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
"'
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
How To: Learn Tonga (Nakeempa version)
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!!!
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!!!
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