A Few Reasons to Celebrate

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 :)