Saturday, May 28, 2011

It's been too long

I know, I know. It has been too long since I have posted a blog. I have been busy with teaching, Peace Corps conferences, and, yes, a little vacation time. To make up for lost time I am posting two entries. I miss everyone at home so much, and I am thinking of everyone always. I am happy here and trying to enjoy these next 11 months as much as possible :)

Tujitu pamo - 5/25/2011 journal entry

I stand on the side of one of the few tarred roads in Zambia inhaling dust and looking down at my worn-in attire. I try to flag down any vehicle that passes myself and my two friends by waving my arm up and down with desperation. We are almost back in Solwezi after hitchhiking from Lusaka for the past seven hours. We are tired, hungry and thirsty. The sun is starting to set and we are holding on to hopes of making it back to town by dark. Only 60 more kilometers to go. Please pick us up. After a couple of vehicles pass and a half an hour later, a large, white canter truck pulls over screeching to a halt. My friend, Cassie, another Peace Corps Volunteer, and I run to the left-hand passenger side and negotiate a price. We budge the driver down to five pin each, approximately one dollar, and run to scoop our belongings and hoist ourselves up in the bed with our other friend, Adam, and several Zambian women, men, children, and chickens. The sun is almost sleeping now, and the wind is starting to whistle, taunting us to put on our fleece jackets. It's the start of cold season, but the daylight heat tricks us in to thinking it were summer. We greet other passengers in KiKaonde and scooch close together to keep warm. I notice a young girl, maybe three or four years old, who is wearing nothing but a light cotton, ripped dress. Her skinny arms are crossed over her petite body, and her teeth are chattering pleading for someone to please warm her up. Now, I am using my fleece as a blanket, and I am warmed by my hooded sweatshirt. I reach across the bed of the crickety truck and nudge her with the sleeve of my jacket. "Here, take this," I urge her. Her big, brown eyes look confused and she does not know how to react to this white lady. Her mother elbows her with a warm smile, "Take it." She then helps her daughter wrap the over-sized fleece jacket around her tightly. She mouths, "Thank you," to me with sincere appreciation. A larger woman sitting close to the girl flashes me a hearty smile and laughs with gratitude. I then notice the girl's mother is also shivering, her baby sleeping on her back wrapped in a chitenge her only warmth. I pull a scarf out of my cluttered purse and toss it to the mother. "You can use this," I direct her. Her face lights up. She wraps herself and her baby as best as she can with the scarf and again mouths, "Thank you," to me. Other passengers smile at me as if they are grateful for taking care of their community members. I smile back and return to reading my book, the words jumping off the page because of the pot-holed road. A few sentences later, I hear a man sitting across from me on the edge of the truck chuckle lightly. I look up at him and he looks directly in my eyes and declares, "America, Zambia, one people." "Tujitu pamo," I return with a KiKaonde phrase meaning, "We are just the same." He chuckles some more, slightly shocked that I know a bit of local language. He smiles jubilantly and agrees with me.
These few moments on the canter rekindled nostalgia of reading short stories from the book, "Random Acts of Kindness," which laid on my dad's coffee table in his ranch living room while I was growing up. I used to pick up the book out of boredom, but somehow the message of the book has stayed with me throughout the years. I may never see those people from the canter again, but we may be the only Americans they have or will ever encounter. Although lending my jacket and scarf to keep a few people warm is such an effortless act, it is an act they will remember an American doing. It is a random act of kindness.
My Uncle Dave embraced me just nights before I left for Zambia 15 months ago. He squeezed my left shoulder with his bear-like might, pointed his calloused finger at me, looked me in the eye and said, "Kat, while you are over there, you are representing all of us. You are representing our family, and you are representing America." That has resonated through me over the past year in many instances like that of the canter truck. Through these instances I hope that I have and continue to represent America well through small acts of kindness. Through these acts I have come to the conclusion that my few short words exchanged with the man on the canter represent a bigger meaning to my service here in Zambia. Tujitupamo. We are just the same. Here I am in a different country, on a different continent, living amongst a different culture with different food, housing and daily routine. Yet, it's not that different at all. We, as one people, are the same. Culture does not define our entirety. Despite different races, ethnicities, educations and religious views, we share the mere fact that we are all human. We have the ability to share humor and emotions. We need sleep and we need to eat. We care for the elderly, sick and young. We want brighter futures for our countries and our children. We have goals, values and traditions. Although they may be completely different, we have the minds to try and understand each other and, because of that, we are able to bond and form strong friendships. And, we all certainly appreciate random acts of kindness. I see my mother in some of the female teachers, working hard to help their students succeed. I see my father in the farmers' eyes, determined to run a successful business. I see my grandmothers in the strong women of the women's group I work with who are proud of their families and who want the best for their grandchildren. I see my cousins, aunts and uncles all around me in my neighbor's love for family unity. From the outside looking in, Americans and Zambians have nothing in common, but from my mud hut doorway (or the back of a canter truck) we are just the same. Tujitu pamo.


A Garden of Survival- 5/26/2011 A shorter entry

I am sitting in my host family's garden. I am balancing myself on a cracked, dirty jerry can that is about to bust. The bold sun is slowly melting into the dried out corn stalks. I'm not used to a garden like the one I am sitting in. It's a garden of survival not aesthetics. There are no bird baths or feeders, watering cans, hoses, adirondack chairs, or bright flowers to decorate the earth. The garden is small. It consists of five beds soon to grow rape. My host sister is rhythmically pounding the dark soil with her hoe to clear more room to plant carrots and onions. Beads of sweat compile on her shimmering black forehead. Her hair is wrapped in a mustard and black cloth. Her arm muscles protrude vividly with every wham of the hoe. Her young daughters help her by collecting water from a nearby spring and sprinkle the beds, feeding the thirsty seeds. The mud squishes in between their toes as they playfully douse the ground singing as they go. My sister has been up since 6 AM. She has already been to her maize field, harvesting all the cobs she can gather. After she is finished hoeing this garden, she will carry a huge sack of kernels down to the hammer mill ( a large machine that pounds the kernels into a flour-like substance to make nshima). She now continues to hoe without any break except for spitting on her hands to resist wood burns and slivers from the neck of the hoe. She announces she is tired but she keeps working without any hesitation. Her day today, her day every day, is motivated by her thirst survival. For her, farming is a continuous effort. There are no vacations from feeding her family.
In America, we are used to fast living. Fast transport, fast meetings, fast food, fast life. We can drink tap water and order a Big Mac in the time it takes my sister to throw her hoe ten times. Sitting here in this garden, I have come to the realization that I don't think I could survive if I had to be completely self-sustainable. I am a product of American culture, and my American-self does not have the knowledge, motivation, or strength to work as my sister does. I also realize, while watching my sister continue to work, that I have never worked a day in my life. I know absolutely nothing about hard work. I can't fathom working from sunrise to sunset, in intense heat, without being paid anything, just to barely feed a small family and nothing more. I have a respect for my host sister that will never fade away. Every time I pop a chicken nugget in my mouth or crack open a bottled water, I will forever think of her with the utmost respect and admiration.