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.