"Do you miss home?" is the most frequent question I am asked from people in America. Truthfully, I have been missing home a lot lately. I am not quite sure why lately I have become slightly home sick. Maybe it's because it has been almost ten months since I have seen any family or friends from home. Another contributing factor could be that I haven't been able to speak to any friends from home. I miss being able to pick up the phone at any minute and call them. I miss laughing with them until my stomach has had a satisfying abdominal workout. I miss shopping until my legs hurt with my mother and grandmother followed by dinner on the ocean. I miss going to my dad's for a wonderful home-cooked meal and a trip to the Puritan afterwards for a delicious ice cream cone, guaranteed to bump into a few people we know. I miss driving terribly. I love long car rides with the windows rolled down, good tunes playing. I miss iced coffee from Dunks. I miss McDonald's two cheeseburger meals with sweet and sour sauce. I miss Backroom chicken tenders. I miss air condition. I miss going to the movies, and I miss trashy television and magazines. I miss knowing every new song on the radio. It's true, I think of all of these things almost daily. I think about what all of my friends are doing at home. I envision them going out in Boston dressed in the latest fashion trends. I envision my family sitting down for shepards pie. I envision my aunts, uncles and cousins getting together for another baby shower or lake get-together. All of this, all of the food, all of the driving and music blasting... I miss everything dreadfully. Then, I look in front of me into my hut doorway as I am writing, and I see Zambian children smiling in at me doing something so unconventional to them- writing. They stare with curious eyes. They tap their bare feet to my American music. Here they sit at my stoop staring at me, their mazoungu sister, doing nothing, and they are content. Looking at them while missing home, I am acutely aware of why I am here. It doesn't take much for me to believe that I am needed here, but when I think of home I find that I have to remind myself of these reasons often to reassure myself that my time here is worthwhile.
I am especially reminded that my time here is valuable through the children. Everyday hoards of children stop by my hut to read and look at the pictures in the books that I have. They beg me to read to them, flashing the books in front of my face, "Ba Kathy, Ba Kathy, tangai, tangai!" They love learning letter sounds and matching the funny pictures with the odd English words. I read to them almost daily as they gather, their eyes peering just over my knees, grappling to see the pictures. I watch them day by day flourishing with new vocabulary words. The joy of informal teaching on the stoop of my mud hut jostles the home-sickness out of my body. Through the neighborhood children's smiles, clapping, eagerness to learn and thankfulness, I am easily reminded why I joined Peace Corps in the first place.
It's not just the young children that have given me vindication for being here. I exert most of my energy teaching grade eight and nine English and Science. I was apprehensive to start teaching in September. Never having officially taught before, I was anxious. I was also worried about the students not understanding my dubious accent. The anxiousness lasted about three days. The students have an extreme appreciation for me, thanking me daily for my time and even dropping by my hut to make sure I am comfortable in this unknown place. They are curious about me and my life in America. They relish in talking about the differences in culture between Zambia and America. They are thrilled to start a pen pal program. Ironically, talking about home with my students eases my nostalgia, and I feel supported and welcomed by my students. Just like the neighborhood children, their thirst for knowledge awakens my soul and solidifies my happiness with my life here in Mutanda.
My life here in Mutanda has also illuminated me in finding joy in adult education. I encounter many adults through my daily routine who want to join me on my reed mat to learn how to read or how to say something new in English. These wants were expressed so heavily throughout my neighborhood, that together we started a women's literacy club which meets twice per week. The women are overwhelmingly gracious of this free education that empowers them to pass their knowledge on to their children. Their eyes stare at me intensely as they repeat the English words. They embrace their limited vocabularies and laugh at their mistakes. They encourage each other and help each other with the slow process of learning English as a second language. I am enlightened by their enthusiasm to expand their knowledge even in their adult years.
Along with the newly formed literacy club, I meet with the Kabuchimba Women's Group to help them with the start-up of their income-generating project of sewing school uniforms to vulnerable children. All of these women gleam with passion and strength; passion for their language, culture and families. They believe in promising futures for their children and they are fervent to educate themselves to serve as competent role models for them. My conversations with them are interesting and humorous, ranging from knitting to politics to culture to village gossip. Although conversation is limited because of language barriers, these conversations grant me time to really understand the community. I am always filled with elation after a women's group meeting or casual chat with my host sisters or neighbors.
All of these people, these groups of community members, are constantly giving me more than enough reason to be here. Enough reason to depress all feelings of yearning for home and feel comfortable in my bliss here in the village. The people of Mutanda don't realize that while I am teaching them, they are teaching me in return, which, selfishly speaking, is the best motive for living here for the next 16 months. They are opening my outlook on life in more ways then I could have imagined instilling in me a sense of strength, appreciation for simplicity, and gratefulness. As I write this last paragraph, I am being nudged by Kaunda, my nightly neighborhood 8-year-old visitor, to read her a story. I suppose the McDonald's cheeseburger can wait and my nostalgia for home will be stifled once more.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Becoming a Real Zambian Woman Through My Hands...
Taken from a journal entry 05/10/2010
I sit in the blistering, afternoon sun drowning my linen skirts and button-up collared shirts in a big bucket of blue, soapy water, the soap stinging my roughed-up fingertips. I continue to scrub on clothes over my raw knuckles, breaking the skin as I wash. Blisters cover my skin from shucking hardened corn cobs with my family yesterday. The neighborhood children enthusiastically demonstrated how to efficiently pop the wax-like kernels off the cob which will then be taken by bike in a large, straw sack down to the hammer-mill to be magically turned into mealie meal and then whisked into boiling nshima. My fingertips are now calloused like that of an amateur guitarist.
The tops of my fingers are hardened, some of them scabbing, from the times I have been daring enough to grab the steaming pot off the firey charcoals, attempting to emulate my Zambian sisters who do this with relaxed skill. The charcoals have won the battle every attempt, and my fingers have taken the brunt of the war. The insides of my palms are ripping like stitches on a beaten baseball. My stitch-like scratches are outcomes from my struggle with the well. I lower the empty, yellow jerrycan down the dark, mysterious hole into the ground, staring into my own reflection as it lowers. I try to dunk the bucket under the water as deep as possible to minimize the amount of time I have to stare at my wrinkling reflection. I pull the coarse rope up with extreme might using every weak muscle in my scrawny arms. The rope reminds me of summertime at Horace Lake, the rope swing usually leaving burns on me and my cousins' smooth, white hands. My hand burns now are not outcomes from a fun, entertaining, summer activity like that of the Horace Lake rope swing, but more an outcome of survival; fetching the water so I can cook, drink and perhaps bathe before the sun goes down. After about six trials with the bucket, I have two large jerrycans filled to the brim to carry on my short walk home. I have yet to master carrying water on my head. My sister, Ba Rodrina, stands in front of her hut, with her hand on the hip of her tall, slender body analyzing my baby steps with her large, curious eyes, and encourages me, "You will get used, Ba Katherine." I laugh and reply short-winded, "Hopefully, Ba Rodrina, hopefully." Her curious eyes continued to stare at my gripping hands. Her hands don't look as mine do. They are broken in from hard work, soap scrubbing, and heart-felt cooking.
The hands of Zambian women are tough, symbolic of their dedication to family values. Through loads of handwashing, trials of rope-pulling, and the mastered art of handling fuming pots. My hands may never get used to the ways of a Zambian woman, but I will callous them until they look like that of a pro-guitarist.
I sit in the blistering, afternoon sun drowning my linen skirts and button-up collared shirts in a big bucket of blue, soapy water, the soap stinging my roughed-up fingertips. I continue to scrub on clothes over my raw knuckles, breaking the skin as I wash. Blisters cover my skin from shucking hardened corn cobs with my family yesterday. The neighborhood children enthusiastically demonstrated how to efficiently pop the wax-like kernels off the cob which will then be taken by bike in a large, straw sack down to the hammer-mill to be magically turned into mealie meal and then whisked into boiling nshima. My fingertips are now calloused like that of an amateur guitarist.
The tops of my fingers are hardened, some of them scabbing, from the times I have been daring enough to grab the steaming pot off the firey charcoals, attempting to emulate my Zambian sisters who do this with relaxed skill. The charcoals have won the battle every attempt, and my fingers have taken the brunt of the war. The insides of my palms are ripping like stitches on a beaten baseball. My stitch-like scratches are outcomes from my struggle with the well. I lower the empty, yellow jerrycan down the dark, mysterious hole into the ground, staring into my own reflection as it lowers. I try to dunk the bucket under the water as deep as possible to minimize the amount of time I have to stare at my wrinkling reflection. I pull the coarse rope up with extreme might using every weak muscle in my scrawny arms. The rope reminds me of summertime at Horace Lake, the rope swing usually leaving burns on me and my cousins' smooth, white hands. My hand burns now are not outcomes from a fun, entertaining, summer activity like that of the Horace Lake rope swing, but more an outcome of survival; fetching the water so I can cook, drink and perhaps bathe before the sun goes down. After about six trials with the bucket, I have two large jerrycans filled to the brim to carry on my short walk home. I have yet to master carrying water on my head. My sister, Ba Rodrina, stands in front of her hut, with her hand on the hip of her tall, slender body analyzing my baby steps with her large, curious eyes, and encourages me, "You will get used, Ba Katherine." I laugh and reply short-winded, "Hopefully, Ba Rodrina, hopefully." Her curious eyes continued to stare at my gripping hands. Her hands don't look as mine do. They are broken in from hard work, soap scrubbing, and heart-felt cooking.
The hands of Zambian women are tough, symbolic of their dedication to family values. Through loads of handwashing, trials of rope-pulling, and the mastered art of handling fuming pots. My hands may never get used to the ways of a Zambian woman, but I will callous them until they look like that of a pro-guitarist.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Simple Life: Not to get confused with Paris Hilton's "reality" television show...
First off, I love reading everyone's comments. Internet access is minimal, and when I do get the chance to post, nothing makes me happier than reading everyone's supportive words. I miss and love you all, and I hope to continue to blog about once a month.
Written on 4/14/2010, taken from a journal entry:
There is something gratifying about living a simple life. Before leaving for Zambia, I was anxious about not having access to everyday amenities that I nearly depend on. I was anxious about switching from my dependence on materialistic living to mainly depending on Mother Nature to provide me with security. During my two month stay here in Zambia, that anxiousness has bloomed into a deep appreciation for life.
Here in Zambia, living a simple life starts when the sun rises in the morning when the roosters crow. No ring tone alarm clock. Shortly after I awake, I step outside to the rising sun atop the overabundance of cornstalks. I head to my straw bathing shelter that sits right behind my mud hut while stretching, my movements in sync with the sounds off my Ba Maama sweeping the dusty ground. I greet a few neighbors, usually Ba Charity who carries a large jerrycan of water set on her head. The bath water in my bucket is usually steaming heat thanks to my gracious host mother. No faucets. No hot and cold switch. My routine bafa is something I look forward to. The first cup of water I pour over my head, while listening to the wind howl makes the cornstalks rustle and play amongst themselves, always rejuvenates my mind. After about 15 cups of water plunged over my body, I return back to my quaint hut to dress with the sun's rays. I brush my hair and pin back my grown out bangs. No hair dryer. No straightener. No makeup. One really small mirror to make sure my hair is somewhat neat. No full length mirror. I happily eat my peanut butter and jelly roll with my hot cup of tea upon my door step on the clay ground and greet many more friendly villagers and schools of children dressed in navy, worn-in uniforms. No backpacks. No packed lunches. Just smiles. I carry my breakfast tray back to Ba Maama's hut. "Odi, Ba Maama," I call. "Kalibou," she welcomes me to come in. I depart for language lesson that takes place on the next compound over. No car. No music. Just walking. And more greetings, smiles and hugs from local children. KiKaonde lessons consist of simple conversation with two other volunteers and our language instructor, Ba Golden, a jolly, relaxed, middle-aged native Zambian who is more patient than imaginable and whose kindness can be seen from a great distance. No textbooks. No desks. Just conversation and lots of questions. After 4 brain-busting hours, it's already lunchtime. Adam and me follow the path home. The sun is now beating on our mazoungu skin. We sit upon our door stoops under the shade from our straw roof. Adam playfully strums his guitar as our host brother, Alex age 11, and our host sister, Blessing age 7, brush up against out sides and repeat our English choruses often giggling at our unfamiliar accents. We are then warmed with Ba Maama's traditional, delicious homemade cooking. Always nshima, ground maize mixed with water that forms a hard porridge-like substance. Nshima is rolled with the right hand into small balls and used as an eating utensil. It is always served with a relish which could be pumpkin leaves, rape, cabbage and a protein of eggs, soya pieces, fish, chicken, beans or sausage. My stomach growls for the nshima. No mayo. No mustard. No cheese. No spoons. No knives. No forks. Just hands. And a wonderful, Zambian woman who cooks over an open fire to prepare us a scrumptious, filling meal. After 2 lumps of nshima and a few handfuls of relish, we leave for our training session to meet with other education volunteers and trainers. After a few hours of learning about the Zambian education system and perhaps observing a few classroom observations, we all head back to our home stay families, some of us depart on bike, some on foot. Adam and I repeat our lunch routine except now the sun is setting beautifully and the cool breeze tickles my ankles beneath my long skirt. No tv dinners. No nightly solicitation phone calls. No oven. No dishwasher. Just more nshima. More Nyanja singing. More dancing. More laughs. More hugs. More acoustic guitar. The stars in the sky are so clear that they look reachable and life here is beautiful.
As I crawl onto my floor mattress, under my mosquito net as the candle lights my way, I feel completely satisfied. I will be on my own, without my loving host family, in about a week. This will mean more walking, more cooking, more hand washing, more water fetching. It will also mean more greetings, more KiKaonde conversations, more smiles, more hugs, more singing, more laughing, more sunsets, more roosters crowing, more Zambian breezes and more self-dependence.
I am learning to appreciate and enjoy what I have in front of me. Would I be lying if I said I didn't miss iced coffee or driving? Yes. But those are simply things. Living this simple life has made more room for me to appreciate relationships, community, conversations, culture and Mother Nature. Living simply has enabled me to trust myself and earth to keep me safe and happy, and to appreciate and love a culture that is different than my own. No caffeine. No advertisements. No blackberry. No waste of gasoline. No shopping mall. Just being.
Written on 4/14/2010, taken from a journal entry:
There is something gratifying about living a simple life. Before leaving for Zambia, I was anxious about not having access to everyday amenities that I nearly depend on. I was anxious about switching from my dependence on materialistic living to mainly depending on Mother Nature to provide me with security. During my two month stay here in Zambia, that anxiousness has bloomed into a deep appreciation for life.
Here in Zambia, living a simple life starts when the sun rises in the morning when the roosters crow. No ring tone alarm clock. Shortly after I awake, I step outside to the rising sun atop the overabundance of cornstalks. I head to my straw bathing shelter that sits right behind my mud hut while stretching, my movements in sync with the sounds off my Ba Maama sweeping the dusty ground. I greet a few neighbors, usually Ba Charity who carries a large jerrycan of water set on her head. The bath water in my bucket is usually steaming heat thanks to my gracious host mother. No faucets. No hot and cold switch. My routine bafa is something I look forward to. The first cup of water I pour over my head, while listening to the wind howl makes the cornstalks rustle and play amongst themselves, always rejuvenates my mind. After about 15 cups of water plunged over my body, I return back to my quaint hut to dress with the sun's rays. I brush my hair and pin back my grown out bangs. No hair dryer. No straightener. No makeup. One really small mirror to make sure my hair is somewhat neat. No full length mirror. I happily eat my peanut butter and jelly roll with my hot cup of tea upon my door step on the clay ground and greet many more friendly villagers and schools of children dressed in navy, worn-in uniforms. No backpacks. No packed lunches. Just smiles. I carry my breakfast tray back to Ba Maama's hut. "Odi, Ba Maama," I call. "Kalibou," she welcomes me to come in. I depart for language lesson that takes place on the next compound over. No car. No music. Just walking. And more greetings, smiles and hugs from local children. KiKaonde lessons consist of simple conversation with two other volunteers and our language instructor, Ba Golden, a jolly, relaxed, middle-aged native Zambian who is more patient than imaginable and whose kindness can be seen from a great distance. No textbooks. No desks. Just conversation and lots of questions. After 4 brain-busting hours, it's already lunchtime. Adam and me follow the path home. The sun is now beating on our mazoungu skin. We sit upon our door stoops under the shade from our straw roof. Adam playfully strums his guitar as our host brother, Alex age 11, and our host sister, Blessing age 7, brush up against out sides and repeat our English choruses often giggling at our unfamiliar accents. We are then warmed with Ba Maama's traditional, delicious homemade cooking. Always nshima, ground maize mixed with water that forms a hard porridge-like substance. Nshima is rolled with the right hand into small balls and used as an eating utensil. It is always served with a relish which could be pumpkin leaves, rape, cabbage and a protein of eggs, soya pieces, fish, chicken, beans or sausage. My stomach growls for the nshima. No mayo. No mustard. No cheese. No spoons. No knives. No forks. Just hands. And a wonderful, Zambian woman who cooks over an open fire to prepare us a scrumptious, filling meal. After 2 lumps of nshima and a few handfuls of relish, we leave for our training session to meet with other education volunteers and trainers. After a few hours of learning about the Zambian education system and perhaps observing a few classroom observations, we all head back to our home stay families, some of us depart on bike, some on foot. Adam and I repeat our lunch routine except now the sun is setting beautifully and the cool breeze tickles my ankles beneath my long skirt. No tv dinners. No nightly solicitation phone calls. No oven. No dishwasher. Just more nshima. More Nyanja singing. More dancing. More laughs. More hugs. More acoustic guitar. The stars in the sky are so clear that they look reachable and life here is beautiful.
As I crawl onto my floor mattress, under my mosquito net as the candle lights my way, I feel completely satisfied. I will be on my own, without my loving host family, in about a week. This will mean more walking, more cooking, more hand washing, more water fetching. It will also mean more greetings, more KiKaonde conversations, more smiles, more hugs, more singing, more laughing, more sunsets, more roosters crowing, more Zambian breezes and more self-dependence.
I am learning to appreciate and enjoy what I have in front of me. Would I be lying if I said I didn't miss iced coffee or driving? Yes. But those are simply things. Living this simple life has made more room for me to appreciate relationships, community, conversations, culture and Mother Nature. Living simply has enabled me to trust myself and earth to keep me safe and happy, and to appreciate and love a culture that is different than my own. No caffeine. No advertisements. No blackberry. No waste of gasoline. No shopping mall. Just being.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A month in...
I have about five minutes left to post something...sorry if it seems rushed, but I want to update everyone!
I am all moved into my homestay village. I live with another volunteer who I have become great friends with in such a short period. My homestay family is large and gracious. There are many smiling children who I am overwhelmed to see at night after long hours of language and technical training. I am learning kikaonde, which is the language that Zambians speak in Northwestern Province where I will be placed. I will be 25k away from the next volunteer, but I am happy that I am only 500 meters from a water source and only 1k from my school. I am so happy to be here. The Zambian people have been nothing but pleasant and seem to have an intense appreciation for life that I enjoy very much so. I hopefully will be able to post pictures in a month or so. I wish I had more time to describe my life here, but I have to catch a ride back to my village through Peace Corps.
I will quickly write a journal entry taken from Saturday, 2/27/2010:
I love Zambian thunderstorms. They calm the heat with their controlling bongo-like thuds. They creep slowly through the wide, African sky and unleash at the perfect time. The sounds of Nyanja singing and the bellowing laughs from local children are drowned out by the strike of a thunderstorm's wrath. The rain pitter patters on the straw roof of my mud hut here in Chishiko village. The soun is perfect motivation for studying KiKaonde. The rain hushes all other thoughts out of my mind, and I am able to rehearse my foreign phrases freely. And then...just when I am slumping into KiKaonde mindset, I am electrified by a strike of lightning only to remind me to stay on task with my new language.
Bamaama doesn't speak much English. She doesn't speak much KiKaonde either. But she sure laughs a lot and seeing her smiling face every morning is more language than I could ever ask for. Bamaama is the perfect representation of a generous Zambian. She wakes me up pleasantly in the morning with her warm laughter along with a boiling hot "bafa", bucket bath, awaiting upon my door stoop. I slowly awaken off my floor mattress and escape out of my mosquito net to the sounds of roosters and guinea fowls, and on the occasion, some Zambian hip hop music. Bamaama is always already on top of her daily tasks as I put on my bike helmet and rain jacket and begin to depart for my daily language lesson taught by Ba Golden. Bamaama's final ode of positivity before I leave, resonates with me throughout the day.
I am all moved into my homestay village. I live with another volunteer who I have become great friends with in such a short period. My homestay family is large and gracious. There are many smiling children who I am overwhelmed to see at night after long hours of language and technical training. I am learning kikaonde, which is the language that Zambians speak in Northwestern Province where I will be placed. I will be 25k away from the next volunteer, but I am happy that I am only 500 meters from a water source and only 1k from my school. I am so happy to be here. The Zambian people have been nothing but pleasant and seem to have an intense appreciation for life that I enjoy very much so. I hopefully will be able to post pictures in a month or so. I wish I had more time to describe my life here, but I have to catch a ride back to my village through Peace Corps.
I will quickly write a journal entry taken from Saturday, 2/27/2010:
I love Zambian thunderstorms. They calm the heat with their controlling bongo-like thuds. They creep slowly through the wide, African sky and unleash at the perfect time. The sounds of Nyanja singing and the bellowing laughs from local children are drowned out by the strike of a thunderstorm's wrath. The rain pitter patters on the straw roof of my mud hut here in Chishiko village. The soun is perfect motivation for studying KiKaonde. The rain hushes all other thoughts out of my mind, and I am able to rehearse my foreign phrases freely. And then...just when I am slumping into KiKaonde mindset, I am electrified by a strike of lightning only to remind me to stay on task with my new language.
Bamaama doesn't speak much English. She doesn't speak much KiKaonde either. But she sure laughs a lot and seeing her smiling face every morning is more language than I could ever ask for. Bamaama is the perfect representation of a generous Zambian. She wakes me up pleasantly in the morning with her warm laughter along with a boiling hot "bafa", bucket bath, awaiting upon my door stoop. I slowly awaken off my floor mattress and escape out of my mosquito net to the sounds of roosters and guinea fowls, and on the occasion, some Zambian hip hop music. Bamaama is always already on top of her daily tasks as I put on my bike helmet and rain jacket and begin to depart for my daily language lesson taught by Ba Golden. Bamaama's final ode of positivity before I leave, resonates with me throughout the day.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
And the adventure begins...
Sunday, the day before my flight to Philly for a 2 day staging to meet my fellow Peace Corps volunteers, was comforting. I had an amazing night out on Saturday with my closest home friends. It was both comforting and difficult to leave them behind. Sunday was filled with saying my goodbyes to some close cousins, aunts, uncles, stepsister, brother, stepmother, and father. I ended the night with hanging out with my mother and spending some quality mother/daughter time with her. After my emotional send off at the airport, grasped with hugs and tearful goodbyes from my parents, I felt an overwhelming sense of support. I am more than lucky to have a big family who cares about me and loves me. I feel as though this is what I am supposed to do, and I will constantly be thinking about my support system back in America. I vow to do my best to represent those who love and support me in a positive manner while I spend the next 27 months in Zambia. I thank all of those who are thinking about me and know that I will be doing the same for them. I can't express enough how lucky I truly feel I am. I have been greeted by a friendly group of 52 Peace Corps Trainees here in Philadelphia, just like myself, and an excellent, small Peace Corps staff. I hope to pass on my excitement and positivity to those around me knowing that I am confident in my decision to take on this adventure with full force and energy.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Preparing...
So, it's official. I have accepted my Peace Corps invitation to serve as an educational teacher trainer in Zambia, Africa for 26 months. I have now become accustomed to many of my peers, family members and others asking many questions about what I am doing, why am I doing this, and how am I preparing for such a long stint in an impoverished nation. My response always sounds rehearsed. I no longer have to think about how I have to explain myself. The truth is, I don't think I can do much preparing. I can read about the Zambian culture, learn one of the 78 dialects spoken by the Zambian people, or imagine what it may be like to live without my family and friends, but I will not be able to clench the realization of my move until I completely immerse myself into my new life as a Peace Corps volunteer. I am more than excited, and I am trying to get to know the Zambian life through literature and online resources. My excitement is building through talking with other future volunteers that are a part of my training group. I feel as though as this is the right move for me at this time in my life. I am energetic and ready to take on challenges. I may not be able to mentally prepare myself for the culture shock I am about to encounter, so for now, I am enjoying time with family and friends. In 42 days I just may be able to give a little more information and a little less rehearsed response.
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