Zambian Helen

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