Zambian Helen

What occurred to you when you read that? I’ve heard people quote statistics like this before but it took an LTOV named Mark (thanks Mark, I’m stealing your aha! moment, hope it’s okay) describing his experience with a coworker for me to realize just a few of the implications of this. Like Mark, I will stick to cold hard figures and will not get into the emotional and social side of these issues. Lets look at the facts.

Canada’s life expectancy is roughly 78 years. Immediately what comes to mind for me when I hear this is that our lives are relatively twice as long as the average Zambian’s life, but there are other ways of thinking about this as well.

Right now most of you reading this are either in school, or working. If you are in school, you are in the development years during which you build the foundation for the rest of your life. Those of you working are in what we might call the “productive years.” You are getting experience and becoming experts in your field. You are raising families and becoming wise. If the average Canadian finishes school at about 20 years of age and retires around 60, we have just under 40 productive years. 40 years to gain seniority and raise our incomes; 40 years to gain and share our knowledge; 40 years to be part of the workforce. Now let’s return to Zambia.

In Zambia most people do not go to university but many go to school, so let’s say they enter the workforce at about 18 years of age. This means they have about 20 years of productivity to do all of these things my parents and their coworkers are doing. We have the same number of years in the workforce that they have to be alive. So what does this mean for Zambia? The most experienced person in a given workplace may only be 30 or 35 years old, and much less experienced than the most senior person at a similar business in Canada. My dad has been working (since the stone-age, haha, just kidding Daddy…) for about 30 years at the same company. That is a long time to learn the ropes and shift comfortably from coachee to coach. With the high turnover rate experienced in Zambia, companies have few coaches (and almost none with the amount of experience my dad has) and are constantly gaining and losing coachees and people they have just invested in coaching. AIDs, TB, and malaria are everywhere. Businesses here consciously plan for a certain number of their employees to die each year and with them dies experience and company knowledge and investment.

We talk a lot about capacity building at EWB. Let’s INVEST in PEOPLE and train them and coach them and spend time and money building their capabilities. We get frustrated wondering why NGO’s don’t invest in the capacity of their workers and get really involved in coaching them to be better at their jobs. Well, does it make economic sense for organizations that are so strapped for cash to be investing so much money and time building themselves on their staff? I would still argue yes, but you can see why this is a difficulty. I personally think that because the capacity of a worker has such a dire affect on his or her quality of work, NGO’s and businesses in Zambia need to work twice as hard to build their workers’ skills, but to many this is a financial risk they may not be willing to take. Furthermore, those organizations who do work on strong capacity building will face a challenge in continuously adding to the growth of their staff. They cannot pick up with everyone and continue training where they left off if a quarter of the staff is brand new. This applies to private businesses as well. How will they catch up or excel past us in sciences or engineering if their engineers have half as much time to accomplish the same or more than ours after being trained by relatively inexperienced people?

This issue puts strain on all industries and services, including those provided by the government. If the Canadian government invests in some sort of training for new teachers they expect that investment to benefit the country over the next 40 years. The Zambian government will have to carry out and pay for the same training at least twice as often. So it is with doctors, nurses, administrators and accountants alike, and any other profession invested in by the government. As if the government in a developing nation needs more strain..

A few of us JF’s were in Lusaka this past weekend, and we always look forward to going to a certain cafe where all the mzungus hang out because the food is great, the wireless internet is fast, and we always meet FASCINATING people when we are there (foreigners here tend to seek each other out and fall into conversation). We got into a discussion the other day with an American who runs an NGO that nurtures budding entrepreneurs and teaches them the skills they need to excel in business and train other entrepreneurs. He explained that when people are given skills and empowered to see that they can make a good life for themselves, they begin planning for the future. By helping young Zambians realize that they too can have powerful and productive futures, he has seen them increase use of condoms, stop drinking chibuku (not that all of them were doing this in the first place), and think ahead. They care more about their futures because they realize that they each have one. They learn to plan, save money, and take care of themselves more. He has observed this in every single person his organization has worked with and has recently won an award from the Zambian government because they have realized this fact too (his organization is called “Teach to Fish” and is run out of Lusaka. I’m sure it has a website for those of you who are interested). So what about the other 12 million he has not gotten to work with? How many of them are discouraged at the life ahead of them and don’t do these things because of that? A shortened lifespan has innumerable effects as well as causes.

This low level of life expectancy is cyclical. It is both a cause and an effect of itself. To demonstrate this, think about the average family size. It is not uncommon in villages to find families with 6 to 10 children. Not only does this make sense economically, since the family size basically equals the workforce of the family farm, but if people expect several of their children to die before the age of five (the stat is around 1/4 or 1/5) it is likely they will choose to have more kids. The other side of this is that those in villages have the least access to medical care and basic nutrition, which means these are the vulnerable people who are likely to die at an earlier age, contributing to this early life expectancy statistic.

Another example is that of teachers. The government has to train teachers about twice as often as those in Canada, so it must be tightfisted with spending in other areas. I spoke to a volunteer who said the elementary school in her village receives about ZMK 300,000 from the government each month. This is about USD 90. This means that the schools MUST charge fees. Hence, not everyone gets to go to school. Without proper education children are less likely to make steps towards a better quality of life for their future families. They are missing out on many key tools they need to excel in today’s fast-paced society, and are at a disadvantage compared to children around the world. And so the cycle of poverty continues…

EWB often runs a workshop called “Root Causes of Poverty.” Participants are split into groups and given a case study (telling about a typical family constrained by various circumstances to live in poverty), pads of post-it notes and a chart paper. They are told to brainstorm causes of poverty, record each on a sticky note, and stick them to the chart paper (sorry for all you environmentalists out there). Typically groups come up with countless sticky notes with everything from “western apathy” to “cultural traditions” to “lack of sanitation facilities.” Next, the groups are asked to each try and map out their notes on the chart paper and draw arrows to show the relationships between them. What causes what?

I urge those of you who have never done this workshop to try a mini version at home, scribbling your brainstorm on a piece of paper and connecting the words.

Those of you who HAVE done the workshop know that everyone starts out bound and determined to have a pretty little diagram, and by the end of the workshop the room is in chaos, and so is each chart paper as groups end up drawing a messy web of arrows tracing through and around every part of the page, connecting the various causes of poverty.

Does a lack of education cause inadequate drinking water sources? Or does the lack of adequate drinking water sources cause children to miss school since they are sick or fetching water all day, leading to a lack of education? Does the cultural aspect of large families propagate starvation or does the lack of nutrition (and hence, lack of health) from starvation cause people to have bigger families (so they can manage a bigger farm, have more surviving children, etc)?

An amusing tale often told among EWBers is that of one of our National Office staff going to work with one of our corporate sponsors and running this workshop with a bunch of CEO-types. By the end of the workshop one group proudly presented their neat, single-file line of arrows and causes, proclaiming that, “We’ve done it! We’ve found the root cause of poverty!”

“But what if inadequate health care not only causes high turnover rates, but is also caused by them since doctors have less experienced people training them?” (or one of the millions of other cyclical relationships within poverty’s vicious cycle. this one is purely an example) asked the N.O. member

“OH $#%*!” Cried the group, and began ripping everything off the paper to try and rearrange their neat little line. Of course the neat little line never reappeared.

For those of you in EWB who have done our Root Causes of Poverty workshop, life expectancy is another issue to add into the tangled web that shows how all causes of poverty are interconnected and there really is no “root cause.”

The idea behind Root Causes of Poverty is to demonstrate that poverty is not a problem with a solution. It is much more complex than that. Change is slow, but it IS happening, and when we in Canada, who are so detached and clueless really about what is going on over here, are wondering why progress is so slow and thinking there is an “answer” to poverty and why isn’t it just being solved, we need to remember this complexity and be empathetic towards the field workers on the front lines who are dealing with it despite receiving little support and being stretched very thin.

I challenge you all to really think about the implications of the devastating statistics you hear from day to day. What does this statistic mean for those involved in it? What are the massive effects and causes of these seemingly impersonal numbers?

I’m heading out to live in a village for a couple weeks so I hope to bring more insight into the reality of poverty and how this experience differs from my comfy corner here in Kafue where I have become accustomed to life. I’ll be staying in the small village of Kasaka with a family called the Sialuzus. I’ll talk to you all in a couple of weeks and I’ll be home in less than 4 (ahh!).

On a side note i have accidentally marked all my blog comments as spam (oops) and I don’t know how to undo this but feel free to try posting new ones even though I know the comments feature often doesn’twork for some reason.  You can email me though

Lots of Zambian love heading your way!

-hb

This past week I had my best day yet here in Zambia. It began the same as every other day. I woke up to the sounds of Martha and Ivwa getting ready for school. It’s quite comical actually because every single morning they try so hard to be quiet when they come to get their clothes from Mwangala and my room while we are sleeping (the dresser is in our room) but as soon as they are outside the room (without closing the door) they make as much noise as they please. On this particular morning I awoke to Martha’s shout-singing and the sound of her running around the house. Thankfully I had gotten a good night’s sleep and didn’t mind being woken up.

By the time Mwangala and I emerged from our room the 2 kids had left for school, leaving room in the kitchen for us to eat and get ready for work. Breakfast was the usual 2 pieces of plain bread and tea with sugar, but no milk. By 9 I was on my way to work.

Every single day as I walk to work there is a certain little girl whose house I pass by, and every single day she explodes out of the bushes to greet me with “Mzungu!!! How are you???” A lot of children ask me this, but she is the only one who does so with such vigour and dependability that I have begun to look for her each day. I don’t really know why but I’ve become quite attached to this little girl and even began to worry when I didn’t see her for several days a while ago. She seems very confidant as she bursts onto my path each day, but as soon as I try to converse with her a bit more she gets very shy and runs back into her yard where her mother is waiting. Because of this I don’t know her name (after all this time!) so I have begun to call her (in my head) “pangono pangono amayi” which means (more or less, in my version of Nyanja), “small small sister.”

So on this particular day as I was walking to work I finally managed to get a photo with the girl, and even managed to get a little bit of video of her running out of the bushes. I arrived at work excited that I had done so, and proud that I was finally remembering to bring my camera places and take pictures. I was also pleased that I hadn’t run into any piles of burning garbage along my way, since the thick smoke is never pleasant to walk through, especially early in the morning. As usual, my coworker, Alice, was not yet at the office, so I sat with a lady from the office next door and chatted as I waited.

Every morning I am the first one at the office, and most mornings Mrs. Phiri (pee-ree) is also at work at this time, and she invites me to sit inside her office and chat instead of sitting on the cold hard front step of our office. She is the only person to recognize that it is difficult to be here for so long, despite the fact that I am enjoying my trip. She is the only person to say to me “You must miss home,” and sympathize with this. Everyone else knows I miss home, I’m sure, but no one else addresses it, and this has meant a lot to me throughout my time here.

This morning I had a really fun chat with Mrs. Phiri and by the time Alice arrived we were having a great time, laughing and talking about home and here and everything in between. What a great start to my workday! I was in a great mood as Alice and I took off for the village of Kotote (Koe-toe-tay) to meet with a new farmers’ group there.

When I had asked Alice where the village was she had said it was near to another village I had recently visited, so I was prepared for a painful, bumpy hour-or-so long ride on the motorbike. Imagine my surprise when we were an hour into our journey and had not even left the highway yet. We finally turned off the road and I sighed with relief, thinking the village must be nearby. Throughout the next hour as we jolted down dirt paths and my backside fluctuated between numb and excruciating I constantly wondered how this comparison had come to make sense to Alice. I never did find out.

We arrived in Kotote and stopped at a household to ask directions to the headwoman’s place. I noticed that this village, like many, had a beautiful, well-built and immaculately kept Jehovah’s Witness’ Kingdom Hall. This is something I have not quite gotten used to: a community living in tiny mudhuts with a gorgeous Jehovah’s Witness’ building. Somehow funding is getting over here very effectively. Perhaps the Canadian Government should ask them how they accomplish this. Anyway, I still find this fact surprising and amusing and I managed to get a picture of this particular hall across from the hut we stopped at.

Again, I was proud of myself for remembering to use my camera.

Upon arriving at the head household we were told by the headwoman, Mrs. Banda, and her family members that somehow the farmer’s had not gotten the message about the meeting, and that they had convened on Tuesday expecting us. At home this would be no problem since you would just call the people and send out a mass email and they would all arrive in a jiffy. Here, it may take some of the farmers an hour or two to get to the meeting place. We settled in to wait. I was irritated but relieved to be off the motorcycle, and any negative feelings quickly disappeared when I began practicing my Nyanja with the Bandas. The women just about died laughing as I managed a phrase or two, and then immediately asked Alice if what I had said made any sense (thankfully it did). The women eventually left to tend to children or one of the other 1000 things they do in a day, and as Alice was on her phone I was left to watch a mother hen try again and again to run away from the hut she was tied to as her chicks (still in the phase of being cottonballs with legs) stood just out of reach. She never did learn and kept being jerked back by the line. I giggled to myself.

Alice asked to see the Bandas’ garden and one of the daughters began leading us down a gentle slope, explaining that to find ground flat enough to plant a large garden they had been forced to use land in the valley. Soon, this gentle slope turned into a nearly vertical climb, and I was reminded of hiking the Grand Canyon with my dad in January. Finally we arrived at the garden, and let me tell you, it was worth the hike. Lush, green fields of cabbage, rape, and tomatoes amid the beautiful rounded mountains of Kafue, all under a bright blue sky gave me the best view I’ve seen yet. The kids giggled and watched me curiously, squealing with laughter at my efforts to greet them in Nyanja. We took a walk through the garden and then, much to Alice’s dismay, began the steep upward climb. The climb back up was comical as we huffed and puffed our way up, laughing at ourselves (and at Alice) when we stopped to rest every so often. In her defense, her blood count is very low since she has just recovered from a month-long bout of ,malaria. We rounded a corner and found an abandoned wheelchair which was fitted with a bicycle chain attached to handles (instead of pedals) so the person could move his/herself along. I thought it was pretty clever and the little boys gladly climbed on to show me how it worked. I will always wonder though how it came to be halfway up a mountainside.

We got back to the meeting place and by now it had been about 2 hours since we had arrived, but still no farmers had come for the meeting. They slowly began to trickle in, and we finally began to talk to them about IDE and what our programs aimed to achieve. Because my Nyanja is not very good (okay, terrible) I don’t actually run any of the meetings, so I busy myself with taking down names, fetching things for Alice, and trying to understand what she is saying. In the middle of this meeting my dad called me, which was a nice surprise, so I got to chat with him for a bit while Alice translated the name of our organization and its programs, since everything is dreamed up in English, which many of the farmers can’t understand.

At the end of the meeting the farmers thanked us by giving us each a pack of cookies, and they laughed as I told them to “Musale bwino” or “stay well.” Mrs. Banda invited us to stay for nshima but by this time it was about 4pm and we still had a 2 hour ride home so we got on the road. We bumped our way quickly out of the village, with the exception of a detour made when Alice tried to eat her cookies while driving and accidentally dropped the package. After some backtracking a a brief search we were on our way back to the highway and home.

To top it off, about halfway between the village and the highway, when I was beginning to remember the abuse the motorbike had given my backside that morning, I looked into the trees and saw monkeys watching us pass. HOORAY!! My first exotic wild animal sighting! Could the day get any better? I arrived home thoroughly satisfied and relieved that it was Friday, so my bottom could have a break from the motorbike over the weekend.

I realize looking back on this day that it was tons of small things that made this my favourite day so far. I’m finally beginning to feel useful at work and am learning to have fun with the villagers. This is all in good timing since in 2 weeks time I’ll be starting out on a 2 week village stay during which I will stay with a family in the Kasaka village and learn more about their way of life. I am extremely excited.

I hope that there will be many more days when I get home feeling satisfied, content, and exhausted to the same extent as I did on Friday.

Sending you all lots of mzungu love!

-hb

Hi everyone!

Well it’s been an eventful last few weeks and although I’ve been posting I haven’t updated you on a lot of things. I attended a retreat here in Zambia with the other 16 EWBers in the country (10 JF’s like me, our supervisor, and 6 Longterm overseas volunteers, LTOV’s). If you are ever in need of a unique and beautiful vacation spot, try Siavonga, on the shores of Lake Kariba. Here we discussed, learned, encouraged, and relaxed. I suffered from my first injury this summer, a black eye acquired during a marula fruit battle that was apparently a bit too fast paced for me. I left feeling comforted (except for my eye), energized, and enthused to make the most of my last 7 weeks (now less than 6 weeks…Ahhh!) in Zambia.

In the last while I have found the focus of my work here, celebrated Canada Day, and gotten much closer to my host family. This blog is going to be a combination of a series of updates on my life here, as well as some tales of things that were odd/exciting when I arrived but have now become commonplace.

Oh Canada!

July 1st has been one of my favourite days of the year since I was old enough to don temporary tattoos and paint my face red and white. It was upsetting this year to know that my friends would be watching the fireworks down by the waterfront and joining in Sarnia’s chaotic celebrations without me. We started off the day at my house here with pancakes and maple cream cookies for everyone. Thankfully I had bought syrup and the cookies on my way through Toronto’s airport in May so I had the materials I needed. The batter had to be (gasp!) made from scratch since, believe it or not, pancake mix is difficult to find in Zambia and enough for 8 people cost me about 40,000 kwacha (around $13). Most of my family had not had pancakes before, and none of them had tasted maple sugar, so I was excited to introduce them to it, as well as a little nervous since other JF’s had experienced sub-optimal pancake reception. For example, Florin served pancakes and syrup to his host father and it went something like this:

“Here you go! Pancakes and maple syrup straight from Canada.”

“Thank you Florin. Mmm…it’s nice.” (pushes plate away)

“Ah! you don’t like it!”

“No, it’s very good!” (pushes plate even further away)

Despite having to use the nshima scoop (huge flat-ish spoon) to flip the pancakes, most of them turned out well. Thankfully my family likes pretty much anything that is very sweet. Both the cookies and the pancakes were devoured and we all went off to school and work on full stomachs. The syrup and breakfast was a hit, and I even made “M” and “I” shaped pancakes for Ivwa and Martha, just like I do for myself at home, which they took with them to eat for a snack at school. By the end of the day I was really wishing I had brought more of everything so I could do it again. I found that no one in my family had ever seen or used temporary tattoos, so I brought them out that night and by the time we went to sleep we were all thoroughly Canada-ed up, with some of them even having 2. Mwangala wore hers for days after and even wore a red sweater to match.

It was a significant contrast to what I usually experience on Canada Day, but it was a different kind of fun, and sharing that piece of home with my family helped me to feel less homesick. It felt good to teach them something about where I come from, since they are teaching me so much about their home and culture.

“Sounds like fun, Helen. Do you do any work?”

In the last few weeks I have focused in on what exactly my objective will be at work for the summer and begun to put those plans to action. It was recognized very early on by Florin, Brian, and I (the 3 EWBers working at different IDE offices) that communication between headquarters in Lusaka and the field offices (ours are in Livingstone, Kabwe, and Kafue, respectively) is an area that could certainly be improved. Cellphone talk time is precious and internet is expensive and time consuming to use, so communication is limited and while the field workers are held accountable to headquarters (since they answer to headquarters and are employed by them), there is little accountability of headquarters to the field offices. Critical feedback on the project or on interactions with headquarters is given just once in a monthly report, and if it is not read or written in a way that makes it seem like a priority to the team at headquarters, it is dismissed with no word to the field offices. It is easy to see how this issue would occur since perspectives at head office and field offices are very different (and so their priorities differ as well) but, without going into too much detail, it is making everyone’s jobs more difficult, including those working at headquarters. For this reason I spoke to the country programs director and after thinking about the issue, he decided that the monthly reporting system will be kept as the method of feedback, but that the design of the report is in need of input from the field workers. He also described some information that is not in the current report format but that he would appreciate receiving. Since then I have been working on creating a new template for the report, as well as a couple of other templates for accompanying information. All this is being done with input from the field staff so that it makes sense to them and the new reporting format includes opportunity for them to get across what information they feel needs to be communicated. We will be (hopefully) piloting the new format at my office for the next report which will go out at the beginning of August. All this has been done in between field visits to mobilize farmers groups, introduce IDE’s projects, install irrigation systems, and train farmers in various areas. For those of you interested, IDE’s 6 training programs focus on gender, capacity building, input supplies linkages, irrigation, credit linkages, and output market linkages.

My ZamFam

Since I last posted the description of my family, I have moved into Mwangala’s room and given up the room I had to myself to the 2 student girls who were renting it before I arrived. this eased tensions and gave everyone (except me) a bit more space. Not only did this make the family more comfortable with me, it means that I have been able to become very close with Mwangala. It is like having a slumber party every single night! We can about our boyfriends (although hers is secret; girls aren’t really allowed to date here), her upcoming application to university, and just whatever comes to mind. I can pretty much ask her anything about Zambia and she is equally interested in Canada, so I have someone here to talk about home with. Again it has struck me over and over how similar girls from different worlds can be. I have no problem communicating with her and we have so much in common.

I am continuing to get more comfortable with the other 2 girls, but they speak little English and are Tonga, so that is the language they speak. Hence, they understand very little of what I say and I understand even less of what they say. This can make me feel awkward when I know that they are talking about me but i have no idea what is being said. However, it is one of the things I have become (more or less) accustomed to.

Martha and Ivwa continue to be good little siblings. They are much better at being quiet in the morning when they sneak into Mwangala and my room to get their clothes (the dresser is in our room) and although they are less fascinated with my laptop than before, Martha is still always finding something of mine that is new and interesting.

Bibian and I watch soap operas together each night and she has taught me how to cook a couple of things. She knows a lot about what things are like in more developed countries and I am learning more and more about what her life is like, so we find it easy to understand each other.

Overall I’m very happy with my family and living arrangements. I really enjoy sharing a room with Mwangala and relaxing with everyone in the evenings. I now know that Saturday is cleaning day, and they let e pitch in around the house. I’ve also helped cook nshima a couple of times and am more comfy in the kitchen. Now I am getting ready to mix things up with a village stay where I stay with a farmer and her/his family for a couple of weeks in August. This will be a whole different world and I’m excited to share it with you all!

ZamKids

Where to begin…there are so many things about Zambian children that amazed me at first, but have now become commonplace. The first thing to strike me was how MANY of them there are. School is scheduled differently here so kids go to school either in the morning or at night. Hence, at any time of day at least half the children are out of school(along with those who can’t afford to go). More than half the entire population is under 15, and there are about 12 million people in Zambia. That’s a lot of kids, and mzungus are like child-magnets walking down the street. Thanks to various tourists and aid organizations, it is assumed that when a white person comes along it means they will bring candy or money and at the very least they will be played with until exhaustion. As I walk from work to home or vice versa, swarms of children greet me.

“Hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“I’m fine how are you?”

“I’m fine how are you?”

and so on…follows me down the street. On top of this, answering once is not good enough because there are about 30 or 40 children around and each wants to practice the English he or she has learned in school. The result is a chorus, or something of a vocal stampede, of “Hi! How are you?”-’s follows me everywhere I go. If I get tired of answering, the simply yell louder as I get further away. If I do answer they are encouraged to ask again the next day, and the next…

I have resorted to answering once or twice and then just smiling and waving. Most of them are satisfied at waving back, but there are always one or two who continue yelling. It was really frustrating at first but has (slowly) become hilarious. Equally amusing is how they laugh hysterically when I speak and run away. Oh kids.

Another thing that I have adapted to is the fascinating toys the kids make. They don’t really have toys like you would buy in the store in Canada, but they are able to take bits of wire and twist them into fantastic models of cars and trucks, complete with a handle so they can push it down the street on bottle-cap wheels. Kids will be equally happy throwing an old bike tire (without the wheel) around a tree branch and swinging in it. It gives a whole different meaning to the word “tire-swing” when you see one of these kids swinging furiously back and forth at about 200 swings/minute (since the radius of rotation is so small they don’t travel far, just quickly back and forth, I know, I’m a nerd). I have also seen kids playing with bikes that have no tires, or half of a plastic tricycle. I almost took a picture one day when I came out of my office to find a pile of garbage with 3 little kids (of maybe 2-3 years old) sitting in the middle of it happily playing. I stopped myself from taking the picture because of how it will come across at home. People will see it as “Oh my gosh, look at those poor little children! They need real toys!” When really my attitude was “Wow, this is great. Kids in our society are over stimulated and too difficult to amuse.” I draw the line when there is glass or anything dangerous in the pile of garbage, but really I got warm fuzzy feelings from the scene, not ones of horror or pity. What is poverty? These children aren’t sad! That is a question for a whole other post though…

Say CHEESE!

One of the hardest things for me to get used to here is the lack of smiling I see when walking down the street. This is NOT because people are unhappy, it is just not considered a greeting to smile at someone. I still reflexively smile at people when I meet their eye, and then they don’t smile back, and I am sad. It is such a part of our culture to smile when you are smiled at, but that is not the case here. However, as soon as you do greet someone they break into giant laughing grins and could not be happier. It is the same with taking pictures; it’s not assumed that you are supposed to smile. I have photos with my family and they were perfectly happy at the time, but are not smiling in the pictures! It brings a whole new meaning to the World Vision commercials where tiny children gaze sadly at the camera. They aren’t necessarily sad, just making their “relaxed face” and not realizing that people will assume they’re upset.

Privacy? What’s that?

The idea of ownership is different here. Completely different. My things in my room are just objects in the house, and everyone lives in the house, so everyone can use the objects. I’ve had to conceal anything I don’t want explored or used. I will leave my journal alone for just a moment and come back to find Martha trying to read it and wanting to draw with my multi-coloured pen. I have left toothpaste out only to have it disappear for days ad reappear empty. I accidentally left a razor in the shower and now it is full of hair that is certainly not mine (I stopped using it as soon as I left it in their, don’t worry). Mwangala is constantly having to buy new toothbrushes because someone has taken hers, or Martha has been using it and accidentally dropped it in the mud (oops). Toiletries, food, and other random belongings are in continuous circulation around the house. I’ve managed to set boundaries with necessary things, and I used to get annoyed, but now when I come home and find that all of my shoes

have been tried on I just laugh.

People here go through life never being alone. There are more people than rooms in most houses (any house I have been in anyways), so one is literally unable to be alone on a regular basis. When I talk to Bobby on the phone I escape to the yard and sit on the step of the chicken coop. They may be smelly but at least I can hear what Bob is saying.

I don’t feel sorry for people or think that this privacy deprivation is a form of poverty anymore (I saw it that way at first) because it is how they know life and love life, and to be honest it doesn’t really seem to bother them. It is just one more of the interesting ways life is different here. We live in the way that works for us and they do the same.

Response to Shyam’s Awesome Comment

For those of you who haven’t read Shyam’s comment, he described the struggle to define what exactly we are encouraging nations to develop into, since it is impossible for the entire world to live as we are in Canada.  Our society and the way we live simply is not environmentally sustainable.

This is something that has been on my mind since conference (I guess you could say it was my AHA! moment in January) and I have no idea where to begin. That’s kind of why I didn’t even begin to bring it up last week. We talked about it a bit at our retreat last weekend but of course couldn’t come up with an ideal solution. I think this is one of the reasons I want to go into some form of environmentally focused engineering. If developing nations are working to have access to the technology that we’ve got, our technology needs to be sustainable enough for everyone to be able to use it. This doesn’t begin to solve the problem and it is pretty idealistic, I know, but it is one of the ways I deal with the issue. It also completely depends on a person’s idea of development. I’ve heard farmers describe development as expanding their garden and using land more efficiently. They still live in a hut and have no electricity but they see extended fields and say “ah! We are developing.”

The environmental movement has barely touched Zambia and most people do not really consider it. The vehicles spew disgusting smog because they are hand-me-down cars that Japan considered to polluting for its air. There are signs everywhere saying “keep Zambia clean” but people don’t have anywhere to put garbage.

This issue demotivated me for a long time, but Zambia and Ghana are developing and they are going to continue to do so. How can we encourage earth-friendly development if we are not role models ourselves? Global warming is just that: global. I think we need to worry about our country’s irresponsible actions first and foremost.. I’m sure anyone who has been overseas has seen that our actions and habits are watched and often imitated as signs of material wealth. We should be leading by example but unfortunately we haven’t taken a strong enough stance for people here to pick up on it.

Musale Bwino - Stay Well

I hope all’s well at home!

Sending you all lots of Zambian love,

-hb

Why do you give to the charity of your choice? How do you choose this charity? Is it the one with the most malnourished children on its commercial? The one with the most flies on the people and the visions of searching through a garbage dump to find food?

An amazing feeling has come over me since I realised that we are all neither good nor bad, angelic or evil. We are not black or white, but shades of gray of each other, and no population is more deserving of a certain fate than another is. Many NGO commercials would have you thinking that the recipients of your aid are flawless victims while in fact, they are human like you and I.

For a long time I have been very cynical toward our society. The luxury and wastefulness has haunted me, and even the smallest enjoyment has been tainted by guilt. I’ve felt as if I do not deserve to live so easily while there are more deserving people in parts of the world ravaged by exploitation.

But I am Canadian. I come from the western world where things are easier, and while luxuries have caused guilt, I also enjoy them and they are part of my everyday life. Buying myself something nice after a long, difficult haul of exams, or going out for a delicious dinner of enormous portions on a special occasion has been full of contradiction for me because my culture is part of who I am and I am not willing to entirely give it up. Ask my roommates and they will tell you I like to order pizza and I certainly don’t wash all my clothes by hand. I waste and I consume, and the internal conflict caused by this has been enormous for me. I have been irritated by the superficiality of our culture and became bitter towards people when they were freely enjoying these things that cause me to feel badly.

What I’ve realized is that I, along with many Canadians (and EWBers) suffer from what I call Western Guilt. It is this guilt that EWB tries to avoid by focusing on positive personal stories of well-adjusted and “normal” Africans. It is this guilt that has caused several enormous fundraising organizations on TV to be the most profitable NGO’s in the world. We all are subjected to it, and there are various reactions. Some of us pick up our credit card and dial the number at the bottom of the screen; some of us change the channel; some of us want to know more, to help, and we join organizations like EWB. We throw money at the problem we see to try and justify the way we live our lives and make ourselves feel better.

My personal struggle with western guilt intensified in 2006 with a visit to the Dominican Republic where I had some (fairly limited, but I did not recognize this) interaction with the locals and saw only the positive. I saw the children who were happy although they had no toys, and the immense value placed on community. In short, I came away feeling like poverty purifies people somehow, like they have no faults and are all victims striving to do good and support their families. With these blinders on I returned to Canada and proceeded to find fault in anything related to materialism and self-service, which in our society includes pretty much everything. Ask any of my friends and they will be quick to tell you that I have never been the “hippie” type. I don’t wear a poncho and eat organic food (but no meat of course) and fail to shave my armpits (not that I have a problem with those who do those things…it is just not me). I could not deny who I was and try to live a more simple life just because someone else was doing it and it made them happy. And so began my internal struggle.

But then I came to Zambia and instead of living in a safe little church compound with 20 other westerners, I was living in the Nangongwe community of Kafue with a local family. And I began to see that (GASP!) Zambians have faults too. Because I am part of the development community I am inclined to put the beneficiaries on a pedestal and believe that they are “better” than westerners in all the right ways. Heaven forbid I talk about the fact that in society here there are people who aren’t trying, who depend on others to give them an allowance so they can drink chibuku all day, or that there are people who are unkind sometimes. Heaven forbid I say anything that may decrease the amount of money a donor is willing to give to help these people. It is the same here as it is at home though, there are phenomenal people who can inspire us all, and there are others whose upbringing has not given them the tools to deal with the difficult world around them, and so they do not deal with it.

What I am getting at is that now I realize that while the people here deserve the opportunities I have open to me, the fact that I already have these opportunities does not mean that I don’t deserve them too. If I want to come back to Zambia for a visit sometime in my life, I can make this happen, while if a Zambian wants to visit Canada, it will likely never happen. There lies the crux of the situation here. I want to, therefore I can. They want to but likely cannot.

I will not be going home and leading a life of luxury, but I will no longer feel guilty for enjoying things that are part of my culture. If I am going to be forgiving of the Zambians who have become dependent on others because I know it was their upbringing and surroundings that made them this way, I must also forgive myself for taking advantage of the things I am working to help them attain.

I have moved onto instead of telling myself I don’t deserve things, asking myself “Am I hurting or decreasing others’ opportunities by partaking in this opportunity?“ It is difficult to know whether I am hurting someone thousands of miles away by enjoying a croissant or buying a new sweater, and so here lies my new problem. I often do not have access to the information needed to make this choice. How can I be more socially responsible at home when I am so far away from those I may be hurting. Here, I can ask a farmer if he or she has received a fair price for my dinner. At home, I cannot dial the factory where my shirt was made and ask to speak to a worker to find out if he or she is being treated fairly. Herein lies my new difficulty. We will see how it progresses.

I think it is key to recognize that we are working to give opportunity, and not things. It is easy in our culture to lapse into trying to reach a tangible answer. “This man has received X number of cows from our high school fundraiser.” But is the man a hard worker who will take care of the cows or will he mistreat them and squander this opportunity? Giving “stuff” can mean that increased quality of life is misplaced. If the hardworking woman in Zambia wants to send her children to school, it should be an attainable goal. The man sitting on the corner who drinks all day does not benefit from opportunity because he does not work to achieve it.

One of the longterm EWB volunteers brought up an interesting point to go along with the cliche “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day, but teach a man to fish and he will eat for a lifetime.”

This assumes that the man is opportunistic and is willing to work hard to change his behaviour so that he can take advantage of this opportunity. Maybe he does not like fish. Maybe in his culture only poor men eat fish or do the fishing. Maybe he is allergic to fish and would have to put in extra work to sell the fish in order to buy food he can actually eat. Maybe he will not be able to afford the nets or lines he needs to capture the fish and will first have to save the money for these inputs. One thing is for certain: If he is lazy and chooses to sit by and waste the education, he will not fish for a lifetime. Development focused on opportunity seeks out those who will not waste the donors hard-earned money and works with them to help them attain access to the opportunities they long for. “Stuff”-focused development acts as a thin sheet distributing small opportunity to many, including those who may waste it.

To make a long story short I have renewed motivation to help with opportunity-focused development, and I have released a huge weight from my chest in realizing that I also deserve the opportunities I am working to give others. How is Western Guilt affecting your life? How are you reacting to it?

I have been compiling for a while now a small list of interesting and/or humourous stories that have I think are unique to the Zambian experience.  There is a little bit of suggestion for topics to ponder, but mostly this weeks post is for entertainment purposes and to update friends on the stories we would be laughing about together if they were here.  Hope you all enjoy, lots of love!

Anna, In response to your comment I am actually not at a head office, haha.  I am in a teensy weensy field office that is about 3m x 3m.  If I jump from the door I will run into the back wall.  The office is in a small town.  It is comparable to a rural town in Canada.  If you blink you will miss it on the highway.  I spent my first week here wondering where exactly the town was.  It is an assortment of shops and bars where you can pretty much get anything you need.  Cellphones, shoes, mealie meal (the stuff to make nshima) and then some more bars.  There are a couple of guest houses and a VERY small market across the road (the town is on one side of the highway) and then it is over.  Every community has its own market and usually has an elementary school as well, but private schools or highschools are fewer and far between.  There are various housing developments on either side of the highway where all the excitement is.  I live in one about a couple kilometers from town, so it is easy for me to get whatever I need.  If you have anymore questions let me know! Hope this helps.

-hb

“My brother was killed by robots”

This is not a danger that I expected when traveling to a developing nation.  Robot invasions?  You can imagine EWB volunteer Trevor’s surprise and dismay when his friend told him his brother had been killed by the robots.

‘What robots? Where? How do I avoid these violent machines???’

Traffic here is insane.  It is worse even than Europe.  It is absolute chaos!  This is partly because laws and infrastructure are different (or nonexistent in some cases) but also because there is not enough government funding to have the same extent of law enforcement that we have at home.  Just recently, to help reduce deaths resulting from traffic accidents, the city of Lusaka has invested in traffic lights.  What other name is appropriate for automated machines, other than ‘robots?’  It actually makes a lot of sense.  In fact, what Trevor’s friend meant was ‘my brother was killed in an accident near the traffic lights.’  This is a great example of how each of us has filters that determine what we hear versus what the speaker believes he or she has said.  It is a common problem.  Imagine the confusion that can come from the word ‘rubbers’ meaning giant elastics commonly used here, while at home it is slang for condoms…lots of potential for embarrassment and social discomfort.  Like, for example, when a supervisor at work pulls over at a gas station to ‘buy some rubbers’ since he will be needing them when he visits the village you are going to.  Awkward.

Having automated machines telling them what to do is not something motorists are used to here and some of us JF’s have doubts as to how well their working is understood by some.  On our first day in the city some of the guys were riding in a minibus which came to a red light and leaned on the horn until it changed to green.  Apparently this particular driver thought someone was listening.  In my experience though, they are understood just as well as at home, and are obeyed much better.

Goat Smuggling and Interesting Laws

On one particular day we traveled 2 hours, often by dirt roads, to get to a particular village and connect farmers there with a treadle pump manufacturer.  The farmers were very receptive and excited to invest in this new technology, but one man did not have the cash on hand to pay for his an we certainly weren’t going to be back anytime soon.  However, he did seem to have a surplus of goats.  On thing led to another and we were bumping our way back home with two very upset goats tied up in the back of our truck with all of the irrigation equipment.  We could just hear their distressed ‘baaaa’-ing over the clatter of the truck slowly making its way down the country trails (which means it must have been pretty loud because from the sounds made by the truck I was surprised the thing did not fall apart before we reached the highway).  We would have been good to go if we had been closer to home, but because we were so far away we had to pass through a security checkpoint where police make sure you are transporting things legally (things like goats) and obeying traffic laws.  Unfortunately for us the goats needed some sort of documentation that we didn’t have, since they had been traded for treadle pumps, and the lady with the giant gun who stopped us (there are a lot of guns here and they are all enormous and fear-inspiring) was not satisfied that we were lawfully transporting our precious cargo.  Eventually she let us pass, but not before giving us a stern warning and reprimanding my coworker, Jairos (whose talkative nature came in handy in this situation).  He chatted her up for quite a while and when she figured out he wasn’t going to stop talking I think she gave up, and let us go.  Phew!  Our goat-smuggling was a success!  The goats were quiet at the next checkpoint, thankfully.

Afterward Jairos told us that he had been trying to distract her so much because there were 4 of us packed into the 3-person backseat of the truck.

“But isn’t it legal to carry people in the trunk here?”  I asked.  We had one guy in the back of the truck already and packing tens of people into dump-trucks and pickups is a norm here.

“Yes, she would have made one of you get into the back.” He answered. 

So just to clear things up, because of danger it is illegal to overcrowd the inside of a vehicle, but it is perfectly legal to have people clinging onto the outside or riding in the truckbed.  I think it is also legal to drive drunk. 

But Heaven help us if we have 4 people in the backseat of a pickup.

Stepping..or Falling?  Outside my Comfort Zone

It is a common act of hospitality here to invite a guest to your church.  Everyone I have met belongs to some sect of Christianity, so I have been invited to a lot of churches.  A couple of weeks ago I attended a service that I will never forget.  In general, church is more lively here.  People are expressive and free.  They yell, they jump up to stand when the pastor hits home, and the service is much more interactive than the solemn Catholic Mass I am used to at home.  I can respect this contrast in the way people worship, and it has struck me as just another cultural difference.  I will convey this story with the utmost respect, but I may offer some very biased points of view occasionally because I am trying to also tell my readers what I was feeling at the time.

This church was a whole different kind of experience.  Not only was it 7 hours long (no, that is not a typo, I mean 7 hours), it was full of all sorts of rituals I had never witnessed.  It is common in the Pentacostal churches here for people to give testimonies to evidence of God in their lives, but this service included perhaps 20 or 25.  Half occurred at the beginning and were tales of trials and triumphs of the past week that were attributed to God’s work.  Half occurred at the end and consisted of ‘healings’ people had physically experienced throughout the service.  The latter were often punctuated by hysterical cries proclaiming the great feelings of power the people were experiencing, or the presence of Jesus within themselves.  Several people were overcome with emotion and could not finish their statements.  Many people spontaneously broke into song. 

Everyone was shouting and ’speaking in tongues’ the whole service, and often people would jump out of their seats and run around the church rejoicing if they felt a sudden burst of faith.  At home, church is silent and reverent, while here there is never silence at church.  The pastor preaches and prays while the entire congregation speaks at the same time, saying whatever comes to mind.  Sometimes it is not language at all, but sounds and releases of something ecstatic…Joy?  Faith?  I can’t exactly know.  This simultaneous speaking with words, sounds, anything is referred to as ’speaking in tongues.’  Any of you who are familiar with religion will get the Bible reference.  When Jesus’ Apostles were touched by the Holy Spirit, it is written that they began to ’speak in tongues’ and could speak their native language but every man would hear from their lips his own native language, so they could be understood by anyone.

This pastor also took the liberty of inserting his own name into Bible passages, substituting ‘Matthew’ or ‘John’ for ‘Pastor Chris’ (the founder of this particular church, who is no less than an A-list celebrity here) or ‘Pastor Zulu’ which was his own name.  The entire church would repeat this interesting substitution after him.  This seemed a bit over the line for me.  I’m not sure why this in particular bothered me so much, but it did.  Perhaps it is because I have been raised Catholic and I hold those who wrote the Gospel in higher esteem than a pastor from Kafue Town.  But that is just me.

Throughout the service, when people were overcome by emotion or by the spirit of God, they would stagger, crying, up to the pastor at the front of the church and he would place his hand on their forehead and pray loudly to Jesus while they spoke in tongues beneath him.  Finally when it became too much, the person would be ’slain by God’ and would faint, falling backwards to be caught by others in the congregation.  It was often the same man and woman catching people.  Perhaps they are the designated catchers. 

Anyway, at some point in the service when these ’slayings’ were becoming more frequent, the pastor stared straight at me and pointed, and told me to come up to the front. I kid you not.  I was the one person to be involuntarily called up.  So as everyone pushed me toward the front of the hall, I wondered,

‘Will they be mad if I don’t fall?  Should I fake it? Is it okay that I’m not going to speak in tongues while he prays on me?’

Finally I reached the front of the church Mrs. Designated Catcher stood behind me, poised for action. Feeling supremely embarrassed and awkward I stood in front of the pastor, and stared up at him.  He began to pray over me (and said very nice things about me, thankfully) and put his hand on my forehead.  He prayed and prayed and I think he was getting frustrated at how long I was taking to fall.  And then he pushed me. 

That’s right, I was pushed by my forehead backwards into the waiting arms of Mrs. D-C, and she gently laid me on the floor.

‘How long do I stay down here? I should have paid more attention to how long the laying lasts…’

I did a quick check and saw that the pastor had moved onto the next man, so I got up and retreated  eagerly to the back of the church. When I reached my seat, a lady grabbed my arm and pulled me outside, where she handed me and some other newcomers a sign up sheet and made us repeat a prayer/pledge after her proclaiming we had been born again.

So I went back inside thinking the most interesting experience was over, and was shocked to find utter pandemonium.  Chairs overturned, rows of them pushed aside, bodies EVERYWHERE and the pastor was still going.  Person after person fell to the ground.  I checked and decided I had gotten up a bit hastily, but no one seemed to mind.

People were crying, shouting, dancing, running, jumping, singing.  You name it.  I had never seen anything like it before.  At this point it had been about 6 hours and I felt like if I didn’t leave soon I was going to have some sort of breakdown because it was just all so overwhelming and chaotic.  I felt at that point more different than ever, like I could not relate to a single person out of the 100 in the building.

Eventually the chairs were set back up and church resumed with testimonies from those who had been healed during the service.  One more lady was ’slain’ to heal her stroke side effects (I didn’t see her before the healing so I couldn’t compare with after) and we were released back into the world. 

I think the most shocking thing for me (aside from being pushed over by a pastor) was the dramatic change in people when they exited the church.  As soon as they stepped out  the door it was like none of this had happened.  No one asked the slain people about their experience.  No one referred to any of the testimonies given.  I knew one of the people who gave a testimony at the end of the service and none of us mentioned it ever again, not even in the 2 weeks following.  It’s kind of like Vegas.  What happens in church stays in church. 

I must not give the impression that this was a negative experience.  Faith helps many people to face their day to day problems.  The very beginning of the service was enjoyable, before it got to hectic for me to handle, and I think it is good that these people are so free and expressive, since this is not the case with most people at home.  The singing was beautiful, and the youth were involved with the service like I’ve never see before.  Everyone was happy to be there and the attitude was one of joy.  These things are not always (not usually) true in my religious experience at home.

I am still trying to get the video that was taken.  Yes, the entire service is on videotape somewhere, including my cameo performance.  I think it would be an interesting souvenir.

ChipolopoloOoOo Iyayiyayyyy!!!!!!!

One cannot stay in Zambia for three and a half months without going to see the Chipolopolo Boys play.  They are the Zambian national team, and are an enormous source of patriotism and pride.  Football is to Zambia what hockey is to Canada.  Because of this, several of us found ourselves boarding buses at 5am on a Saturday decked out in Zambian shirts, hats, scarves, and chitenge in order to go cheer on the team at a game versus Swaziland in the Copperbelt (a Northern area of the country).

Now I must set the scene.  Zambia has lost to Swaziland in the past, and has drawn with Togo.  Swaziland has lost to Togo and won against Zambia.  To stay in the running for the world cup, Zambia MUST beat Swaziland that afternoon, and the beat Togo at a later date.  If the Chipolopolo Boys can accomplish this, Swaziland is out and Zambia advances.  The teams are fairly evenly matched, so it promises to be a good game.  Last Saturday, thousands and thousands of rowdy, crazed fans decked out in green flocked to Chililibombwe, a small town in the Zambian copperbelt, to cheer on their beloved Chipolopolo Boys, and we 5 muzungus were among them (on a sidenote, the closest translation we could get to ‘chipolopolo’ was ‘M-16′.  They are some sort of really powerful firearm).

Most people were super-friendly and overjoyed to see muzungus showing excitement and support.  Wearing our Zambian scarves and hats we were welcomed everywhere with cries of ‘Chipolopolo! Chipolopolo! Zambiaaaa!’

I felt like we had been accepted as honourary Zambians for the day.  Everywhere we were greeted with handshakes, smiles, waves, and yells, out of trucks, cars, vans, and on the street.

We got to the stadium JUST on time.  At kickoff the Zambian police lock all the entrances to the stadium so they can leave their posts and watch the game.  We are literally jailed in the stadium until the game ends.  The only time they leave the game is when a player is injured and men run faster then anyone has run before to load him on a stretcher.  As they run onto the field to pick up the injured man, an announcer calls over a PA system for all gates to be opened.  Once the victim exits, the guards may return to the game.

Unfortunately, at an event like this there is an extremely high level of drunkeness.  Additional to the people greeting us, there are over-enthusiastic drunks who grabbed us (especially me, being a girl) and tried to converse with us, but it really just felt like harassment.  Brian, who arrived on his own, resorted to standing in the middle of 4 police officers because he could no longer take the begging and harassment.

When I am in Kafue, I am maybe asked for money once or twice a week.  A couple of times a week an unwelcome male will try to walk me to work, get my phone number, or ask where I am staying, but they are harmless and if I gently tell them to leave me alone, they do.  In Chililibombwe, some sort of conditioning has occurred for white people to appear as nothing more than dollar signs there to give away money and ’stuff.’  It was definitely worse because of all the drinking, but even the children were more frequent and aggressive in their begging.  We each snapped at least once, replying to ‘give me money for dinner!’ with ‘You had money for Chibuku [alcohol]! You could have bought chicken and chips!’ or telling them that they have not given us anything, so why should we give them money?  It was a very frustrating time traveling from the bus to the stadium and back.  Thankfully, we had been forced to purchase the most expensive ’seats’ available (VVIP seats, not just VIP!) so we ended up sitting on the concrete step at the very front, just about on the edge of the field.  In our section were several government ministers, the chief of police, and various other VVIP’s.  There was only one noticeably drunk guy, and he was already asleep when we got there.  He continued to sleep for the entire game. And yes, we took pictures.

So we had an absolutely brilliant time cheering and high-fiving and jumping around with the sober people around us, and managed to have phenomenal seats with no one standing between us and the game.  The football was entertaining and skilled, to say the least, and even I (though I don’t follow football at all)could not tear my eyes from the field.  Several times we noticed that the national television station had its cameras turned to us for an extended period of time, but we thought nothing of it until we all began receiving phonecalls and text messages from our friends and colleagues telling us we had been on ZNBC (Zambia National Broadcasting Network) more than once, and had definitely had a close-up or two. 

With only a few minutes left in the game and the score tied at 0-0, Zambia was awarded a penalty kick and the crowd went wild.  You could FEEL the excitement as everyone quieted down a bit to wait for the kick…and….”IT’S GOOD!!!!!!!!!!” Chaos ensued! Dancing! Singing! Climbing on the walls! Fans happily twirled green scarves and shirts above their heads singing “Chipolopoloooooo!  Iyayiyayyyyy!” over and over and swinging their hips in circles.  We found ourselves cheering and dancing along with them.  And looked up in the stands to see hugging, high-fiving, and shouts of glee happening everywhere.  Enemies became friends!  Politicians showed emotion!  Policemen let go of their stern disposition because THE CHIPOLOPOLO BOYS WERE WINNING!!!  Pure happiness radiated from the stadium.

A few minutes later the game was over, and the bravest fans rushed the field, but paid surprisingly little attention to the team.  Men danced, cartwheeled, flipped, and swung from the goal posts celebrating their personal victory over Swaziland.  Eventually the most persistent were beat out of the field by police with their night sticks swinging.

After much difficulty with missing buses and finding ways home, we finally piled onto the soberest minibus we could find (only 4 really drunk people! Hooray!) and headed south, exhausted but satisfied at a successful (albeit frustrating at some points) foray into the life of a Zambian.  Despite being accosted by drunks in the streets and being forced to buy the most expensive tickets, and waking up at 5am, it was all well worth it.  I now share the feeling of pride and excitement one gets when he or she dons a variety of green gear and heads out to show support for the beloved Chipolopolo Boys.

Greetings from Kabwe! Right now I am on a field office exchange, which just means I’m visiting an IDE field office other than my own for a day or so to see differences in the way things work and share best practices, as well as collaborate to address cross-cutting problems in the project. It also means my blog is super-late this week (sorry!) since I have been traveling around. This is usually too expensive and complicated for field workers to take part in, but Florin, Brian and I (all EWB volunteers working at different IDE offices) are in a unique position since we have more freedom than the field office workers, and sharing knowledge is infinitely useful, so we are keen on visiting each other’s offices.

There are over 70 native languages in Zambia, which means that you can travel relatively short distances and suddenly not be able to understand any of the local language. This is what has happened since I have come to Kabwe. The little understanding I have of Nyanja no longer makes a difference!

 Nchanchi Chachitika - What’s Happened? 

For those of you who have noticed that my last work-related post was overwhelmingly positive, you are right if you suspect that actually, things are not perfect here on ground-level at IDE. Even the best project will have difficulties or conflicts of interest, so I though I’d take some time to point out some of the issues that may not be obvious to the majority of people, especially those an ocean away.

These points are inherently negative but stick it out to hear my closing thoughts. Also, remember that my personal view is not that of EWB Canada, nor is it the view of IDE.

Recall from before that one of IDE’s activities is creating linkages between farmers and output markets so they are able to sell all of their produce and make greater profits, as well as input suppliers so they have access to good seed, irrigation equipment, etc. However, this market linkage stuff is much more complicated than it sounds.

I mentioned last week that it is important that an NGO not enter the market because this would make the development unsustainable, ie. unable to carry on once the NGO is gone. It can also cause the NGO to be competition for local businesses that provide the service, damaging local livelihoods. For example, if we start giving out treadle pumps, the treadle pump producers are then unable to sell their own, so an NGO has effectively put people into poverty by taking away their business. This example is very cut-and-dry, but what about when we are trying to link a farmer to a buyer and the only way to do so is to provide the transport for the shipment? What if we so badly want the farmers to have access to irrigation systems that we drive the retailers 2 hours away to present and sell their goods? Will the relationships be able to continue when we are gone? Will the supplier or buyer have the money or motivation to find their own transport or will they be distracted by a closer, more convenient source? Are we leading the farmers to falsely hope that the business relationship will continue? This presents an enormous conflict of interest. It is unpredictable whether the market linkage has been made (or whether precious funds have been wasted), but if we insist upon staying out of things, it becomes much more difficult to create such linkages. We are convincing manufacturers to produce the pumps (imported ones do not benefit the local economy as much and are much too expensive), but it is not yet so profitable that they are willing to pay for delivery and pursue the possible clients. To make things worse on this specific issue, gas is over $2/ liter and it takes ages to get to many of the villages since there are no roads. The farmers have precious little money to hire a truck to pick up their new equipment. The farmers cannot get to the sellers, and the sellers are not yet making enough money off of the farmers for them to be valuable customers.

On the other side of things, with the farmers who have sufficient yields to sell to big buyers, the prices these buyers are willing to pay are sometimes half of what the farmer is accustomed to making! Think about how much money we save at home buying in bulk. It is the same here. In terms of income, it is not actually more profitable for a farmer to sell to one of these companies we are trying so hard to link them with. Is it better to know for sure that you are going to make X amount of money for your produce, though it is much less? Or is it better to take a chance, as you have for your entire life, and sell on the roadside where you make twice as much per unit sold but may not sell all of your goods? The major goal of this project is to raise farmer incomes, so this difference in price provides and interesting dilemma for the field worker whose job is to increase incomes AND create these farmer/buyer linkages. It is a moral dilemma as well since it is difficult to advise farmers on what to do when you really don’t know which option will be more profitable. I have struggled silently through a meeting between poor farmers and a new buyer as he persuaded and explained to them how and why they must accept half the price that they would at the market.

Trying to create a local market is much more complicated than making a couple of introductions, as the phrase “linking farmers with markets” implies. The theory behind this project is superb, but in practice it is much more difficult.

These are problems that we in the west were unable to fix for our own small-scale farmers. There are very few of them in our society largely for the sole reason that it is not as profitable as other systems we have in order. Small-plot farmers in Zambia have developed their livelihoods to depend on higher prices than the big buyers will pay, and still cannot compete with commercial farmers levels of production. How do we identify a more profitable market for the small-scale farmers? How do we minimize their costs and maximize their outputs enough to compete in today’s markets while increasing their profits?

Add into this mixture the difficulty of educating farmers with loads of complicated information about everything from which pesticides to use when to business planning and loan applications, and the result is tremendously slow progress. The western world is manufacturing, servicing, selling, and buying at a lightning speed that is always accelerating. How will the rural subsistence farmer in Zambia who rarely has disposable income ever catch up?

“Don’t Let Perfect be the Enemy of Great”  

It is easy to get discouraged at the complexity of poverty and begin asking yourself the question “How could there ever be an end to this?” I think we are trying to find “solutions” to poverty as if there is one, or a select few. What keeps me motivated in my work is the belief that my tiny contribution and the learning that comes from it are just one piece in the master puzzle depicting the end of poverty. In striving for “the answer” and eliminating any option with the smallest imperfection we are missing out on the trial-and-error process characteristic of progress made by developed nations. I believe that the effort and care must be global. A lot of our power in the west lies in money. Whose product are you buying? Whose company are you investing in? How much do you really know about the NGO you are donating to? What are you demanding from CIDA (Canadian International Development Agency) and the Canadian Government? Are you aware of their policies and the effects of those policies? I think that most people do care, but are stuck not knowing how to show it (not everyone is comfortable staging protests or contacting politicians). We must think about these questions and accept that the answers really do impact the people half a world away, and eventually there will be a day when you can greet any man with “how are you?” and never receive the reply “we are surviving.”

(subtitle quote given by a friend of EWB’s co-CEO, Parker Mitchell)

In response to one of my comments below, most people (even technical minded people) don’t know what a drip irrigation system is.  I sure didn’t before I came here.  One is shown to the left.  There is a 500 litre (or so) bucket elevated with a tap screwed into its side at the very bottom.  Gravity causes the water to flow out of this bucket into smaller pipes (the extensions you see horizontally placed in the picture) where it comes out of small holes or microtubes and drips onto the ground.  This uses much less water than dumping bucket after bucket of water. The farmer just puts one plant at each microtube/hole so the water drips directly onto it.  The farmer can fill the bucket as is being done in the picture, and walk away while his system waters his field for him.

Pangono, pangono - little by little

Hello everyone! I have been trying to set the stage for future blogs by giving you a taste of my life here, but I have said very little (nothing?) about what EWB actually has me DOING here, so I suppose I should tell you about my work here in Zambia.

The vast majority of farmers in Zambia are small-plot farmers, meaning that they have tiny tracts of land from which they eke out a living. They are in exceedingly rural areas (Ian, even YOU would be shocked at how remote these places are) and in the short amount of time I have spent here I have become absolutely clueless as to how these farmers can even get to a market, not to mention get all of their produce there! All this is done so they can make a few thousand kwacha (1 dollar = 3500 kwacha) and begin the long journey home (many hours over barely-existant roads). In Zambia there are 2 seasons - wet and dry. The wet season is when farmers grow their maize (remember? the staple crop used to make nshima! This is what they live off of) and perhaps a small garden of vegetables. The dry season is much cooler (it is right now and it is freeeeezing at night, trust me) and it is too dry to grow maize, so during this season farmers concentrate on their vegetable gardens. Often, because fruits and vegetables are less common (not staple crops) they can fetch very good prices at the market, or even be sold to produce companies, so if a farmer can maintain a large garden his income can be drastically increased and voila! He can buy the necessities his family needs.

The problem is that the dry season is DRY. I’m talking ‘using Vaseline to moisturize’- dry, I’m talking ‘major cities running out of water for hours a day’-dry. When I tell them we have rain in all of our seasons they find this very shocking, because literally there is NO rain in the dry season…AT ALL. I was curious about how dry the dry season really would be, so I checked “average monthly precipitation” levels online before coming here to see how much rain there was for the months I am here. Imagine my shock when I found 3 such levels listed as “N/A.” Ah! Veggies require a lot of water to grow, so how is a farmer supposed to grow a significant amount so he can move from subsistence to marketing? (subsistence meaning he eats what he grows with no extra available to sell).

So we have three major issues here:

-Where does a farmer get the supplies he needs to grow a garden if he lives out in the boonies?

-How does the farmer produce enough to have extra produce he can sell (cash crops)?

-Where does the rural farmer sell his cash crops?

My partner organization, International Development Enterprises (IDE), is addressing these three questions. With the goal of increasing income for 14,000 Zambian farmers through work in 5 regions, we are working to link farmers to ‘input suppliers’ (retailers of quality seed, pesticide, irrigation systems); educate farmers on good farming techniques and how irrigation systems can help them increase the size of their garden; and link farmers to ‘output markets’ ie. big buyers who want produce, or markets where they can sell smaller volumes. A key factor here is that IDE is not joining the market chain. Many NGO’s choose to become part of this chain by giving out products to farmers or creating their own product to sell cheaply, but this actually undermines the local economy since then farmers will not buy the product from local manufacturers whose livelihoods depend on such sales. For example, one NGO in Zambia has been giving out treadle pumps (a simple piece of irrigation technology) to farmers, so in that area the farmers are refusing to buy treadle pumps from their local producer in favour of waiting to see if they will get a free one from the NGO. The producer must find another product to manufacture or risk losing his business.

At IDE, much of our time is spent running training sessions in the various villages, setting up one irrigation system or another with the help of the local farmers. This participatory training seems to be working well. It is amazing to see the excitement and sense of community in these areas. During a workshop yesterday I was walking through a village and noticed that it was completely dead. Empty. I didn’t come across a single soul. Every single villager was down in the farmer’s garden working to clear the land he needed in order to set up his drip irrigation system. The community members participated in every step along the way, eagerly helping us find what we needed, and making sure they knew what they were doing. Because the learning is participatory (the farmers are taking part in the installation) the farmers are more likely to be able to fix maintenance issues on their own, as well as use the system correctly year after year. We aren’t just giving away the systems for free, so the farmers feel responsibility for their investment and they care much more about making sure they use it properly so their money is not wasted. Past development projects around the world have often seen negative results when they try to give away ’stuff,’ since the farmers do not feel this responsibility and ownership. Mosquito nets meant to combat malaria have been used for fishing, water collection systems have been taken apart and used for building materials, and the list goes on. Our training session was a community event where everyone came together to learn and help their neighbour make good on his investment, and I would be willing to bet that when they buy their systems, he will return the favour. Imagine if your family were working in the yard one day and suddenly your entire street dropped what they were doing to help out. It’s pretty spectacular.

Before installing a simple drip irrigation system, this farmer would have to travel to the river and back for every bucketful needed to water his garden. Now, he fills up one big bucket and turns a valve, and watches as each of his plants is watered. He can walk away and work elsewhere as his drip system waters over 700 plants for him. He is hoping to one day irrigate his entire plot of land during the dry season, and with this simple technology he has taken a giant step toward that goal.

Judith, a farmer in the village of Mungu (shown in the picture with her young son) has invested in a rope and washer pump, which means she can draw water from her well much faster, and even hook it up to a hose if she’d like. She has used flood irrigation to rapidly water her garden much more easily than before. Because it does not take as long to keep the garden maintained, she has extended it. She and the other farmers in her group have organized who will grow what in order for their community to meet quotas necessary to sell to the big buyers (like the A&P’s of Africa), and because of the relationship they have formed with these buyers, they are guaranteed to sell all of their produce. There is time in the dry season for 2 garden harvests and Judith’s first one yielded enough produce for her to buy 20 bags of maize with the profits. Suddenly, she does not have to worry whether she will run out of food for her family this year.

Niswensa ku Kafue- I am working in Kafue

I am working at one of the 5 field offices (the Kafue one, surprise!) with IDE’s field workers. The role of the field worker is an important one. Good field workers can make a horrible project good, while bad ones can make a great project terrible. Our team is not perfect of course, but we are getting the job done well, as proven by the successes of Judith and her counterparts. Our days are spent training farmer groups how to set up, use, and maintain various irrigation systems; mobilizing new farmer groups; introducing farmers to suppliers and buyers; and monitoring the success of farmers who have gone through our program, among other things. We present booths at agriculture shows (all you EWBers can relate to boothing), and traverse the region to get to the furthest and most remote farmers in our area ( I say ‘our area’ but the villages may be hours away). Typically we fit in a field visit each day, and one or two days of office work each week (updating databases, filling out paperwork, writing reports etc). I am still getting used to bumping around the district at break-neck speed on the back of my (slightly insane?) work-mate’s motorbike (don’t worry, Mum). The goal of the project is for IDE Zambia to be able to walk away at the end of 4 years and leave behind thousands of farmers who have formed business relationships with suppliers and buyers, as well as having increased their production.

I already have several stories from the field involving marriage proposals and goat-smuggling, but there is one vivid experience still in my mind from this week which I’d like to leave you with:

I was visiting the small village of Funzwe when I acquired a little fanclub, that is, one small girl of around 6 years old followed me around the entire day. Her skin was beyond dry, and she wore a ragged pink dress that looked like it was probably part of a princess costume sometime long ago. She carefully collected the rubber bands that had been part of her father’s drip kit packaging, and shared her new toys with me proudly before putting them around her head like a hairband and placing her toque back on for safekeeping. The entire time she was with me she was quiet except for one phrase she would shyly repeat every once in a while. Toward the end of the day she gained confidence and spoke a bit louder, enough for her father to hear.

“She is wanting to come home with you,” he told me, “She wants you to take her away.”

I tried to make light of it, and joked about how surprised she would be when I brought her back to Kafue, and not to the west. Everyone laughed it off and it was forgotten.

I know it seems trivial, but what has the child heard or experienced for this request to be acceptable and commonplace? How many of you reading this are parents who would not only be completely unsurprised to have your child ask to leave you forever, but would also find the request understandable? I know small children say things they don’t mean or understand, but I don’t remember ever asking a stranger to take me away from my home and family. On the contrary, when I was small, my home and family were my entire world, and I didn’t know of anywhere better or more comforting. The sad thing is that I really am not so sure that if I had said “okay, let’s go!” the girl would not have come with me.

Some of you may be thinking “she is reading into this too much,” but I believe that what children say is more important than just the words coming out of their mouths. It shows the uncensored mentality created by the child’s experience, culture, upbringing…you name it. The kids in town just ask me for sweets or money, or to find them a penpal, but the children in the rural villages? They ask me to take them away.

This speaks volumes about the difficult life they know lies ahead, but it is also a testament to the role the westerner plays in their minds from the earliest years of their lives. What is that role? What should it be? These questions are constantly running through my mind but I will ponder them in a blog some other time.

So now you have some idea of what I do. If you happen to think of me during the hours of 3am and 11am (EST) chances are I am jolting along on the back of a motorbike, praying for Jairos to slow down so my bottom will survive another day. Questions are always welcome, as are comments (about Zambia, not about my bottom).

I am double-blogging this week because I want you all to meet my Zambia crew (host family, workmates, friends) so grab a snack and come back to the computer. There is another one!

The first thing to realize about a Zambian household is that hierarchy is much more noticeable. You strictly obey anyone older than you. Mothers command there children, older children command younger ones, the young children command the youngest, and so on. I’m going to run with this norm and introduce you to my family according to the hierarchy I’ve observed.

Mother - Amayi

My host mother is a widow named Bibian who has three children. Her husband passed away just over 2 years ago and ever since she has been working hard to support her children, and has done an amazing job. After her husband’s death she could no longer afford to live in Lusaka (the capital city) so the family moved here to Kafue and she commutes to her job in the city, one hour in each direction by minibus. By profession she is an accountant, so she holds a good job at Barclay’s bank, but on top of this she runs several shops in Kafue and an outlying community called Mazabuka, and she raises chickens to sell. And she is a mom. Woah.

She has been very hospitable to me and is a very progressive woman, so I am getting more and more comfortable with her every day.

Azhakali - Sister

Mwangala

Bibian has been taking care of her elder sister’s daughter, Mwangala, since her parents died many years ago. Mwangala has been with Bibian since the age of about three, so she is like a daughter and is a very important member of the household since Bibian must be gone often for various work and social activities. Mwangala has finished school now so she runs one of Bibian’s shops, cooks all of our meals, and watches out for Martha and Ivwan quite a bit. She is fairly religious and to me seems like the ideal Christian girl, since she is kind and giving, and seems incredibly selfless since she works so hard around the house after working at the shop all day, and I have yet to hear her complain about anything. She has a boyfriend of three years and an older brother. She is also my roommate

Lillian and Dusty

Lillian and Dusty are near my age, perhaps a bit older, and are also guests at Bibian’s house. They are staying in Kafue while they attend teachers’ college until December, and are the two girls who were displaced when I moved in (we have since righted this and now there are 2 of us girls in each of 2 bedrooms instead of 3 in one and me alone in the other!). Lillian has a boyfriend of a few years with which she has a little daughter back home (she will not get to see her until she is done school), and both of them are good cultural informants by observation as well as just asking about things. I can tell that I am receiving privilege from Bibian when the other two house guests are being treated differently. It’s handy.

Mmbale - Brother

Mwana - Child

Ivwan and Martha

Bibian has 3 children but one is away at boarding school so I have not met him and hence, will only write about the 2 whom I know. Ivwan is 11 years old and is much like a Canadian grade 6 student. He goes to school, plays football with his friends, and plays video games (mostly when Bibian is not home). He is relatively good with computers and I think he is very intelligent for his age. One day I walked in to find him heating up metal tools on the stove and messing around with the innards of his video game controllers, so I assume he is pretty comfy with electronics too. He is a bit shy around me so I do not know him very well yet.

Martha is an 8-year-old streak zooming around the house. She is everywhere, trying to make a fire in the backyard, making efforts to guess the password on my laptop, asking me about embarrassing products in my baggage…she is probably the person I spend the most time with, partly because I am new and exciting and partly because besides school or work, she and I are the ones in the house who have the least to do, so we are around the house the most.

She runs a bit wild because she is alone so much (as I said, Bibian is very busy) but I am amazed at how she fends for herself. She makes herself pasta, boils some water for her bath and carries the giant pot with no handle to the wash basin, washes her own school uniform by hand, among other things. She is handy to have around when I need to reach high up, since I can just sort of throw her above my head and let her do what needs to be done (ie. hanging up my mosquito net). She is also a good informant on what goes on at the house, or what went on before I got there. I’m sure those of you who have young kids around are familiar with the fact that they will tell and do anything, which includes telling me family secrets or sharing her opinions, and as I said before, I take children’s opinions fairly seriously.

Overall I have a many household relationships going right now, and I am pretty happy with all of them. I’ve managed to find a pleasant group of people who each have different experiences that have shaped them into very interesting people. I haven’t made any horrible cultural blunders yet alienating any of them (woohoo! knock on wood) and life is pleasant in our little compound on Nangongwe Road.

So this is my family. I will tell you more about my workmates/friends another time! I hope you have a better idea of what I am doing and who I am surrounded by. I miss you all.

Musale bwino - Stay well

-hb

Coming here, I felt prepared to be completely disoriented, like I was stepping into another unknown world where everything is turned upside down.  In fact what I have found that Zambians and Canadians are inherently the same.  At home, different people may be motivated or excited by different things.  They may prioritize certain values over others, they may be stubborn, they may be ambitious.  Here it is the same.  It does not matter whether you are Zambian or Canadian as much as it matters what type of person you are.  I am guilty of many assumptions that have led me to be surprised at what Zambia is really like. 

I have made assumptions about health, cleanliness, appearance, and safety, among other things.  I came here afraid of all the exotic and severe diseases I might catch, but in fact I have been sick only once, and with what, you might ask?  A common cold.  No malaria, no dengue fever, no menangitis, but a small and mighty rhinovirus that had me in bed for one day. Oh dear, how will I cope?

I have made assumptions that it is overly dangerous here, that I must never walk by myself, that there is always someone plotting and scheming to steal my backpack or laptop.  As at home, I must not go wandering about in the dark by myself.  As at home, I must not stroll down a busy street with kwacha (or dollar) bills hanging out of my pockets.  Being wary and discreet has been enough so far, and I hope it will continue to be so.  I feel completely safe when I go to sleep at night, and completely safe going to the market on my own. Zambia prides itself on being peaceful and welcoming, and I have not experienced anything otherwise.

I held the assumption that since money is harder to come by here it would only be spent on the necessities.  I was surprised to go to the market and find, in a tiny, crowded, shack-like room, a hair salon.  And actually, the more I payed attention to them, the more I saw throughout the market.  One can spot them easily by looking for the towels hanging out front.  I entered to find a familiar scene:  children bored to heck, waiting in chairs for their mothers’ hair to be done.  I joined the children in waiting (I was with my coworker’s niece) and observed the various similarities and differences.  Beauty products lined rough shelves, just out of reach of the children.  A radio played as women sat under the bubble hair-dryers waiting for their hair to set.  There was one washing sink of the same sort that we have at home, and the ladies working were careful not to get the clients’ clothing wet.  Everything was the same, but slightly different.  Instead of offering complicated dye-jobs, this hair salon specializes in relaxing, weaving and plaiting.  The hair dryers under which the ladies sit are mismatched.  Those getting their hair done sit in white plastic lawn chairs and the mirror in front of them has been broken down the middle and taped together. Everything is cramped and crowded (fitting with the norms of the market) so much so that the little girl next to me who waits for her mother can easily reach over and play with my hair, which she finds unusually soft.  The most striking similarity here is the way the women walk when they leave the salon feeling renewed confidence.  Girls, I’m sure you can identify with the feeling of newfound attractiveness and confidence when you leave the salon, strutting a bit and feeling your new ‘do, making sure to have plans to see your boyfriend that day, or rather, for him to see you.  This strut is international, and now every time you do it, remember that on the complete opposite side of the world, women in Zambia are feeling the very same way.

I am struggling to give you a picture of the “typical Zambian.”  To put it into context, how would you describe a Canadian? We come in different colours, religions, and ethnicities, from different levels of wealth, from the city, from the country… And so you can see that it is the same here in Zambia.  I will not be able to describe a Zambian for you, but I can try and describe the realities for different groups of Zambians.

For those who live near the cities and towns, what strikes me most is how their lives are the same as ours.  The boy living in my house loves video games (he has gotten his hands on the original nintendo system), but his mother doesn’t like him to play them too much.  The girls living in my home giggle together about boys and do each other’s hair.  They eat together and cook together like we do at my student house in London.  They share clothes, and secrets.  I hope that in the 3 months I will be staying here I will be accepted as one of them.  They dress very well.  What astounds me the most is how they manage to look gorgeous and clean at the end of the day, while I am somehow dustier and dirtier than the ground itself. 

The contrast with that occurs when I am watching Martha, the 8-year-old I live with, carefully collecting used pay-as-you-go cellphone cards off the ground and around the house so that she can peel the cardboard apart to reveal the inner paper, which she can then use to practice her handwriting.  There is a striking inconsistency in quality of life, technology etc. All the homes in my area have satellite TV, but their drinking water must be boiled or it can make you sick.  They will go to a hair salon to get their hair washed, and then come home to a child that has no paper on which to practice cursive.  The farmer who sleeps in a one-room mud hut will have a cellphone.  I am never quite sure what to expect. 

The one consistency I have found is a lack of self pity.  Sure, there are people who will beg me for money occasionally because I am white, but the overwhelming majority of people are happy in their lives because this is the way it has always been.  One man told some of us that if he were to rank Zambia in terms of poverty, it would be somewhere in the middle, when in reality it is ranked as being heavily impoverished.  What is poverty? Think about it.  For me poverty is vulnerability, lack of opportunity, inability to fulfill basic human needs, but these are all fairly qualitative things.  What I am getting around to saying is that poverty is relative.  We see our own wealth in relation to those around us.  If my living conditions are very good, but my neighbours’ are excellent, I may see myself as being in need.  I cannot speak for all the Zambians out there, and I am not yet close enough with anyone to feel comfortable asking them how they see their lives, but I highly doubt that once I am able to do this I will hear words of self-pity.  Any references I have heard made to living conditions have simply conveyed that this is just the way it is.  

I hope this post has given you some food for thought.  Keep in mind that my opinions and views are very biased, and only portray the world as I see it from my little corner in Kafue.  I cannot speak for the subsistence farmers living in surrounding villages.  I hope to bring more insight into their perspective sometime later on when my Nyanja is better. 

For those of you curious about an update on my living situation, (parents) I am now living right in the town of Kafue with a family of 6.  Bibian, my host mother works at the bank, raises chickens, and takes care of her 3 kids, one of which is away at school. She is a widow.  Her niece lives with us, as well as 2 other girls who are friends of the family.  They are all around my age.  One of them, Lillian, has a child back home who she has left with family in her hometown while she continues school here in Kafue.  The family does quite well for themselves, but the house is small compared to the number of people living in it, so we are all constantly together.  I am happy about this since it gives me lots of opportunity to practice my Nyanja and form relationships with my new host family!

A difficulty I have found is that while there are 7 people living in the house, there are only 3 twin beds and one double bed, as well as only 3 bedrooms.  For some reason (I am white? I am a guest? I am paying rent?) I have been given my own room and bed, which means that 6 of them must share the other 3 beds and 2 rooms.  I struggle with how unfair this is and how it will affect my being accepted into the family.  What other privileges have I been given that I am unaware of?  I must find the balance between keeping my own emotional stability and releasing some of this privilege.  After all, it is a relief to have my own place to go for privacy and quiet time when I am frustrated or missing home, or talking to Bobby on the phone.  I never saw privacy as a luxury before but it certainly is.  It may be the hardest one to give up.  Sharing a room I believe would be difficult at first but entirely possible, but sharing a twin bed with someone is a big step that I am not ready for.  Perhaps in a week I will feel differently?

Because of my new living arrangement I am now much further from the internet cafe than before, so I will only be visiting about once a week.  Talk to you next weekend!!!

Love from Zambia,

-HB

Zikomo – Excuse me

I’m sorry it has been such a long time since my first post! I arrived in Zambia May 17^th after intense pre-departure training in Toronto, and still had days of training in Lusaka before getting to Kafue last Thursday.  My first weeks in Zambia (tomorrow it has been 2!) have been enlightening to say the least.

We arrived exhausted at Lusaka International Airport after 30 hours of travel and were greeted by several longterm EWB volunteers who are quite at home in the country, so much so that Hans gladly helped our driver to start the minibus by grabbing the wires and jogging the battery (which was sitting in the backseat) and electrocuting himself in the process.  We were all running on an adrenaline high from FINALLY arriving after so many months of preparation and were ready to get down and dirty and begin integrating with the local culture. 

Once we dropped off our bags at the backpackers hostel, the LTOVs (longterm overseas volunteers) took us to get market nshima for dinner. 

Now, for those of you who have never tried to find your way through the labyrinth-like markets of Zambia (most of you), try to picture row after row of semi-organized stalls with thatched roves and makeshift walls, each containing an unlikely mixture of products from live chickens, to DVD’s, to Vinkubala (the only really strange thing one can eat in Zambia…caterpillars…they are very chewy).  The stalls are so close together, and –especially the first time- all look so similar that it is easy to lose your way while dealing with various shopkeepers entering your personal space to convince you that their product is the best, or fellow customers curiously inquiring as to what brings you, a Muzungu, or white person, to their market.  We were led to a tiny stall where all fourteen of us squished onto wooden benches and had our first taste of nshima.

Nshima is the staple food of Zambia.  It is said that if you don’t have nshima one day, you have not eaten that day at all.  It is really just cornmeal boiled into a dough, so it has little taste but is extremely filling.  If you have ever had Cream of Wheat very similar in texture, but it is much thicker so it can hold form.  It is eaten by hand (only with the right hand!) and is dipped in various vegetable and meat dishes.  Each meal generally consists of nshima with one vegetable relish, like cabbage, and one protein, like beans or chicken.  My favourite relishes so far are chicken (nkuku in Nyanja) and cabbage relish. Mmm.  We struggled through the meal one-handed, but enjoyed it immensely since we had been eating airplane food and chocolate for 2 days.  Afterward, the LTOV’s told us that at certain times we are allowed to use our left hand, which would have made the meal much easier and less awkward (trying pulling chicken off the bone one-handed!), but perhaps less comical for those peering at us from outside the stall.

Our time in Lusaka was largely spent familiarizing ourselves with general differences between Zambia and home, like being woken up at all hours of the night by cocks crowing or guinea fowls attacking one another.  The hostel we stayed at was super, and even had hot water sometimes, but we were eager to get out to our host communities and start building our lives for the summer.

There are a couple highlights I must mention before I move on.  Our first day we were sent out in groups of 2 or 3 on a scavenger hunt through the city  It was a great icebreaker which forced us to get comfy with communicating with the local people.  The most interesting assignment was definitely to bring home a chicken for dinner.  The thing about buying chickens at the market is this they are still alive.  Imagine for a moment 10 muzungus awkwardly zigzagging our ways through the market trying to figure out how to get home on time, while holding a chicken by the neck and wings and yet trying to touch it as little as possible.  My group was in the middle of asking a cabbie if we would be able to bring the chicken in his car when he grabbed it from Brett and chucked it in the trunk.

Poor Duke

Anyways, our chicken tasted super and we didn’t have to kill it ourselves, thank goodness (I will save that lesson for another day), and we certainly learned to get over our discomforts with livestock, which is good, since animals are EVERYWHERE in the villages.

The second highlight involves the guys going into the market to buy new underwear. As at home, it is not noral to parade down the street in Zambia with your underwear in your hand.  Mark (another JF) was proud of his new Manchester United undies, and was strolling through the market, when a row of ladies selling bananas began freaking out and pointing at him, yelling in Nyanja for him to “Put those bumba in a bag!!!.”  They were so offended that one lady searched frantically for a bag, snatched the underwear from him and bagged them, before throwing them back at him.  Mark has learned his lesson.  His bumba will stay out of sight from now on.

Ndipunzera Chinyanja – I am learning Nyanja

Now I am staying with my coworker, Alice, in Kafue, which is a small town about 45 min. driving by car from Lusaka.  (I say “driving by car” because if you take a minibus it has the potential to take twice as long). Her 23-year-old niece is also staying with her and she has been showing me around so it has been neat to have a young person to hang out with.  The house I’m staying in has power, water, and satellite TV, just like every single other house I have been in as of yet!  It is super nice and is much cleaner than our student house in London. Tomorrow I will be helping my coworkers run a booth at the Kafue District Agriculture show, where farmers can link up with input suppliers like seed companies, irrigations systems manufacturers, and NGO’s like us!  I will make a separate post about work soon, now that I know where the internet café is and how to get here (I am ALWAYS lost, I have clearly inherited my mothers sense of direction, or lack of it –sorry Mum). 

One thing that has shocked me everywhere is that not only does everyone know English extremely well (perhaps because of the satellite TV everywhere?) they also generally know at least 2 or 3 local languages like Bemba, Nyanja, or Tonga (there are 72 in Zambia!).  It makes me feel extremely pathetic for being nearly incompetent in French.

Thanks for reading, I hope I’ve left you a picture in your mind.  While thinking about this post though, I‘d like you to remember this.   This post has been largely about differences and things that you may find amusing because they are different than what you would experience at home.  While Zambia is different from home on the surface, once you scratch that surface it is overwhelmingly obvious that people are people first.  We have much more in common with Zambians than we realize from across the ocean, and what has struck me the most since I have been here is actually how much it is the same.  Keep this in mind whenever I’m rattling off a novel experience that I experienced as a foreigner.

This will probably be the topic of my next post, to give you more food for thought.

For now I must go because my time is running out!  Lots of love to all of you and I will try to make the posts more regular from now on. 

I’m going to try to categorize my posts into work, reflection, and fun stuff. I guess this one is “Fun Stuff.”

Love,

HB