a penny for your thoughts

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

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

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

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...

“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 :).