lotion sitting on my desk is “mine!” Of course I don’t actually yell that except inside my own head, after finding the bottle half empty upon return to “my room” where “my things” are on “my desk”. Really, it’s not a big deal, but how selfish am I to even care when they share copious amounts of food, and their entire homes with me.

It’s the information which they take to the grave though. And ultimately, I think (in my humble opinion) that this can cause a lot of problems. For example if I knew the reasons for this particular “sickness” or a more complete medical history of the family, maybe I could do more to help. Granted I’m not a nurse (though being here makes me want to become one). However, I can’t help but ask the perpetual “what if” questions. Yet again, I have to remember to push down my pride, my hunger to do and act, and I try desperately to just be. Sit, eat, listen, sleep, repeat. I know I can’t change such deep cultural traits and beliefs. But I still get angry and depressed at the thought of my presence being so frustratingly futile. In the classroom, in the home, seemingly everywhere.

I now know a lot of things which have uncovered both the complexity and reality of life in Nakeempa. I know that the children I teach have no foundation, and therefore, whatever I can impart is still not enough for them to pass. I know that when I leave they’ll still have to kneel down to their elders and submit to beatings. I know that many girls will still get pregnant, and/or married off. I know that I won’t be able to learn enough Tonga to gain many true friends here. I know that many relationships will remain superficial and my true opinions and ideas won’t be realized. I know now that I can’t fix a whole lot of anything, like I had thought when I originally came. I know that my time here will pass and I’ll be forgotten just as so many others who come and go. And mostly I know that I really don’t know a whole lot.

What I know is only more confused every day, and I have to remind myself that giving up isn’t helpful either. Frenetically I try to wave away pessimistic thoughts, to drive away the feelings of hopelessness, and the desire to think futuristically about returning home. But I’ll admit it takes a lot of effort. It’s tempting to do as the days tick by. And honestly it’s sometimes necessary to give in, so that I get through the lowest of lows. But I guess it’s the important lessons in life that require us to exhaust ourselves. That require us to just sit and sew. There are many moments where I feel encouraged and many more where I feel exhausted. So now I’ll have to learn more about the paradox of effortful letting go. Success, happiness, and fulfillment are not to be pursued like the pot of gold at the end of the non-existent rainbow. It’s the rainbow itself that is the treasure which brightens the sky. And only after a murky, heavy rainstorm can each colorful band be illuminated. So my search for the light continues. I chase my tail, but I’m discovering how to appreciate the exercise :).

Deuteronomy

2009-02-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

22:5 The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

...and now there's proof from my Zambian friends and Moses. I should never wear trousers again. (pants mean underware)

:)

2009-01-29T08:35:00.000-08:00

Change: A transformation or transition from one state, condition, or phase to another
Wamunyima is usually a bit off. His watch seems to be perpetually late, or early, or conveniently different than mine. He stands up near the end, or sometimes in the middle of my class to do his duty, hammering hard on the rusty tire wheel that serves as the school’s bell. I’m not surprised at his apathetic response to timing, Zambian as he is. But I’m continuously surprised that a 16 year old 9th grader is just as excited to do his job at 5 am each morning. It seems I have yet to figure out what we are signaling in at that ghastly hour, or why we need to add noise to the cow bells, the cock’s crowing, and the rhythmic pounding of the day’s maize meal. But maybe it’s the sun which also needs persuasion to peak over the horizon and commence a bright new day.
Thursday morning was wet and cold, and I was equally as hesitant to have to meander through the murky fog. The vivid dreaming of a rainy night’s sleep kept me clutching to my blankets, but the daylight had been rung in. A new term, a new year, and a picture of Obama still engrained in my mind, with his other worldly inauguration speech about transforming the tides of dark undulating waters (yes, I resolutely made it a priority to see the country/world’s representative of change).

I had finally returned to the village, bringing with me new eyes to perceive a different set of changes. The masuku fruit once littered throughout the school has turned into freshly gnawed cobs of maize, mapopwe. The green shoots up so high you can only see the flailing, shimmering blades of the young children forced to slash it down. The maize is tassling, and people are now sitting expectantly behind the back-breaking work of spot fertilization, plant by plant, field by field. It’s our family who was late to dish out the extra umph of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, the sugary looking top dressing that sweetens and revitalizes the crop. But line by line, reviving the roots, I realized I too wished to sprinkle some sort of magic on the withering parts of my spirit, to encounter growth, to cultivate new stems of creativity, to foster nourishment.

Reluctantly I pulled myself out of bed after reviewing the last month nostalgically; the false sense of attachment I recently had to the world of family, friends, and familiar customs/language/food. But I looked more closely at the purpose of being here, like velcro though, holding on with vigor to the last moments of “normality”, of “home”. The cool morning breeze washed over me, and as I lit the candle in my darkened room I made a conscious decision to see the light, to replace sadness and loss, with joy and inspiration, and to be present in each moment ahead.

It’s my students who grant me the capacity to do so. They make my day, every day, and put a bounce in my step. After reviewing my list of new and difficult names while walking through the doorway of room #7, my two classes of 80 plus grade 8 students rose to meet my gaze…a habit they’ll soon have to break. They laughed nervously as I greeted them and told them to sit down. They strained to understand anything coming out of my mouth, and worked even harder to try and respond. Therefore, their first assignment was a challenge. Standing in front to present themselves individually. “My name is Muchimba. I am from Nakeempa, and I want to be a doctor”. “My name is Heizy, I am from Nakeempa. I like to sing, and I want to be a teacher”. Big dreams for this small town. But my grade nine class had already been through that routine. They knew me from last term, so they welcomed me back with broken, but better English, smiles, and hard slapping hand shakes. The two new classes as well as a promotion to “class teacher” were surprises, but I very much welcomed the new faces and responsibilities.

In so many ways I do feel responsible for each student, and after slowly filling in the gaps of many of their stories and struggles, I am even more keenly aware of my presence in their lives as teacher and hopefully friend. I find things out along the way, some which bring laughter, and most which bring tears. And I hope that if nothing else, I can provide them with but one message of unconditional love.

one story, and thousands more
She’s taken from any familiarity she might have and transplanted somewhere new, a distant village. But moving isn’t necessarily unfamiliar, as she makes short or long appearances wherever her hard work is needed. She’s told she might be able to go to school, but hope is all she can tangibly hold on to. The money never seems to surface, the uniform is just too expensive, and really, let’s be honest, her priorities should be in the home. She lives mostly as a slave, bowing down, and serving her father, her uncle, whoever, until marriage age (anywhere between 15 and 19) when she can be sold to any man willing to fork over the appropriate dowry. Her father/male guardian gains a few cows (which could potentially improve his own life) in exchange for the less important life of his daughter, a reciprocation for the loss of her working hands, and young body. She gets pregnant, maybe it’s a boy, maybe it’s a girl, maybe the story repeats itself over and over, and maybe the characters in the story make up 95% of my village.

“You have a new pupil” I’m told, as she walks through the door, standing expressionless as I try to introduce her to the roomful. Her eyes are sticky and red, and she looks up only to follow my finger to her seat in the back row. Oviness arrived the third week, so I hastily suspected she was like nearly every other girl in my class, that is, miraculously making it into any school at all. What was it this time? I pondered cynically…sexual abuse, orphan hood, pregnancy, neglect, or maybe just a cruel concoction of them all (as is often the case). She enters into our algebra lesson half-way through, but I can plainly see she’s disoriented by the level of math not to mention my strange english. So I deliberately stop by her desk to look into her hollow eyes. Lies. I see them all. The cavernous vacancy of everything that has been stolen from her is deep in her being. Lies she’s been told about her worth as a girl, as a student, as a human being. Lies about what she can and can’t do, about her intelligence, about her strength. Lies about authority, hierarchy, and rights. Lies.

I get angry. Once again I don’t know what to do. I know I can’t even show my empathy, because I lack true understanding. I know I can’t get close enough to her. I know I can’t catch her tears. I know I can’t hold onto her pain. Language and culture build walls that are hard to tear down, but even though I can’t get close to her in words to know what she knows, it’s all written in her eyes. It takes only a moment’s gaze to hear her speak to me more loudly than any verbal language could. I smile, and grab onto her hand, hoping she knows that I care. Hoping that she knows my authenticity. Hoping that she feels my belief and acknowledgement of her worth and importance.

I still see what is at the core. There is radiance tucked behind the despondency. I see it in each of my students, Oviness, and all the rest. And though some days the light barely peaks through, the luminosity from within each one of them silently teaches me lessons every day. They teach me about true beauty, about patience, humility, and grace. They renew my faith when so often I question the meaning of it all, and they show me the power of that which is greater than myself. That which they represent, which is liberation through the supremacy of love.

“Write me a letter”

It’s an English assignment, sure, but the messages are sent not only into their notebooks, but into my heart.

A letter from Oziline:

Hai Sweet
How is your life but I think and trust that you are doing fine
Back to me I am not fine why because of missing you sweet
Come to the main purpose of writing this letter. The programme that you was give me is not good. My parents was not take the money. They said that they don’t bring now the money you bring after finish grade 9 because my school fees is not come from my parents is come from the headmaster of Nakeempa Basic School. They want to protect me from the head if it is here that programe they can sadi to me don’t come to the school because you are want to get marriage. So that is my parents tell me. So I can’t do anything I just agree what they was said to me. I just write the main point onthers I tell you wen you come here my sweet. Don’t think bad things just continue to think good things so that is that. My grandfather was agree and grandmother and uncle was agree but my father was not agree. All these words that I said is my father who said all these word.

Yours faithfully
Sweet O
God bless you all the time my sweet

A translation: MCC is supporting her, so her school fees have been paid for up until this year. She will finish grade 9 though, and her father wants to marry her off afterwards since she likely won’t pass or be able to afford secondary school She doesn’t want to be married but she has no say, and she knows she has no power. So she writes to me…Just one among the masses.

a retreat

2009-01-28T12:50:00.000-08:00

The MCC retreat was held in Sinazongwe on Lake Kariba...a beautiful place to rest, relax, and rejuvinate
Volleyball
and many hidden treasures
Our guest speaker and his family were wonderful to have along
and we spent a lot of time sitting, and a lot of time eating :)
we also explored and found zebra grazing
and children romping around :)

but the most exciting part was the croc farm, where thousands of crocodiles were watching us pass through, teeth bared. one tried to knaw on the tire of our vehicle, but alas he couldn't bring us down.
we cruised around on a boat safari to see other animals on the water

like the territorial hippos
and I even tried my hand at fishing, but unfortunately, just when I thought I'd caught something big, I realized I was stuck on a rock...Zambians are good people, and this man willingly jumped in to help me.
but we also had inside adventures to celebrate the coming of the new year...a fashion show, african style.

It was a fun week, and a great group of MCCrs to be with. And no doubt a retreat to be remembered.

A much anticipated visit

2009-01-27T19:26:00.000-08:00

When my parents came to see Zambia, to see me, they tasted the many flavors of life in Zambia, "abnormal" as they saw many of them to be :)
First we vacationed. A safari in Botswana, which gave us glimpses of the natural beauty of southern Africa.
The impala scampered around everywhere
But so many other animals roamed the vast lands of Chobe game park.
But soon enough, we were on our way out of the leisurly tour, with a need for nourishing mauwi fruit to sustain us into the village.
It's a rough road into Nakeempa, but Dad's driving skills improved quickly as he plunged into lakes, and hobbled through the ruts.
Everyone was eagerly anticipating their arrival
And my host Dad had a plethora of stories to tell and things to show.
They encountered life out of the big city
and were given a proper welcome as the chicken was slaughtered just for them.
The church was buzzing at the news of 2 more mukuwas (white people)
and they were fed incessantly
but don't be fooled by the pace of it all...there's always time to sit (women on the ground of course)
We made a special time to visit baby Ashley though. And her "grandparents" as they were called, were delighted to see my name-sake.

but maybe she isn't so thrilled about her name, or me....look closely.

At least her young sister wanted us there.There were many new experiences they had in the 2 day trip to Nakeempa, and after we left the bush, the experience of Christmas in Zambia felt different as well. Jocelyn and I tried to force it, but somehow it's not quite the same.
We kept trying to get into the spirit, but as they left the day after Christmas, it was still a sad goodbye. No doubt though, it was a Christmas and a visit to be remembered, one which has allowed me to continue on.

visitors from far places

2009-01-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

A backwards photo journal:

(being away from technology has created more functional and neurological challenges than I thought :) uploading is now a difficult task for me. so bear with my random assortment of pictures in no particular order... you'll get the idea.)

Giraffes graze just meters away, and stare down as they chomp the sky high roughage... this African safari made me feel like a visitor to a place I thought I was getting to know.

Renalda (my friend who visited from her home in Latvia) and I toured the hot spots of Zambia, and saw the falls for the last time before they began to gush with amazing force.
many adventures were to be had, but we didn't expect to see an elephant moseying along the side of the road.
and excitement couldn't be topped after a cold ice cream, since refrigeration isn't common in Nakeempa

staring over the kariba dam made our small village dam look like a puddle.

that's right...Renalda and I walked right into Zimbabwe, and we survived
a sunset boat ride on the lake...cholera and bilharzia should have deterred me from swimming, but it didn't
it was just too beautiful

we had our share of break downs though, but Mweemba was a life-saver
frustrations were heightened though because of malaria...
Kathy (my country rep) was a big hit in the village, a city woman from Lusaka, and a mukuwa. my host mom couldn't stop feeding her.

I needed a vacation, and I got it...beautiful Siavonga
Jocelyn and I made our own fun while waiting by the roadside (this is just before selling bananas)

Staying with friends and exploring Zambia was a much needed break from the bush. but I think I'm ready to go back. It was a month of travel and fun. But now it's back to work...the school year begins, and term one will surely bring new challenges and new opportunities. Everyday is a new day in 2009!

you reap what you sow

2009-01-04T04:08:00.000-08:00

Adventures with the Pastor

which lead to unexpected treasures....you can find anything

and eat anything (masuku fruit)

like wild mushrooms which grow near the well

and if you don't have a bag, you can make a "bush basket" for optimum collection

but my most important lessons have come in the fields, where I have learned to plow and plant the staple crops, maize and groundnuts.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to yell as loud as Pared, or keep the cultivator completely straight over stumps and ant hills...but at least I made an effort, and contributed my meager strength toward the year's supplication.

The Holidays

2008-12-27T11:12:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while, I know. But silence by no means signifies inactivity or loss of inspiration. In fact, it often means rather the opposite for me. It’s the holiday season, which obviously means some level of commotion. And my life has recently been full in new and different ways. However, as I round a few significant corners in my time here I have been surprised by the decreasing sense of novelty and increasing sense of overwhelming stagnancy. Even with a lot of travelling, I have experienced a steady shift from ideal, to real, or an attempt to find the evolving reality in which I live. But I do feel as though I am understanding things more deeply (or understanding that I don't understand), even though I know I’m still relatively new here.

What has provided me a semi-transformation in the last month is the strengthening push-pull feeling that comes to exist in most service workers’ hearts, between optimism and pessimism. Moment to moment the tides in my being change, and my degree of frustration fluctuates. In some ways there are just too many anecdotal tales to tell, and too many emotions to articulate, so it snatches up my energy and motivation. But I know quite well that it is also a therapeutic release to emanate even a fractional piece of the landscape I see, and to share with all of you.

So by back-tracking only a bit, I’ll give you a taste of the holidays in Zambia, trying to give only an appetizer size portion of the feast-like smorgasbord of experiences I have to choose from.

The Holidays:

I run over to the car window among the sea of women vendors. And as it slides down, it reveals questioning eyes scanning the crowd in pursuit of fresh fruit. Focusing in on the bundles of bananas, oranges, and apples, the older white woman catches my gaze accidentally and stares with hesitance. Her face contorted, she looks struck by my presence; strange sight as it were. And listening to my practiced oration with confusion, she watches me carefully as I lift my bushel into her view and ask “Bananas? 5 pin”. A proposal meaning 5,000 kwacha – approximately 1 dollar – for 15 or so. Fated only to look awkwardly into the land rover full of ex-pats giggling, I try not to be too embarrassed by the bemused silence. But she smiles sweetly easing the tension, and we laugh together at the irony of it all. A white woman literally shoving her way into the life of most Zambians. It somehow encapsulates my presence here for the last 5 months. How strange I must look participating in the verve and mere existence of people here. And how easily I forget how odd it all is sometimes.

But it wasn’t necessarily routine vending for me. It was yet another unexpected wrinkle in the plans. What else was there to do but join the women selling by the side of the road? Jocelyn and I decided to pull up a rock and squat next to the others when we found out we’d be stranded. And we remained there for the next 6 hours, re-learning the art of patience, a skill well known in Africa...the woman didn’t buy my bananas but maybe next time.

Who knew how long it would be until the car part arrived just a few kilometers north, much less, when it would be installed and the vehicle would be ready to come pick us up. We were dropped off by the mini-bus that morning in hopes that our friend Mweemba would arrive there to escort us for the last half of the journey to Lake Kariba. After school was out, I was fervently anticipating this vacation from school (since the month of December is my break, and I'll be teaching again starting in January). But things usually aren’t that easy…I should have known.

Renalda, my friend visiting from Latvia, had joined Mweemba and Chris in Lusaka, and they travelled together in a rented vehicle to meet with Jocelyn and I. Rentals + Zambia = disaster. I couldn’t have been more excited to see Renalda, considering we hadn’t been together since concurrently studying in Lithuania 3 years ago. But wait more we did. So close, yet so far, we sat at different spots on the side of the road, she and Chris baking in the sun just kilometers away.

Eventually the car part came though and we were off, arriving at sundown in beautiful Siavonga. The hills and colorful purple sunset were reminiscent of my ex-home in Santa Barbara, and I was told they signified our arrival to the largest man-made lake in the world. We spent a long weekend cooking fresh fish, boating, swimming and conversing with the local children, visiting the sights like the Kariba dam (which contributes the majority of the power in the country), and walking over to Zimbabwe. Yup, we felt like rebels standing behind the “Welcome” sign, but our legitimacy was unfortunately squelched since our passports weren’t stamped.

All in all though, it was a relaxing and rejuvenating time. I could take showers, eat what I wanted, and generally experience a freedom I don’t have with the isolation and intensity of the village. It was great, but it couldn’t all be silky smooth…that would falsely represent life here. Of course, we didn’t make it more than a hop and a skip out of town before another breakdown occurred on our way back. At least the army men stationed nearby filled our bellies with kapenta, and we easily hailed a truck before the sun set. It just added to the fun and adventure, but the element of illness was another factor that slightly marred and complicated our trip.

Renalda had taken an anti-malarial before arriving in Zambia, unaware of the pharmaceutical company’s plans to take it off the market because of the terrible side-effects. I’m sure now she’d be more than willing to give her testimony of hallucinations and anxiety attacks in support of that move, but it was too late to avoid the frightening experience. She was in and out of hospitals and clinics 5 times in 4 weeks, and battled food poisoning and ironically, malaria as well. She was a trooper through it all, but we were still disappointed at being forced to sit still longer than hoped, giving up some planned adventures. It did allow us an opportunity to catch up, to vent, and to question the meaning and purpose of it all…the simple topic of life, that is. We spent a lot of time resting, while trying not to pull our hair out in frustration (even though we ended up chopping much of Renalda’s off), but we still were able to visit the falls, get spoiled by the Smith family in Choma, and make a short, but much anticipated guest appearance in Nakeempa. We managed to do a lot, even when beaten down by the bug.

And somehow I too acquired parasites, but malaria came just in time for my parents to nurse me back to health :). It truly wasn’t as severe or debilitating as I had expected. However, I basically convinced myself that I wouldn’t let it get me down. How could I be stuck in bed when there was limited and crucial time to be spent with Mom and Dad? Nope, I wouldn’t have it. In fact I’d rather throw myself off a bridge…and I did! I’m saving the real thrill of bungee jumping for when Matthew comes to visit, but I stepped off the same platform to experience the “bridge swing”. The 110 foot drop sent me soaring between the cliffs of Zambia and Zimbabwe, and I felt like I could nearly touch the kayakers maneuvering the rapids below. I flew for minutes in solitude and I think it healed me :) Even though my parents weren’t as thrilled as I was, they still managed to enjoy watching the ant size version of me waving at them from deep down the gorge, but don’t worry we had other pleasant moments as well.

We hiked around the Vic Falls area, but also took a day trip into Botswana where crocodiles sat swallowing their fish, and a female lion roamed in search of the right time to snag herds of impalas grazing by the water. Where zebras and giraffes forage the wilderness, and hippos just feet away, nearly tipped our boat. And since most Zambians I know have never seen a game park, and don’t really know what a safari is, I felt spoiled, and fortunate. It’s an expected part of African travel for us, but it really is a touristy adventure that most nationals are never exposed to.

Soon enough though, I removed my parents from tourist travel, and we drove our diesel into the bush. 2 nights and 3 days were more than enough time for them to experience life in the village. They met the other Ashley, the baby to which they were titled and perceived as grandparents. And from headmen and individuals, were given live chickens, slaughtered turkeys, eggs, and many mazuku fruit....these huge gifts were humbly accepted, because food is usually all there is to give. And they reciprocated by bringing many of their own gifts (M&Ms, and ball caps were such a hit). They also shared their words, and each was asked to speak at church...people were surprised that my Mom had caught onto the Tonga word for thank you (twalumba), and that they had and mastered the handshake with nearly a thousand opportunities to practice in the line-up afterwards. Bucket bathes, and cooking; exploring the fields. They even lived out the hierarchy expected of men and women, my dad getting treated like roayalty. But “This is kind of fun, it’s like camping” from the first day, became “I don’t know how you do this” by the last. The realities of my daily life became apparent in new ways, and I also realized how important it was for me to have someone there with me to know it through experience, and to be a sounding board for the joys and frustrations I rarely (if ever) get to share with anyone. I am ever grateful that they were here to be with me in that way and I know they will continue to be critical companions as I stride and stagger through each day.

I knew it would be sad to have them go, especially on Christmas day, but my wish was granted when we walked into the airport to see the bright orange letters announcing the cancellation of their flight. Just icing on the cake which gave me yet another opportunity to lecture them about the necessity of lowering all expectations. Parental role reversal is a funny thing. But hey, it gave us time to celebrate the season together over pizza in the rain…perfectly peculiar, but wonderfully weird. After hours of negotiation, they got on the flight the following day, and I’m still waiting to hear if they’ve actually touched down half a world away.

In some ways it feels like I simply skipped out on the whole of Christmas, its symbolic activities, and its real meaning. However, in others, I feel filled and fulfilled because so many of you are here with me in spirit, and have put so much prayerful time and effort into staying connected. I have realized through your healing and strengthening presence with me that the true joys during Christmas and throughout life don’t come through the number of presents under the tree, but rather through the generous giving of grace and love. Thank you for providing me with that, and I hope that each of you continues to have a peaceful holiday season, and a new year filled with joy. Merry (belated) Christmas!

The Rainy Season

2008-11-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

The low, deep rumble of thunder groaned as the dark clouds churned in the sky like a stirred pot of burnt popcorn. The crisp breeze was swiftly seeping through my open window and laying on my skin like a blanket. My hair folicals stood at attention, and goose bumps popped up where sweat had just been oozing. Immediately my focus was averted from the "weekly forcast" for my upcoming science class, to the life giving forcast of cool showers ahead.

At first the rain just spattered and spit, lifting up the red dirt, leaving only a sticky path and dusty air. But as I made my way to peer through the window at my sopping clothes being ripped off the line, I caught a glimpse of the coming of the rainy season and its might. My iron sheets screamed in excitement as the water pounded on the roof in metered rhythm; new drumming that will add a beat into the steps of the villagers. The first rain is celebrated, but the tireless work awaits.

The oxen are led out of their makeshift stalls as the moonlight fills the dark hours of early morning. It's time to plow and plant, so that the wet earth opens to the buds of germination; so that the maize can be cultivated and sold; so that the people can fill their stomachs and be energized to work through the hardships of one more day. My students (and I) get up at 2am to help in the fields. They're usually overworked and underappreciated, but they're still expected to trudge all the way to school at 7, and prepare for the upcoming examinations. Their life quite literally depends on these tests, but food is a pretty obvious priority as well.

The moisture has already greened the area and fruit trees are dropping sweet, gooey mazuku fruit by the wagonful. The women have gathered enough to sit and nurse the orange nectar for days. And if mealie meal runs low, bush fruit is always a good subsitute for nourishment. I'm spoiled though and my students bring bulky bags to my doorstep. Though my newly inherited bike has led me out to some prime grazing territory, I'll accept the gifts even if they're bribes to help them study. It seems like a worthy cause.

But though the term is basically over for me in terms of classroom teaching, a new season begins. The learning will continue as I proceed to unearth the ever novel and evolving fruits of my new home in Nakeempa.

Dear Madam Ashley

2008-11-16T21:09:00.000-08:00

A few letters from my students

Dear Madam Ashley,
I hope and trast that you are okey, also and me I am just okey. Bu me I am not okey because of you. So I want to tell you this week. This week is not okey because I miss you for a long time. So I am not happay because we not learn sci and maths. But I hope on Monday you must be heir and teach us sci and maths.

yours,
sincerely Fiedred

--------

To you Madam ASHLEY
Dear Madam Ashley,
How are you about last week, how is your life. Me I am okey but I am meased you for four day. I have information to you about learn maths and science. No one teach us teh your subject in the class so that today want you to teach us that topic you meased.

yours,
Principal Hamuchila

----------

Hai Swety Ashley,
Dear my friend Ashley.

I hope and trust that you are oky to the pen holder not so bad. And me am oky but am not oky properly because you are not there. We are weting for you madam Ashley, you are welcome madam Ashley. Now I want to tell you about this week, Madam this week is not god because you are not there. But I hope you are coming very soon.

-it's Daphine

To Lusaka and back

2008-11-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

I came fresh out of the village. I was mostly content, feeling somewhat acclimated and accomplished. But I realized soon that I was also very tired, frustrated, confused, and full of all the other normal emotions one has when they begin the journey of relearning what it means to live. I read this poem and was comforted by the affirmation of my lament. I was refreshed by the re-framing of challenges and sometimes painful experiences.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding
Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart my stand in the sun,
so you must know pain.
And could it keep your heart in wonder
at the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity
through the winters of your grief.

- Kahlil Gibran (one of my favorites)

I thrust my hand into the swarm of eager passangers in hopes that they'd take my ticket and assign me anything but a middle seat. But much to my dismay, I plopped down sandwiched between Jocelyn and a large woman wearing a big-shouldered chitengi suit that came directly up to my right eye. I didn't anticipate shifting very much for the four hour drive to Lusaka.

The bright sun beat down on us and we sat sticking together like velcro, condemned to watch yet another nigerian movie about satanism. But "don't worry" I was reassured. We'd be slowly pealed apart for one bathroom break. I downed my water in no time and was wishing for more. But the grey skies in the distance signaled rains ahead, which even just visibly quenched my body's thirst. Too bad no one else wanted to be sprayed by the open windows. Instead we sat in a steam room of a bus, breathing only the humid inside air.

And though mostly uneventful, the activity and chaos was waiting for us to arrive at the bus station in Lusaka. Before we even stepped down into a bustling Zambia I didn't yet know, we were spotted. They paced by our windows attempting to keep our gaze and smoothly trying to escort us to their vehicles, or offer us something we'd pay a muguwa price for. But Jocelyn and held our bags close and threw some shoulders around to break through the crowd. And soon enough, Eric, my country representative, appeared towering over the masses of much shorter, much darker Zambians.

The day I began in Nakeempa was the last time I had seen him. He and his wife Kathy hugged me and drove off as I watched their truck full of comfort and familiarity, disappear in the dust, leaving me in my new home. My cell phone should have been a way to connect but trying to stand statue-like in the small kitchen where I got service got old. (especially considering it was still a 50-50 chance the converstaion would last more than a minute) So for 2 1/2 months we had chatted briefly on the phone twice, and had exchanged an email or two.

I was ready to see some familiar faces. I was ready for a change of scenery. I was ready to have some space to vent. To tell my stories, ask my questions, express my frustrations, and also share my joys.

The "Planning Meeting" in Lusaka was a gathering for all of us working with MCC in Zambia. And though we cover a lot of ground, geographically and organizationally, we're a smaller group of people, that feels much more like a family. I was delighted to meet the few faces who had until then only been names on a paper. I had received a few encouraging text messages from Cheryl Smith (a family friend, who does marriage and family therapy) but was also excited to meet her husband Peter (who works at Mindolo Ecumenical Foundation doing Peace education) and their two energetic kids Brendan and Jason. Chris was there too, after taking off work in the heart of city market in downtown Lusaka where he works with urban refugee issues. And Jocelyn took a retreat from chaplaincy at Choma Secondary School to be there as well.

Eric and Kathy graciously and generously hosted all of us in their home for five days. But it wasn't just a meeting for the north americans in town. Because the breadth and depth of what we are all doing wouldn't be possible without the Zambian friends and partners we work with. Ginah, a gorgeous young woman was great to have around to compare cross-cultural experiences, and to laugh over similar mistakes and challenges in her recent year of participation in IVEP in Canada. And Keith Mwaaba joined us from Macha Hospital, to listen and hear our stories, but also to share his encouragement and well-versed perspectives about the work we all do.

We all sat together for meals and meetingg, and were spoiled with good food and good weather. (I even got a few long hot showers which lightened up my skin from weeks of what I thought was a tan, but found out was mostly a thick layer of accumulating grime) Each day was alive with storytelling and classic rock. We vented about our struggles with language, communication, loneliness, lack of resources etc. etc. We gathered as a team and as a supportive family, through both our shared and individual experiences. We listened to each other and shared in the joy and the pain. we also re-focused on our goals for MCC, for Zambia, and for our individual contributions. We discussed the purpose of being here. It was a reviving experience, which rejuvinated me in a way I didn't know I needed.

It was Peter who shared a message on our final day. He held up his "2 in 1" pictures of faces that slowly transformed into an intricate vase, or Brendan's vision of "a coconut that turned into an Indian face". We learned yet again to look longer and harder at the world around us. We were reminded of the need to re-focus, and reframe. He taught as that the pictures symbolized our many laments, and explained that in fact, they were opportunities. We can use the particular energy of complaint to engage with God, and to perceive differently, so that new hope is built throughout the challenges. To look at things with new eyes is a not an easy or passive task. But rather, it is an active call to compassion, where we are humbly compelled into action.

I learned and grew, and left with a renewed sense of vision and purpose. So when I got back to Nakeempa after a 5 day vacation, I was ready to take on the irregularity of every day life. And it was a good thing, since last week was even more abnormal than normal :)

"I Bornwell Siagwalele now declare this polling station open!"

My host Dad, as headmaster of the school, broke the early morning silence to let the multiplying line of anxious voters into my classroom to cast their ballot. The line began to form as early as 5am, but at 6, when it all began, there were a surprising number of men and women from the surrounding bush areas who were eager to vote at Nakeempa Basic School. Little did I know that I'd be spending much of the day there as well. Even though I'm not Zambian and don't have a voters card, I'm a girl, so I was asked to serve the electoral commission of Zambia...breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was glad though, because it gave me an in to view the process of bi-elections, and to chat with people outside about their political views. Most people knew they wanted Hakainde Hichelema (who they call the Zambian Obama) and the results of our polling station showed that later in the day. But there were many who either didn't read or write, and needed help at the ballot box. Even so, most appeared very opinionated, and excited to participate in this historic forward movement (hopefully) of their country.

But even though Thursday was the day, many villages are secluded enough that to receive all of the results takes time, and the total count won't be displayed until later today or tomorrow. Last I checked it was Rupiah Banda in the lead, who would symbolize a continuance of the ruling MMD party. However, Sata is at his heals, and it has been a tight race. We'll all wait to see if this causes a violent eruption, or if the "peaceful nature of Zambians" I keep hearing about is a reality in the face of change.

And I know elections are the main topic of discussion for everyone at home as well, so I'm excited to keep reading more about the transformation of our own country.

I feel as though these last weeks have truly given me new eyes to see the world, and while I continue to face daily struggles, I now realize their importance. I'm learning how to revel in them, and to learn from each new experience.

We look with uncertainty
Beyond the old choices for
clear-cut answers
To a softer, more permeable aliveness
Which is every moment
at the brink of death;
For something new is being born in us
If we but let it.
We stand at a new doorway,
Awaiting that which comes...
Daring to be human creatures.
Vulnerable to the beauty of existence.
Learning to love

- Anne Hillman

Victoria Falls

2008-10-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

Multiple rainbows over the "trickling" water at Victoria Falls...the rainy season is still approaching, so the it will be an even more wonderful part of the 7 wonders when it's gushing in a few weeks.Chris (the other SALTer) and I relaxing, and enjoying a non-shima meal

A visit to the Falls deserves your best attire...or maybe just polished shoes

Jocelyn, Chris and I (my fellow MCCers and new travel buddies)

The dare devil at "Devil's swimming pool"

I landed though, and we held each others angles to take turns hanging over the edge to catch a glimpse of the fast moving water

Celebrations

2008-10-26T06:15:00.000-07:00

The bride to be, preparing for marriage at her kitchen party...there are many

lessons to be learned

The rest of the women enter in, as she is colorfully taught through song and dance

And even I learned how to shake it Zam style (notice the matching mother daughter outfits)

Baby Ashley...this I celebrated :)

And Bataata's Graduation...they were excited I promise...

But after the kitchen party comes the wedding

with the women preparing food for the guests ...2 or 3 day old nshima and goat

I knew I had to wear my whole chitengi outfit this time, but I wasn't anticipating feeding wedding cake to the Matron...

But everyone complimented me on my efforts

Even the women in the church contemplated my Zambian style...I'm not quite there,

but at least I'm trying!

And thank goodness I eat nshima with them...

maybe someday I'll become a real Zambian :)

Nakeempa Basic School

2008-10-26T05:45:00.000-07:00

My grade 8 classroom My grade 8 class!

Nervously giving presentations on birds...in tonga-english :)

My grade 9 club, after a field trip to my home to learn about internal combustion engines...not that ours usually works
And the younger pupils (grade 1-7) watching netty ball after school

A typical PTA meeting under the mango trees (which often serve as my moch classroom in the afternoons)

The Nakeempa Community

2008-10-26T04:07:00.001-07:00

Footing, as they say

Or trying to use the vehicle to get into town

Even the Nurse's honda is slightly unreliable

But if you stick around, you're always offered a meal

or a baby (this is Luyando, which means love)

or time with whatever other company is in the vicinity

But no matter what Isaac is usually by my side

Especially when his mom is washing his little brother

My friend and neighbor Mr. Choonga (a fellow teacher) is also around quite a bit

But whoever's around is usually willing to go search the trees for some fruit

And if it's Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday you can hear the choir, even from afar

So my novelty is wearing off, but the kids still find ways to be fascinated by me...or by my watch

The stares have turned to smiles though

And now I at least feel like I blend into gatherings like this baptism at the dam

I have learned to loiter on many a porch (here chatting with other teachers)

and to make regular my visits to the clinic

but mostly I've learned how to appreciate just being...and though communication is still difficult, I find new ways each day to see the beauty of Zambia and it's people

Pictures of Home

2008-10-26T01:53:00.000-07:00

The Siagwalele Home (and mine!) The latrine (to the left) and the room to bathe (to the right) An afternoon stroll to the Dam with my host sisters
Learning how to cook from Baama

And also how to slaughter a chicken

But you can't go a day without nshima :)

And rape (the typical lettuce-like vegetable found in every family's garden)

Trying my hand at baking over the open fire...surprisingly the cake turned out!
And my roofless room :)

A Few Reasons to Celebrate

2008-10-17T00:42:00.000-07:00

A second Ashley in Nakeempa:
The energetic nurse at the local clinic has become one of my friends. I can tell because of the strength she uses to slap my hand as she greets me with her deep raspy voice, and bright smile. So I pass by her home whenever I can (even though I've gotten tired of fending off the neighboring brick-layer who has already asked for my hand in marriage numerous times). She lives close by though so my visits to her bustling home are becoming regular, and are always entertaining...whether I'm sat down to drink chibwantu, called over to help my pupil (her grand-daughter) with her homework or escorted around her property to meet her prized cattle once again. But last week I asked for a tour of the clinic as well, since the one room medical post is just adjacent to her homestead. She's a busy lady, considering she's basically the only healthcare provider for tens of kilometers, but we found a time where she knew she wouldn't be speeding off in her little red honda motorbike to pick up meds, but would be attending to the common maternity, HIV and malaria cases in the village. I greeted the gathering of women and children seated on the faded blue-grey porch, and they laughed at my tonga, asking if I could understand..."zimwi zindi" I said (sometimes). But before I could customarily make my rounds, the sleeves of the nurse's bright yellow gown saying "let's fight malaria together" were engulfing me in a bear hug as she pulled me through the door. I was sat down next to a sick child and worried mother and she finished filling their perscription, putting the pills in a tiny dirty baggie, and sending them off, so that she could give me a tour. She brought me into the small closet, which held the rest of the drugs. The "pharmacy" was lacking but according to her, was at least stocked with enough pain killers, anti-malarials, rehydration salts, ARVs, and condoms, to keep people happy (and probably not truly healthy). If they needed anything else though, anything that required serious attention, they'd be sent into town to sit at Choma Hospital (which didn't look much more comfortable or helpful to me when I recently received a short tour of the delapitated facilities and heard that they lose power on a daily basis) . I think I'd actually trust my nurse more, as do many others, even though they don't have the power to choose like I would in the company of a serious illness. She kept us going on the tour though, even throughout my visible contemplation, and next we entered the one and only bedroom for patients. I snapped a photo of her next to each of the two beds, delivery and rest, as she told me about her latest cases, and gave me a show like charades, acting out the midnight delivery with gusto. She was particularly excited about this baby though, and finally told me why, exclaiming "And guess what! I told them to name her Ashley!" I thought she was kidding at first, but after asking a few times, I got the full story, and realized that the Deacon at the church and his wife had now introduced the second Ashley into Nakeempa. "She's even brown like you," the nurse said (meaning her skin tone was lighter than most Zambians) "so you're sisters!" I was told. Promptly, the next day, the Pastor and I went to visit, and the beautiful week old baby girl was wrapped in my arms. So now we are two, and who knows how many more will be running around the bush before I leave :)

I have a roof over my head:
I could both see and hear the huge gust of wind circling in the distance into a cylindrical form. It was coming at the house like a tornado (or maybe just a whirlwind) but because it had been especially windy that week, I didn't think anything of it. I grabbed a handful of chalk, my science book and some colored pencils to amble over to my nearby classroom. But oops, I forgot my "dustah" (eraser). So I flipped off my "tropicals" (sandals) and went back into the house to retreive it. But the door slammed behind me without my own power, and natures forces soon took over. The wind from afar had reached us and it swept through the house fiercely ripping calanders and pictures off the wall and throwing around the dried maize that once sat in a heaping pile in the corner. I heard a bang and ducked quickly, unsure of what was happening, but soon after the winds subsided. All was quiet. My Baama (mom) and sister and I stood wide-eyed in surprise and in thanks that it had stopped without doing too much damage. But as we cleaned up the dust and kernels that were left behind, we noticed something out of place. A gaping hole was all that was left in the upper corner of my room. One of the corrugated iron sheets that protects us had ripped out and the roofing nails lay scattered on my cement floor. I laughed...I couldn't help it. It was a hilarious sight on this hot sunny day that only seemed to get hotter as the sun poured in my room now from a new angle. They felt bad that it was my room though, even when I tried to console them and tell them that I wasn't worried about it and was only glad it wasn't worse. But they were even more concerned when I told them I wanted to remain their overnight to count the stars and see the moon above me as I slept. "It's just like camping" I said, excited to get some cool air flow that night through my hot cement walls. But one night was enough and the following day, we nailed a new sheet firmly in place. The rainy season is coming fast, and I'm already predicting the places where buckets may need to sit to collect the water from leakage. But at least now the whole roof is covered, and our home is complete.

Computers:
My pupils hopped in to witness first hand a white girl driving. I've learned to speed past bush fires, to get out and push when it won't get into gear, to coast to a halt when the petrol runs out, and to be ready for a break-down, or flat tire at any (or every) turn. But even though it might sound like it's more trouble than it's worth, our car has led us to some amazing opportunities and experiences. Just the other day, we were told that there was a big donation to the school, just a few kilometers away. So I pushed it into first with nearly 15 school boys in the bed of the truck. When we arrived, the only village head-woman greeted us as she messily put the bucket of water down from her head. And as we sat next to her maize supply and chatted for a few minutes, the boys were sent into a nearby room. They came out one by one, computers in hand, trotting in single file, the huge dirty monitors, dragging their long chords behind. The headmaster (my Dad) looked on astonished at the incredible gift. The school now has 11 computers yet no electricity. The large solar panels are certainly helpful for lighting at night, but this donation will require a bit more umph. It's an amazing encouragement though, and hopefully will be a positive step toward development of the school.

Graduation from Zambian Adventist University:
A huge mile marker for Bataata, as he struggles to contintue in his higher education. Completing a degree in geography is not easy when you are also running a school, but the time and monetary sacrafices he made were well worth it to everyone. He walked proudly down the isle with his 94 fellow graduates, dressed in black and purple gown and tassled cap. Education is not an easy venture here, since survival is first. So when someone gets a degree, there aren't enough bells and whistles to blow, or cakes and fake flowers to present. We savored the sweets for days after the trip north to Monze where the graduation took place. And while the gaudy plastic gifts will remain littered throughout the house for who knows how long, the choir's anthem to Africa will also be my new alarm clock for weeks as my sister belts it out every morning. We are proud of him and he feels accomplished. It was a great day for his whole family, who piled into the bed of our pickup to surround the graduate as he sat tall with pride, his grad garb flapping in the wind.

Kitchen Parties:
Her whole body was covered in colorful chitengi, as she crawled in on her knees. I was seated among the 100 plus women who were chanting, singing, and following the bride as she entered her pre-wedding party like a defeated animal. Their bodies moved like brightly painted slinkys, folding, turning, and smoothly circling rapidly around her. Her face remained covered as she moved toward the center of the room where literally thousands of plates, cups, pots, and pans were piled high for use in her new kitchen. She was finally led to her seat after a series of yelps and cries shouted at her slow moving body. Sitting on the ground, she was unveiled, but her head stayed down, and she remained as such for the entire afternoon. A kitchen party, I'm told is a celebration, but it's "no fun for the bride"....obviously. It is a place for teaching, where women only are invited to remind themselves about their place in the world. It's visible...like the dirt on the floor, she is sits humbly, submissive, hushed. She is a servant. This is the first lesson she will learn physically today, but in many other ways throughout the rest of her days as a wife. Married women carry on the traditional way of advising a bride about what marriage means for her, and waht her duties are as a wife. The songs and dances throughout the day range from sexual to silly, and are mainly based around how to please a husband. She's told that if she doesn't cook for him, clean up for him, perform certain sexual acts for him, and basically submit her life to him, that he has a right to leave her or to sleep with other women. She's told she has to be strong, and that no matter what, her most important duty is to keep him happy. She's told that it's biblical, and she's given the advice as a command of God. Again, my Baama (mom) tells me it's a celebration, and I see women dancing and having fun. But my heart sinks, and I'm speachless as I agonize over the oppression that is so deeply believed in. I still struggle with a balance of acceptance/assimilation and adhereing to my own values and beliefs. I have no words for what I feel.

Zambian Weddings:
There are a plethora of newlyweds around, even though wedding season is coming to a close. And I've had many opportunities to both witness the traditions and even participate in others. I've now crashed 2 village weddings out in the bush and also sat through a big town wedding complete with 8 village headman who give their (polygamist) advice about marriage. The contrast is like day and night, though many Zambian traditions are played out in both. But its good to see both sides, and to see the similarities and differences.

After walking with the pastor for 2 hrs I was wondering if we'd ever see anything but sand and straw, but then I could hear the commotion ahead. The blown out boombox screeched with Zambian pop music and soon enough we were in teh middle of the large crowd of onlookers. I shouldered my way to the front, greeting the people I knew from school and church, and finally saw what the excitement was about. The skinny groom sat straight-faced in his baggy army green suit. His eyes were shaded with large sun-glasses, and though he sat like a king, the lazy-boy type chair seemed to engulf his body and give him an even smaller stature. To his left sat the bride in her less fancy seating arrangement. But while the groom sat up straight, facing the growing and moving crowd, she slouched down, with her eyes fixed on her mismatching shoes. Her face was mostly covered by the bright white veil, and though I tried, I could never manage to catch more than a glimpse of the tip of her nose. She didn't look up once, and would never be caught smiling. Tradition, again, would see her as disrespectful and wrong if any excitement was shown, but ironically everyone else seemed to be having a good time. I sure was :) The wedding party to the sides of the bride and groom kicked out their routine and teh little boy spasmatically brought the knife forward for cake cutting. The two pink "cakes" sat on the crooked table in the middle , and the matron and MC were busily cutting them into crumb-like peices. The dish went around and teh hungry hands of the masses grabbed for their share of semi-sweet white cake. But then the MC spotted me, and I caught of few words of his Tonga as he gestured for me to come forward. "This is a big wedding if a white person is here!" he said, as the bride and groom came forward to honor my presence and present me with my own slice (which the matron then helped me eat by hand-feeding). I had never met the couple before, but I quickly shifted the center of attention off them, for a bit too long in my opinion. But after cake was finally done, we were on to gifts. The MC shouted loudly as people individually presented their donations to the happy couple. "5 pin!" he yelled and the crown gleefully rejoiced at approximately $1.50. Another plate, a cup, and some cooking sticks for the two, as they join together (apparently only to eat). Some other bigger donations were made too, but it's expensive for a guy to get married, so anything helps. Before he can "own" his wife, he has to negotiate a price with her father, a dowry. And usually Pops asks for a few cows in exchange for the working hands of his young bride to be. My Baama tells me that if I were to get married in Zambia (which she sincerely hopes) that I would be expensive, maybe even 20 cows! I'm flattered...I guess :) But a wedding itself costs teh family even more, since you are to feed everyone there. Goats are the biggest sacrafice as they are slaughtered and pulled apart for a pungent relish to serve teh guests. And since everyone always wants to feed me, I was quickly pulled aside and given a plate full of unidentifiable meat. But I could tell it was goat right away, even before I dug into the gritty grey intestines and who knows what else. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the small, tough, lungs which I was priveleged to be practically force fed. My palate is changing out of necessity, so it wasn't bad, though I'd still probably go for the pig meat found at the next wedding I went to in town. Obviously it's a bit more expensive, but so was everything at the celebration of the government official's daughter. She even had another white girl dancing in her line up! (a fellow MCCer, Jocelyn, who has become a good friend). But although many traditions were only altered slightly, the bride's IVEP experiences in Canada were visible as well. She actually showed her face throughout the day. And even though she didn't smile, she uncustomarily shared an equal part of the entertainment and sat evenly with her happy husband. I'm sure many of the 500 plus guests were dismayed and usure about the meaning of her posture, seeing it as disrespectful and prideful. But I breathed a sigh of relief at teh strength of her attempts to assert herself in an extremely traditional and male dominated society. It was encouraging to me, and I hope it can encourage other women here as well.

Victoria Falls!!
I'm leaving today for a short vacation. It will be my first time to the falls, and I can't wait to venture out, hike around the natural wonder, and buy some fruits and vegetables :) I'll be there for a brief few days, but next week I hope to be able to download some of the thousands of pictures I've taken. And by then, I'm sure there will be even more stories to tell.

But as my own stories and struggles are written here, I'm aware that you all have your own. So please know that as far removed as I am from life where you are, my heart is there with you as well. Thank you for the support and love you have showed me in these 2 months. I cherish each of you and hold dear all the words of encouragement. Thank you for being with me on this journey, and giving me reasons to celebrate this crazy life I'm living here :)

Madame Mutinta, Basisi in Training

2008-09-26T01:34:00.000-07:00

Basisi=teacher
Basicikolo=pupil

I, Mutinta, am both. I may be Ashley to you, but my new titles have range. I used to just be the mukuwa (which I just found out means "white" and "good"). But now I'm basisi to my grade 8 and 9 students. I'm madame to the many people I meet along my path. I'm a basicikolo to everyone trying to share and impart their "easy" language, food, and culture. And I'm also answering to Mutinta, which makes me more Tonga than ever. It's pretty generic in terms of the southern province of Zambia, but it fits well since the meaning is "one among the boys"...no no, not like that :) but in the family structure. Most of the girls who are fortunate enough (in my case and opinion) to grow up in the midst of brotherly love are usually given this name. And I'm content with it considering the other common names I've heard in my classroom and throughout the village...Trouble, Nobody, Girl....I got lucky :)

With names like that and the difficulties of daily survival, no wonder my kids struggle. I've been teaching for about 3 weeks now, and am feeling infinitely more adept now than I did the first few days, But each moment is a learning experience, and I'm continually trying to figure out what my presence means in terms of roles and expectations. In some ways I have been eased in, but the transition process was also a lot quicker than I had anticipated. But then again, things rarely happen as we expect them to, so in I jumped!

From day one I knew that my heart would break for these young, deprived children (and adults who are just now completeing basic education because of poverty, their parents, or pregnancy). The stories I hear are unbelievable. I'm in awe of the resilience I see in so many who walk long hours to the school grounds which lie just a stones throw from my neighboring home. It was quiet and empty initially, but as term three began the 3 blue and white buildings of small concrete classrooms filled to the brim, and the dusty central courtyard was bursting with the excited voices of pupils skittering about in their deep red uniforms. Most stumble in around 6:30, they've been footing for many kilometers, and they're feet will show the daily trek even more as the months pass. Abuot 1/2 don't have shoes, and most barely manage to fit into their button up shirts that have been tattered and worn from use. Their stomachs are usually empty when they arrive, adn returning home finds them with minimal sustinence, or empty shelves. But as they come to school in packs, they are expected to use what little energy they can muster to work manual labor as well as exercising their minds.

The dust swirls as their tiny bodies bend in half (never at the knees) with handfuls of straw being used to sweep up the classrooms before the days begins. They are summoned to the flag in the central quarters, and the bi-weekly assembly begins as the colorful Zambian flag is raised high. The children meld into a semi-circle in preparation for the national anthen, and yet again I'm awe-struck at the vocal capability of these youngsters. They break into the noisy cows, chickens, and guinea fowl, with their bilingual harmony. First the national language (english), then the tribal language (Tonga). The headteacher approaches as the sun rises up behind him, and slowly he greets them. Silence. They know who's in charge. They know who sets the rules. And they know who will come after them with a good whipping in they don't abide. Immediately the bright eyes of all 700 odd students go down in submission as my host Dad's voice booms. His words seem stern and serious, but what would I know? Except then he switches to english, and I try to fill in the gaps. "The person we have been waiting for has arrived" he says, turning toward the single file line of us teachers, his gaze fixed upon my white skin. Shoot, I thought, I might have to speak. His large hands gesture for me to join him in front and I step up to the flag to flash a smile at the mess of beautiful faces in front of me. I was the only one though, since the solemn stature and expressions were their sign of respect. "Good morning" I shyly said to the crowd in front. "Good morning madame" they retorted in strong unison. My introduction seeming completely overemphasized in my mind, but I realize that my presence seems like a hugely positive step for them. What it is I'm expected to of is still unclear to me, but I try to make it back to my feet after all of my attempts and failures.

So day one began as observations. I sat in the back of the room scribbling down my own notes as my soon to be grade 8 pupils squeezed in tightly to classroom #7. Lots to take in, so much to sort through in my mind, and a plethora of preparations to think about. But I have time, I thought. I'll be observing for at least a few days. But no, no, the plans for the following day burst my bubble of comfort. I was quickly initiated into teaching on day two as I walked into the classrrom full of bustling 8th graders, expecting to join them as a pupil. But the teacher was nowhere to be found. I had been feeling as though my own tardiness would be noticed, but was reassured by her absence. That, however, lasted for about 2 seconds as all 40 stood at attention waiting for my instructions. Confused about what I was supposed to do next, I told them to take a seat, and wait for me to return. But as I checked in the headmaster's office next door, I found all the other teachers seated in a meeting. Bewildered, I leaned down to the woman I was expecting to meet in class, and asked what to do. Immediately, her face insinuated what was to come. "Just go ahead and teach" she said, looking back down at her lap full of work. Hmm, ok, well what about books? I thought. But she pointed quickly to the shelf and directed me as though she could hear my thoughts. So there I was with 80 minutes to teach about decimal numbers. I flipped thruogh the pages quickly to mentally organize a lesson plan, but I realized in short order that getting them to understand any words coming out of my mouth woudl be the first task. English is a problem for these village kids who have basically no foundation for language skills, much less their general school work. But after a rough first try, I've learned a lot about teaching, and abuot meeting my students where they are at.

I have students in their 20's with children, kid's who've been abused or neglected by their parents, orphans who get passed around by family members who don't want to, or can't take them in, and girls who's parents try to marry them off for the dowry instead of paying their school fees. Each one has a story and each one understands life in ways I can't imagine. And because of many poor examples, they often make poor choices and are considered "useless" in the eyes of their frustrated teachers. But mostly it's the lack of opportunities that keeps many from improving their lives, much less their grades. So what in the world am I supposed to do?? I wonder. How do I connect with them, and show them that I care, that I want to know them, and my heart aches for each challenging story. It's been difficult to crack a life-time of cultural responses that because of hierarchical procedures of respect, or something else, stifles my attempted humor, and turns down my smiles. The first days left me feeling defeated, and I walked home amazed each day at how difficult supposedly simple lessons seemed to be.

Even if they finally do catch on to my accented english and learn a few concepts and ideas, there are few lessons which can be connected tot heir every day life. Not to mention they don't even have books to follow the solely theoretical information I try to impart. For example, I had a period to explain mercury rising in a thermometer, only reailzing afterwards that not one student had ever seen one. I subsequently asked around town, but there were none to be found in these parts. There's also no electricity, so teaching about circuits is complicated with diagram examples only. But after a few frustrating days, I realized i would just have to become more creative with my lessons, and figure out constructive ways of presenting difficult topics. And now that I've learned about the available resources, even the kids are getting excited to come to class. We've flown a moch hot air balloon. They've been on a field trip to my house to catch a glimpse of the internal engine of my car (since none has ever ridden in one). And they sounded good as they peered under the hood of the beat up truck yelling out "spark plug", "inlet valve", "exhaust valve" in their precious accents. They've even counted out strange colorful beads of chocolate in math class to confirm their estimations. And after asking "But Madame, what are these?" they were amazed to savor the tasty M&Ms one by one.

We are beginning to work together, and they are beginning to learn. But the catch up work is overwhelming. Most of their first years of education were close to non-existent, so even though they should be able to do basic math problems and understand simple scientific concepts they are way behind. I've tried to set the bar high though, in hopes that at least a few will rise to my expectations. Even so, many still don't feel like being in school when they can't imagine seeing the fruits of their labor. Participation isn't great, and homework often doesn't make it to my desk to be marked. But as they walked into class sheepishly one day, I reailzed I need to be even more creative in my approach. "I've beat your pupils". I was told the other day. "Don't worry, they'll start to participate now". I heard, as my breath was taken away picturing my students standing out back to be whipped. Not exactly the way I wanted them to learn....

But even though I am met with daily frustrations and challenges, I am amazed to find that each day also brings new joys and reasons to feel encouraged. I peered out my window one day, and as I was sitting home writing lesson plans, I was instantly eye to eye with a handful of my grade 8 students who had perched themselves outside my door. They greeted me adn fingered through their books to open to a page of questions. So I sat with them for about an hour going through the human respiratory system adn sounding out the tough words. And because this became a routine, I decided to create a small club for all those who were seeking a bit of guidance and just needed someone to walk through the information with them. They even created a list of questions per my request, which ranged from what is the function of chlorophyll, to what is the function of a penis :) They want to learn, I find, as they come running up to me at the well in the evenings, grabbing my hands and asking me to teach them something. They are wonderfully curious, but in many cases their perceptive nature has often been squashed downby the oppressive forces of poverty, gender, or cultural norms. But i can see their minds working hard as I try to warm them up before the big race of National exams which will come in a little over a month. They need a push since historically they have done poorly, but in teh moment where we connect and there is consolidation of language and concepts I am happier than I can put into words. (Ndabotelwa - I am happy). And I can see they they too are happy at their accomplishments. I know that the term will end before I know it, since the weeks are already seemnig to fly by, but a small flicker of light is worth the energy to find the wood and build the fire.

Connecting to the students has been a process but its slowly happening as they reciprocally teach me new things every day. But it's also been wonderful to connect with the teachers who live nearby. And now I even have friends! :) The student teachers live next door, a house of boys and a house of girls, who are completing a year of practice so they can finish their final year at University. Some are from neighboring Choma and others are from distant parts lke Livingtone. BUt they've welcomed me into our new community as a friend and fellow teacher. A few have even become my running partners (even though their stamina frightens me) and we've spent some good hours playing cards and bumbing a volleyball around. I've even been invited to join the line up for a nearby wedding, which invovles daily dance practice to coordinate our kicks and steps. Because obviously, you can't have a descent wedding without escorting the bride down the isle in style. 6 or 7 different dances will probably do. Learning new songs is always fun too, as they crack up at my mistakes in Tonga. But once we mastered one song in both english and tonga I was told that we were going to sing it in church on sunday during sharing time. I've seen a number of individuals, duos, or groups step up to sing what they call a "special song", but now I've even experienced the spotlight myself. Luckily my memory didn't fail me as I switched to my new vocab and tried to fill the cement walls with harmony as they always do. I even got some yells, claps, and whistles from teh crowd for my efforts. "you should make that a routine" I was told.

But this sunday won't do, since the week has been busy. I've been left with few hours for a new song because I've been trying to learn a few other things. Namely, driving on the other side of the road! Since my arm is healed, I'm going to put my international driver's liscence to use, and build up my skills at the wheel (which is on the right side). The paths/roads are remenicent of those I've paid to be on off-roading, but the sandy course is becoming more familiar as I squint to see through the cracked windshield of our truck. I've made the trip into town on the bigger truck today though, since we needed to arrive early for the celebration ahead. We hopped on with our contribution to the meal (a live chicken with it's legs tied in a plastic bag). So now I'm here for the "Kitchen party" being thrown for Clare, the bride-to-be. (which is basically a wedding shower, but a bit more directive in terms of expectations of what marriage will bring for her). I'll soon be sporting my new matching chitengi suit, which was made at the tailor last week, and I'll try to fit right into the all-night dance party tonight which will surely be filled with all kinds of good Zambian pop music, and tons of food.

So I'm off to shake my hips, and try to learn yet another lesson on Zambian culture. As soon as I figure out a way to post some pictures, I try to give you more than just a mental picture to laugh at :)

Tulabonana! (see you!)
~Mutinta
"'

How To: Learn Tonga (Nakeempa version)

2008-09-09T01:12:00.000-07:00

1. Running
Since I've taken to running through the village, some unexpected opportunities to practice my broken Tonga have arose. Though I don't trust myself to foot all of the winding pathways yet, the sandy main road toward town has a lot in store in terms of adventure. Who knew that while giving my body some cardio work, and some psychological rest and renewal, I could also work on language acquisition. I have learned to slow my pace upon seeing my new friends, putting a respectful hand on my chest and asking "mwabuka buti?" (how is the morning?). There's the toothless man travelling solo, only accompanied by the large rodent with it's tail wrapped tightly around his fingers, body limply falling toward his feet. The startled women, just trying to carefully carry their day's water atop their heads, along with the baby wrapped around their back, only to be interrupted by this strange muguwa (white person) running swifly behind. The other women gathering water at the central well who's children's gaze is fixed upon me until I'm out of site. And the other young girls who perched themselves in the branches of the highest tree around, awaiting my arrival, their shouts and giggles giving their spot away as they sat entertained. But I've even been greeted in English by many who stood up from milking their cows to flash a smile, some big waves, and "good morning madame". But as I attempted to respind with my best greetings in Tonga they became even happier that I was at least trying. So I felt at least somewhat accomplished that they could understand me!

2. Singing
I realized how much I have to learn as I entered the one room BIC church in the village. As more and more filled the rough slatted benches (women to the left, men on the right) the noise increased dramatically. But while my fingers flipped through my Tonga hymnal to try and find the correct number, the harmonies had already arose to fill the church (and likely to be heard a few kilometers away). Voices strong burst loudly through the once silent and desolate walls of the tiny church house and the passionate cries blended together in beautiful harmony. As I stood, sang, and swayed along with the woman next to me, she translated bits and pieces so I could follow along, even though I felt perpetually lost. And though I've only been to church a few sundays in a row, the hymns are becoming an bit more familiar as my tiny maroon guide becomes another good handbook for learning.

Church services were just the beginning though, and since I looked at least somewhat interested (rather than just confused) I was asked to join for choir practice in the coming weeks. So even though I was completely intimidated (yup, even of the 5 year olds who were already unbelievably talented) I figured it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. The doors of the church were bolted shut, and the yard outside was still empty, but in (Zambian) time the doors were cracked open and children streamed in. Their warm eyes and smiles were just like jewelry for their tattered sunday best. And as they entered, a few small girls moved toward the drums in the corner and began to pound ferociously, leading in the strong voices that echoed heavily and blended together beautifully. I sat and took pictures on the sidelines for a while, removed and observant, but as the choir director approached they quickly sucked in their noise, and they were gathered together in formation. Over his shoulder he glanced at the mugua flashing pictures with her gaudy camera and signaled that she come. "Madame" he greeted me,"You shall join". So I jumped through my lens and entered into the picturesque scene in front of me. I sat in the back row and stumbled along as they belted out hymns in Tonga, English, Lozi, and Bemba. With no hesitancy in their voices, their voices cried out to their God, and soon enough we were standing and swaying in unison; coordinating our whole bodies into one force. Quick steps then led us to the front of the church and we swiftly formed a semi circle to enclose the two drummers in the middle. We clapped and stepped and stomped and moved. We danced to the harmonious hymns with an energy that brought passers by to the door. I, the lone white girl, tried to stay with the beat, to mimick their words, attending closely to their speedy lip movements, to share in the experience, following the complexity of what what going on. But I messed up a lot, singing at rests, stepping in the opposite way, stumbling to coordinate my hands, arms, and shoulders; feet and heels. Soon enough though, I caught on to a few things, and I was gleefully encouraged by the enormous smiles and bright eyes. So though my contribution will basically be nothing in terms of vocals, I am trying my best to become a part of the choir, a part of the community. So who knows if I'll ever catch all the Tonga words, but it's energizing to keep working at it.

3. Cooking/Eating
There has been a lot of both. In fact, most of our days (as women especially) are spent around the fire, preparing food (cakulya), clearing dishes, and scrubbing the sticky nshima off the pots and plates (as well as our hands). It takes time to boil the vegetables down to mush and to fry the tiny fish (kapenta) with their eyes popping open as they are drenched in cooking oil. But how else could you stuff the corn-based lump of white goo into your mouth in it weren't covered with a good, salty, side "relish"? I'm learning through each meal the proper way of preparing, the correct vocab, and good Zambian manners. Not only that, it provides perfect opportunities to ask a multitude of linguistic and cultural questions. And finally learning how to say "I'm full" has been helpful too, since I'm told I should "become more fat" and am given stern warnings to "eat more!"

I've been trying to contribute to the feasts as well. But after preparing simple pancakes for breakfast one morning I realized that no one in my family knows how to use forks. So while I'm catching on to the habitual hand-washing before meals and subsequent forking over fistfuls of thick nshima to roll in my palm, I am also giving lessons about using utensils. (Though they probably won't ever need to use them unless I prepare more strange American food). I did bake a cake the other day (over the fire) and they were surprised at how much they enjoyed the More with Less rendition sprinkled with colorful M&Ms. They seriously couldn't get over these tiny chocolate treats. Everyone gave me questioning looks at first, but after picking at them nervously, they all wanted seconds.

4. "Hodi?" (I have arrived)
"Wabonwa" (you are welcome) I hear this exchange about 10 times a day and have been on both sides as I get carted around the village to be shown off. It's been fun to take afternoon strolls around town, to venture into the three "stores" that fit about 2 people tops, along with a few bottles of cooking oil, some bags of sugar, soap, and a handful of bubble gum on their shelves. But lingering around these loitering spots finds me in a Tonga learners heaven, where no english is allowed. So as limited and uncomfortable as some interactions have been, it's been a classroom environment in many ways. And as we travel on toward the one-bed medical clinic (maternity cases only), we also reach the central well where women congregate with babies wrapped tightly on their backs, intelligently using their chitenges so that both hands are available. I try desperately to use the few phrases in my repertoire, and am thanked many times for my attempts. We arrive at the clinic and one of the nurses (out of 2) greets us in her impressive english. She's busy today, like every day, but they are closing soon since she has to get back home to take care of the orphaned children she's inherited. People's stories are amazing, and again I'm taken aback by the strength I see in everyone I meet. But as I'm contemplating this woman's life, the sun is setting and I'm escorted back home, stopping breifly at the futbol game going on in front of the school. The away team stares me down wondering what this white girl is doing traipsing around the bush, but I make my way through the line of home players I know customarily slapping hands Zambian style. Soon enough we're back home to pull our tiny stools up around the fire among the chickens, guinea fowls, turkeys and the occasional wandering cow. The braziers are full of hot coals and the pots are bubbling over, so dinner has begun. New visitors often make their way to our home as well. The seem to be in constant succession since the teachers are arriving for the third term of school, and the neighbors are always stopping by. We got a new visitor that evening though, and more lessons came my way. I have been noticing that many people show up at the Siagwalele household since the headmaster has more than most. As I turned around I saw the starving family sitting under the tree requesting a donation to feed their kids. "It's common" I'm told as my mom explains the year's drought and the subsequent excess of rain which caused huge crop failures. Many people in the villages have lost everything, and with no way to get to town for help, they rely on begging for now. We hand her a bag of mealie-meal which will probably be finished in a day, and my mom sends them on her way. She struggles though, and I can see that she too is trying to balance generosity and the maintenance of her mouths to feed, both her children and the orphans they've taken in. I'm humbled, for the millionth time since I've arrived.

5. Foot washing
The churches gather from all around the area, literally walking for days to reach our tiny church in Nakeempa for the Baptism celebration. It's an opening night full of singing and dancing. Preparations begin the evening before as firewood is stacked high, and people gather under the mango tree to count the number of bellies to feed in the next 3 dyas. As the red sun goes down beyond the bush fire the women cook huge pots of nshima, cabbage and samp (boiled corn with a dash of sour milk). The men gather to the other side with the pastor whos gold spectacles glimmer at the tip of his nose. The children are running around wildly as a small radio plays to give them a beat to boogy to. The dust outside the church is swirling through the air as feet tromp on the site of the weekend-long service. There will be a few breaks between sermons and singing for eating, but those will be the only cracks of freedom from the continuous energy around the 5 being baptized. They give their testamonies early the following morning, and their stories are scrutinized as they leave the room. We vote on whether we think they should be allowed in the church, and the elders give their final ok for salvation as they are called back to the congregation. The pastor jokes "no one will be baptized today", and they all know they're in. We walk in a swarm to the dam mid-afternoon, and finally each is fully immersed with the blessings of their communities. It's beautiful in a way that can't be captured in mere words, but an even more emotional experience was when I was allowed to participate in the ceremony of footwashing. As the women brought big pails of water, we belted out hymn after hymn, sliding down the bench one by one. Each put the towel around their waist, and knelt to emulate Christ's servanthood toward their fellow members. As I approached the bucket, a frail woman sat in front of me. She had to be in her 90's, and was probably about 5' tall. Her feet were worn with life in the village, and as I looked up at her, she gave me a big toothless smile. She was beautiful. Without a word, I washed her feet and she reciprocated. And in that moment, I was brought to tears. It was a moment of true love in humanity and she embraced me in her surprisingly strong arms.

6. Lessons
So it's obviously that I'm already learning many big lessons here, which include and go way beyond the small bit of Tonga I'm acquiring slowly. And mostly it's because I'm fortunate to have such a wonderful and welcoming host family. Busiku, my host sister, has helped me a great deal, and while she is a cultural teacher in all instances, she also has the patience to sit down with me every day and go through my grade 2 story book, and guide to Tonga grammer. She's been tremendously helpful with this Bantu language that bears no resemblance (that I can tell) to english. So even though I've had my frustrating moments starting at square 1, I'm getting a working vocabulary that will hopefully serve me well with the coming 3 weddings, parties, and especially in the classroom. School has now started, so I'm working on becoming a teacher :) I'll observe this week, but soon enough the chalk will be in my hands, and my grade 8 Math and Science classes will be trying to figure out what the heck I'm telling them.

There will be much more to come as I begin, so a new update on the Ashley's "How To" manual will be coming soon :)

I hope to write back to some of you individually soon but unfortunatley my only day here in town is the day that my email messages won't come up, so I haven't even read any of them.. ahh that's frustrating! but such is life in Zambia

Love you all very much!!!

address update!

2008-08-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

Well I'm hopping on the back of the pickup in about an hour to head back on the only transportation to Nakeempa, so I will quickly do a last update until I return to the world of internet cafes.

A few things:
My arm - many of you may not know but I broke my arm 3 days before I flew to Zambia...oops! It seems my timing is always perfect, but in terms of a broken arm it couldn't have been better. I was in a heated game of futbol (soccer) at orientation, and Luis (a good sized Bolivian man) and I were racing toward a ball when we collided. He did a roll, but I hit the ground a bit harder and managed to break my right arm. After trying to convince myself I was ok, I finally went to the ER, and they told me it was broken...shoot...but everything is AOK because the place it has been broken doesn't need to be set. So they sent me off with a sling and 4-6 weeks of taking it easy. So that's kind of annoying, and I'm still having to watch how hard I use it, but soon enough I will be washing my clothes (by hand) and doing the cooking. And eventually I will receive a bike so I can explore my surroundings a bit. But overall, it's fine, only slightly bruised as of now, and healing quickly!

My address - There is no mail service in the village but if anyone would like to send me anything I will pick things up at this address:
Ashley Kraybill
c/o Jocelyn Snyder
Choma Secondary School
Box 630139
Choma, Zambia

So I'm not sure when I'll be back here, but I'd love to return to receive your emails! I'm imagining that it will be a long week of sitting around the village, but I will be preparing for school, and continuing to adjust to a very different life. There are many challenges ahead so I welcome your thoughts and prayers.

love you all!

Life in the bush

2008-08-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

We've extended to 21 days of mourning, which changes plans a bit, and means that I'm in town again! I've returned from Nakeempa for a BIC meeting being held in Choma this weekend, so I will be living the high life for a few days before I head back to the village. The last week is full of too many stories to tell but I will try to sum up the indescribable events of the past days/week.

I drove down the 24 km bumpy dirt path that leads to my new home on Saturday. Some parts of the path are washed out, and others will become so once the rainy season starts in October. But as we drove I was trying to make a mental map of the cattle guards, broken down buildings, and mango trees so that when I get my bike I can maneuver my way into town. I met with my host family, the headmaster and his wife, who have both their own children and other orphans staying with them. My Baama (mom) was out in the "kitchen" (an open broken down brick shack with a grass roof) preparing our meal over the fire. Nshima and relish, my new daily diet three times a day. I was escorted to the outhouse upon arrival, and realized how great skirts are for squat peeing :) Back inside we sat down to the heavy meal and swiftly I entered into my new surroundings. Mostly I don't understand much of anything happening around me... my few tonga phrases don't get me far, but at least I'm learning to say things respectfully, with a curtsy and eyes downward cast :)

So I could go on forever, but here are a few of the highlights of the past week (in no particular order):
- Having my hair braided by Bwacaha, one of the daughters
- learning to kill a chicken (I'm told that next time I will be preparing dinner, and it will be my duty to quickly saw off the head and hold down the lurching body) - sorry that's graphic
- Watching Nigerian movies using the few hours of electricity we get with the solar panel outside
- Watching black and white gospel music in many of the 72 different languages spoken in Zambia
- Learning to cook nshima and relish - basically learning to be a real woman :)
- Walking to the village dam and through the vegetable gardens at sunset
- Going to church (all in Tonga for 4 hours) and trying to follow along both dancing and singing with my most boisterous voice.
- Learning how to do a bucket bath while a frog hops around the outhouse
- Learning to greet respectfully, and messing up a million times
- Participating in the gathering for my Baama (mom) that was held at our house because of the passing of her step-mother. And, preparing "Sweety beer" - don't worry its a non-alcoholic corn drink that has massive amounts of corn floating around to gnaw on.
-Learning to wear a chitengi, and tripping on the 2 meters of colorful cloth messily wrapped around my waist
- Drinking milk straight from the cows roaming around the back yard...and making sure to drink it all before it goes bad.
- Trying to figure out Zambian politics, and the location of the president (he's being transported through all 9 provinces)

So that only scratches the surface, but hopefully gives a little taste of what my days hold. I'm currently in town for the remainder of the week, so I have a short break where I can wear pants (sorry trousers) and take hot showers. School has been postponed because of the presidents death, so I have some more time to just settle in a prepare, to learn more Tonga, and to figure out how to change from dollars to kwacha. I will start teaching September 8, and apparently will be in charge of the grade 8 math class, so there will be much more in the upcoming weeks.

I hope this finds you all well, and would love to hear from you anytime! It can get lonely in the sleepy town of Nakeempa, so please keep in touch, and know that I miss you each dearly.

Mwanawasa

2008-08-20T08:41:00.000-07:00

I'm mourning, for seven days...that's my excuse...

No, I don't actually have an excuse. In fact, the more I put off writing, the more I have to say, and the more overwhelming it seems to describe in words the emotions and experiences that I've had in the past week and a half. However, this too is just a brief update.

Though the update includes some key information! The country of Zambia is currently taking seven days to mourn the death of the president Levy, Mwanawasa. The announcement came yesterday via radio, but most think he kicked the can about a month ago. Even so, it's causing a bit of a raucous, seeing as there are no real guidelines for what to do in a situation such as this. No violence though only confusion. But in the next 90 days elections will occur, and things could change quickly. So we will see...history is in the making!

As for me, I am alive and well :)

There will be more soon on orientation in Akron, the two days of travel, and my arrival in Lusaka, Zambia. I know you're all holding your breath, but sit tight and maybe tomorrow morning I can divulge a bit more.

Love you all!

Nakempa!

2008-08-09T03:00:00.000-07:00

I never intended to start a blog. In fact, I had every intention of never starting one. But here I am, anticipating infrequent access to email correspondence and submitting to semi-regularly posting my thoughts and experiences online…so here goes, my apologies.

That said, I appreciate all those who are interested (or feel obligated) enough to read it, and am looking forward to all of your responses/updates/brief hellos. However, knowing me, I’m liable to fall behind on getting back to you, so know in advance that you are loved and appreciated and I truly feel your generous and prayerful support.

I’m not really sure where to start, so I guess I’ll describe a bit about why I’m writing.

On August 16^th, 2008 I’ll depart from Harrisburg, PA and after 2 days of layovers in DC, London, and Nairobi, I’ll finally arrive in Lusaka, Zambia (the capitol). I’ll be spending a year doing voluntary service through MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) with a program called SALT (Serving and Learning Together). I’ll be living in a village called Nakempa (24 km outside of Choma) and teaching at the Basic School there. Details about that will likely have to be specified at a later date, but mainly I’m planning on learning and gaining much more than I will ever be able to teach anyone. My host family will actually be the Headmaster and his wife and daughters. I just got this picture of them from Eric and Kathy Fast, my country reps, a few days ago! Beyond that, I’m trying to have few expectations.

What I do know is that I don’t know a whole lot, and am expecting to be challenged in every way possible. I can read all I want to about oppression, poverty, AIDS, and the multitude of other issues I’ll inevitably face, but unless I learn to live among these things and know the people they affect I can’t even begin to understand. What I do believe I can try to do though is learn. I can attempt to use my privilege to listen, love, build relationships and to empower. I may never see the fruits of these efforts, but I hope to continue to learn better how to be faithful, not effective.

In a sense, I am ready. I have packed and prepared. But I know so very acutely that this preparation is not enough for what’s to come. So I am not ready, but this surrender sets me free.

“Understanding the suffering is beyond me

Understanding the healing is too

But in this moment I am here

Use me”

So thank you one and all who are keeping me in thought and prayer. It’s because of the many deep and meaningful relationships that I feel at all empowered to take this journey. It is with your support that I am able to have this experience at all, and I feel as though I can’t fully express my gratitude to you each individually. Know that you have inspired me and supported me in ways I can never repay, and that your ongoing support will sustain me.

peace,
Ashley