A capital city with no sidewalks, in a country where the majority of the people walk everywhere they go; Buses and cars in a hot rush, in a place where time holds no meaning and nothing happens quickly; A country powered on the backs of the hard work of women, who hold no financial or legal power in their own households; A people obsessed with money and social status, living in a socialist society where individuals are not meant to stand out above others; A focus on what something looks like to outsiders, with no attention paid to the inner quality; An established national language, which the majority of citizens fail to speak or comprehend.
The more time I spend in Zambia, the more contradictions I notice. I’ve been stuck in Lusaka dealing with medical issues since Thursday, and have been feeling more and more frustrated with what I see and experience here. As a disclaimer, I’ll mention that of course contradictions exist everywhere in the world; I highlight those in Zambia because in order to understand them I need to put them out there, address them head-on. For my personal sanity I feel a need to comprehend them. Why are things they way they are? Why do people behave the way they behave? My life here is a futile yet hopeful attempt to put the pieces together, although I have the feeling they won’t complete any sort of logical puzzle. I’m destined to leave Zambia with far more questions than with which I came.
Lately even I feel like a walking contradiction. I’m living in one of the poorest countries in the world, in a rural village not found on a map, trying to work with local people to change their behavior. But what if the situation were reversed? If a purple-colored person moved to suburban Minnesota and tried to get me to change my behavior, I would most definitely think they were crazy. Oh, and did I mention that person isn’t fluent in English? Lately I find myself losing passion for grassroots development work. Grass can’t grow if it doesn’t receive nourishment from the sky. People cannot thrive with a government that consistently fails to protect their rights and best interests. If my neighbors in the village were somehow able to afford to travel to Lusaka, they might just die of shock upon seeing the wealth that resides in their capital city. The class disparities in Zambia are black and white, with very little grey in between; it might as well be two separate countries.
Foreigners come here to ‘help’ the people, while the government continues take a lot off the top, breeding both corruption and greed. As cynical as it sounds, power and money come hand-in-hand, and what chance does the majority have if they are poor, lack access to quality education, and are powerless to keep themselves healthy and thus alive? In a perfect world they’d have a fighting chance, but the haunting reality remains that they don’t.
I am almost to the point of feeling hopeless after living here for two years; I can’t imagine the hopelessness one must feel raised in a country that doesn’t even pretend to care about their future. Correction: they do pretend to care, which may be even worse, as it creates the illusion of a potential that can easily be fulfilled. It takes not only a strong sense of self and a willful character to succeed as a Zambian raised outside Lusaka, but help from institutions put in place for the specific purpose of helping. I believe that certain institution is not Peace Corps. It isn’t NGO’s. It isn’t anyone that is not Zambian. It is institutions created by Zambians, made up of Zambians, run by Zambians that have the responsibility to help their fellow citizens.
As a volunteer in Zambia, I am lying to myself if I say that I am doing more for Zambia than it is doing for me. The ultimate truth is that I have gained more from this experience than any Zambian who has known me. And I will return to the United States a more informed citizen because of the opportunities my own country has afforded me. I attended public schools funded by my government. I burrowed money from my government to attend college. I say my government because it is a government with which I have a relationship; Although I’ll admit not always a perfect one, a relationship nonetheless. I would venture to say that tragically few rural Zambians feel any semblance of a connection to their government, and thus lies the contradiction in the Zambian government; It is a government that doesn’t govern its people. A government is a branch or service of the supreme authority of a state or nation, taken as representing the whole. If one is representing themselves and the interests of a select few, they are not a true government. Until the Zambian government decides to govern its people, those same people will continue to die of HIV, be unemployed, turn to the bottle, and experience no quality education and thus ability to better their own situation in life. That is true hopelessness, and it stems from contradiction.
I will be home in a little over two months, and it will be good for me to reflect on my time in Zambia from a different perspective. Although hindsight tends to blind itself to the ‘bad’ and illuminate the ‘good’, I don’t want to forget what has been negative in my experiences here; the frustrations and criticisms are just as important as the positive and praised. It’s human nature to find the silver lining, but we can’t ignore the dark clouds. Until we weather the storm, we can’t experience the sunshine.
katie
Monday, February 15, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
notes on development
I believe that approaches to development are changing constantly. As an agent of healthcare development in Africa, if I don’t consistently assess and alter my personal approach at the extreme rural level, how can I expect to effectively participate in that development as a whole? I tend to yo-yo between the belief that all foreign aid should pull out of Africa as soon as possible, and the belief that there is hope in a system of foreign aid that actually helps those who need it most. But hope can only come from consistent dialogue amongst outside agents of development as well as host country nationals.
Among the PC volunteer community, there is a constant running dialogue surrounding whether or not any of us should really be here, and if we are actually doing more harm than good. We share our idealistic solutions to anyone that will listen, as well as our growing list of frustrations regarding living in the middle of the African bush without money or resources for the work we are expected to do; but we would be kidding ourselves if we thought we were the only foreign aid workers in the country who have these conversations.
I attended a development panel last week that opened up such a dialogue between the Peace Corps, NGOs, and the US Embassy in Zambia. It was held at the one of the higher-up Embassy officer’s home in Lusaka. (Light snacks and wine were served…they haven’t learned yet to keep Peace Corps volunteers away from free-flowing drinks…). Although we took time to appreciate good old-fashioned chips and salsa (even salsa con queso!), our main focus was kept on the questions put forth to us by American aid workers outside of Peace Corps (identified by their slick-backed hair, suits, and lack of flip-flops). We talked for a couple hours, although it felt like mere minutes, about issues such as handing out large sums of money to rural villagers, the entrepreneurial spirit (or lack-there-of, according to the US embassy) of Zambians, Zambian politics and its role in aid, and how we can keep hope in what all too often seems to be a hopeless situation regarding development in this country. There was a panel made up of 2 American employees of NGOs in Lusaka, 1 employee of the US Embassy, and 3 Peace Corps Volunteers (representing the education, health, and agriculture projects). Although at times the discussion turned to debate and became a bit heated, what was most significant about the panel discussion was its ability to help us realize the tremendous importance of what we have to teach each other. Although sometimes we hate to admit it, as rurally-placed volunteers we have a lot to learn from those focused on the big picture of development in Zambia. And even those dressed in suit and tie, living in fancy gated homes made to separate Africa from their small American haven, have something to learn from the liberal, tanned and dirty Peace Corps volunteers who spend two years trying to blend into a rural community in the bush, whose job it is to focus on the small picture, the ‘roots’ of grassroots development. If we can learn to listen to one another and open up our discussions and conversations to another point of view, development in this country can only stand to gain. However, there is one party missing from this equation, a group of the utmost importance, without which there would be no equation in the first place. This group consists of Zambians themselves.
One comment made by an NGO worker at the panel rang especially true; that we cannot afford to forget that we are guests in this country. We are welcomed with open arms, complete with a plethora of greetings and handshakes, into Zambia. Zambians desire to show us their culture, the way they live, their beliefs and values, their lives in such a way that allows us to call this land-locked country in sub-saharan Africa that so easily gets lost in the shuffle our home for as long as we choose to stay. Ultimately, no matter what projects we work on, how strong the relationships we form with host country nationals, or how long we talk around the point of development in Zambia, none of us need to be here; from the volunteer carrying water to her hut everyday to the US Embassy worker in charge of dispensing small-scale grants to community schools to the Director of World Vision. Ultimately we should all be constantly working ourselves out of our jobs here. Zambia is developing from the hard work of Zambians, not foreigners. We have to recognize that we are here to aid with that development, not to do it ourselves. I feel like a broken record when I say that development in this country can only come from Zambians themselves; but surely this seemingly simple concept has defined my service and life here for the past two years.
Maybe it’s the tiny hippie hidden somewhere inside me, but I tend to get a bad taste in my mouth when seeing foreign aid workers driving around fancy land cruisers with USAID (United Stated Agency for International Development) emblazoned on the side. I know part of this bitterness comes from seeing them pass by me as I’m stuck hitch-hiking on the side of the road (dude, my tax dollars help pay for that vehicle!), but mostly I tend to think they are missing what’s right in front of them; the projects they fund and work they do doesn’t trickle down to those at the very rural level who need it most. I’m angry at them for not seeing what slaps me in the face every morning that I wake up in my village. But when I get caught up in this anger and bitterness I only forget that they may have the same frustrations with me. I am only focused on development at the smallest of scales, and I don’t see all that goes into efforts to dispense developmental initiatives across an entire country. I don’t see successes and failures on a national level. I don’t have a degree in foreign affairs or international development. I only have my experiences of the past two years, experiences that have never failed to spark my curiosity in the big picture. After discussing/debating development efforts with those with the fancy suits, many pc volunteers feel even more put off by those at the top. As for me, I find myself more intrigued. There is so much more to learn, and unless you are willing to keep your mouth shut long enough to hear another point of view you’ll find yourself stuck in a self-satisfied world in which it’s easy to feel a bit too comfortable. It doesn’t help to criticize a system over and over again. We need to learn to understand that system, its failures and successes, and work within it ourselves in order to change it. I could see myself possibly working internationally in the future, at what capacity I’m not sure. But my interest has definitely been sparked.
The group I came to Zambia with almost 2 years ago had our COS (close of service) Conference in Lusaka last week. There were 52 of us at the beginning, and now we are 45. 15 people in my group have chosen to extend their service for a third year, most continuing their work with different NGOs in Lusaka. In order to celebrate the near-end to our time in Zambia, Peace Corps put us up in a fancy lodge for 2 nights about an hour outside of Lusaka. During the day we had sessions on the logistics of finishing up our service as well as moving on with life after Peace Corps. But the best part of the conference was hanging out with 44 other people who all seem to be in about the same place mentally and emotionally as I do right now, 44 other people who have been living here for the same amount of time as I have. At this point, in the thick of rainy season, most all of us have finished with our projects and are ready to move on to what is next. Of course there is that bittersweet feeling that always accompanies ending an incredible yet, at times, extremely frustrating experience that can’t help but change you. I booked my flight home, and should be arriving in Minneapolis (I pray it’s not too cold) on April 24th. Although I feel more confused now more than when I came regarding exactly what it is I want to do next, I feel at peace with the fact that I’ll figure it out. I know what makes me happy, and I’ve learned to find comfort in the little things. It’s time to leave Zambia behind me, knowing that what I learned here I will carry with me for the rest of my life. And that’s all I know for sure. As so succinctly put by Tom Petty:
It’s time to move on. It’s time to get going.
What lies ahead I have no way of knowing.
Under my feet the grass is growing.
It’s time to move on. It’s time to get going.
katie
Among the PC volunteer community, there is a constant running dialogue surrounding whether or not any of us should really be here, and if we are actually doing more harm than good. We share our idealistic solutions to anyone that will listen, as well as our growing list of frustrations regarding living in the middle of the African bush without money or resources for the work we are expected to do; but we would be kidding ourselves if we thought we were the only foreign aid workers in the country who have these conversations.
I attended a development panel last week that opened up such a dialogue between the Peace Corps, NGOs, and the US Embassy in Zambia. It was held at the one of the higher-up Embassy officer’s home in Lusaka. (Light snacks and wine were served…they haven’t learned yet to keep Peace Corps volunteers away from free-flowing drinks…). Although we took time to appreciate good old-fashioned chips and salsa (even salsa con queso!), our main focus was kept on the questions put forth to us by American aid workers outside of Peace Corps (identified by their slick-backed hair, suits, and lack of flip-flops). We talked for a couple hours, although it felt like mere minutes, about issues such as handing out large sums of money to rural villagers, the entrepreneurial spirit (or lack-there-of, according to the US embassy) of Zambians, Zambian politics and its role in aid, and how we can keep hope in what all too often seems to be a hopeless situation regarding development in this country. There was a panel made up of 2 American employees of NGOs in Lusaka, 1 employee of the US Embassy, and 3 Peace Corps Volunteers (representing the education, health, and agriculture projects). Although at times the discussion turned to debate and became a bit heated, what was most significant about the panel discussion was its ability to help us realize the tremendous importance of what we have to teach each other. Although sometimes we hate to admit it, as rurally-placed volunteers we have a lot to learn from those focused on the big picture of development in Zambia. And even those dressed in suit and tie, living in fancy gated homes made to separate Africa from their small American haven, have something to learn from the liberal, tanned and dirty Peace Corps volunteers who spend two years trying to blend into a rural community in the bush, whose job it is to focus on the small picture, the ‘roots’ of grassroots development. If we can learn to listen to one another and open up our discussions and conversations to another point of view, development in this country can only stand to gain. However, there is one party missing from this equation, a group of the utmost importance, without which there would be no equation in the first place. This group consists of Zambians themselves.
One comment made by an NGO worker at the panel rang especially true; that we cannot afford to forget that we are guests in this country. We are welcomed with open arms, complete with a plethora of greetings and handshakes, into Zambia. Zambians desire to show us their culture, the way they live, their beliefs and values, their lives in such a way that allows us to call this land-locked country in sub-saharan Africa that so easily gets lost in the shuffle our home for as long as we choose to stay. Ultimately, no matter what projects we work on, how strong the relationships we form with host country nationals, or how long we talk around the point of development in Zambia, none of us need to be here; from the volunteer carrying water to her hut everyday to the US Embassy worker in charge of dispensing small-scale grants to community schools to the Director of World Vision. Ultimately we should all be constantly working ourselves out of our jobs here. Zambia is developing from the hard work of Zambians, not foreigners. We have to recognize that we are here to aid with that development, not to do it ourselves. I feel like a broken record when I say that development in this country can only come from Zambians themselves; but surely this seemingly simple concept has defined my service and life here for the past two years.
Maybe it’s the tiny hippie hidden somewhere inside me, but I tend to get a bad taste in my mouth when seeing foreign aid workers driving around fancy land cruisers with USAID (United Stated Agency for International Development) emblazoned on the side. I know part of this bitterness comes from seeing them pass by me as I’m stuck hitch-hiking on the side of the road (dude, my tax dollars help pay for that vehicle!), but mostly I tend to think they are missing what’s right in front of them; the projects they fund and work they do doesn’t trickle down to those at the very rural level who need it most. I’m angry at them for not seeing what slaps me in the face every morning that I wake up in my village. But when I get caught up in this anger and bitterness I only forget that they may have the same frustrations with me. I am only focused on development at the smallest of scales, and I don’t see all that goes into efforts to dispense developmental initiatives across an entire country. I don’t see successes and failures on a national level. I don’t have a degree in foreign affairs or international development. I only have my experiences of the past two years, experiences that have never failed to spark my curiosity in the big picture. After discussing/debating development efforts with those with the fancy suits, many pc volunteers feel even more put off by those at the top. As for me, I find myself more intrigued. There is so much more to learn, and unless you are willing to keep your mouth shut long enough to hear another point of view you’ll find yourself stuck in a self-satisfied world in which it’s easy to feel a bit too comfortable. It doesn’t help to criticize a system over and over again. We need to learn to understand that system, its failures and successes, and work within it ourselves in order to change it. I could see myself possibly working internationally in the future, at what capacity I’m not sure. But my interest has definitely been sparked.
The group I came to Zambia with almost 2 years ago had our COS (close of service) Conference in Lusaka last week. There were 52 of us at the beginning, and now we are 45. 15 people in my group have chosen to extend their service for a third year, most continuing their work with different NGOs in Lusaka. In order to celebrate the near-end to our time in Zambia, Peace Corps put us up in a fancy lodge for 2 nights about an hour outside of Lusaka. During the day we had sessions on the logistics of finishing up our service as well as moving on with life after Peace Corps. But the best part of the conference was hanging out with 44 other people who all seem to be in about the same place mentally and emotionally as I do right now, 44 other people who have been living here for the same amount of time as I have. At this point, in the thick of rainy season, most all of us have finished with our projects and are ready to move on to what is next. Of course there is that bittersweet feeling that always accompanies ending an incredible yet, at times, extremely frustrating experience that can’t help but change you. I booked my flight home, and should be arriving in Minneapolis (I pray it’s not too cold) on April 24th. Although I feel more confused now more than when I came regarding exactly what it is I want to do next, I feel at peace with the fact that I’ll figure it out. I know what makes me happy, and I’ve learned to find comfort in the little things. It’s time to leave Zambia behind me, knowing that what I learned here I will carry with me for the rest of my life. And that’s all I know for sure. As so succinctly put by Tom Petty:
It’s time to move on. It’s time to get going.
What lies ahead I have no way of knowing.
Under my feet the grass is growing.
It’s time to move on. It’s time to get going.
katie
Saturday, January 23, 2010
hitchhikers' guide to mozambique
Search no more. I believe I have found the most beautiful corner of sub-saharan Africa. Mozambique lays on the eastern side of southern Africa, forming a long stretch of coastline on the Indian Ocean. Not only is the country itself magnificently beautiful, but the people exude beauty from their language to their welcoming manner. Mozambique was colonized by Portugal, causing Portugese to be the official language. Yet the dialect spoken is ‘africa-fied’ in such a way that could only create a perfect mix of Bantu and Romantic tongues.
In an effort to cut back on the number of absolute travel nightmares while roaming in Africa (although they never cease to make the best stories after the fact), my friends and I decided to fly first to Johannesberg in South Africa and continue on from there to Mozambique by bus. At this point in my Peace Corps service, I have no qualms with experiencing a bit of westernized culture for the sake of my sanity. South Africa never fails to be somewhat of an oasis for the Peace Corps Africa volunteer community. McDonalds, malls, customer service, 4-lane highways, sandwiches, diversity, and did I mention McDonalds?? Maybe I should find it a bit shameful to admit that 75% of the time we had in Johannesberg was spent at the local shopping mall. But just to have so many options and people who are willing to help you make decisions; to have efficiency, to be perfectly honest… it made me ridiculously happy.
After spending one night in the big city of Joberg, we hopped on a 6-hour bus headed for Nelspruit (near the border of South Africa and Mozambique). I believe I’ve mentioned this multiple times already on this blog, but you learn to fly by the seat of your pants when you live in Africa. When you make plans you only set yourself up for disappointment; whereas when you let go of any expectations and just let the cards fall as they may, you are bound to be pleasantly surprised. Although this philosophy conforms nicely to my lifestyle in Zambia, I realize it will need to be adjusted upon my return to Americaland. Having some sort of game plan seems to work out much better that side of the Atlantic.
Upon our arrival in Nelspruit, we made our way to the mini-bus station in hopes of getting on a last-minute bus going to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. Living in a peaceful country such as Zambia has increased our naivite when it comes to traveling in Africa. As we were walking to the bus station, multiple people pulled their cars over to concernedly inform us that we should not be walking around this town as foreigners; that is was actually incredibly unsafe. Stuck with only the possessions on our back, no car, and no clue when it came to our orientation in Nelspruit, we justified our will to get to the bus station by the false security of power in numbers. I can honestly say that it was not the best situation to be in and we should consider ourselves fortunate that everything ended up working out sans any sort of confrontation. We got on a cramped mini-bus to the border and proceeded to Maputo knees against the seats in front of us, necks cocked to the side, heads pressed against the roof. All we wanted and needed to do upon arrival at the backpackers in Mozambique was shower. There was no water. We camped on the roof of the kitchen and due to pure exhaustion were able to fall asleep despite the stagnant humid heat that would come to be a common theme for us on Mozambiquean nights. We woke up the next morning dirty and stinky, but with beach on the mind and the determination to get to our next destination.
We were told by staff at the backpackers that due to the nightmare that is transport in Mozambique, we should abandon dreams of making it to Vilancoulos (our northernmost destination), and instead stop in Xhai-Xhai first, then head onto Tofo. Of course when you don’t own a vehicle in Africa, public transport becomes the only option more often than not. But we were just one hellish, hot-box, cramped mini-bus (termed chapas in Mozambique) ride away from surf and sand in Xhai-Xhai. We were like children when we finally arrived at the beach, running to the water through the sand with the energy, it seemed, to swim all the way to India. Someone from above smiled down on us when we scored our own beach house for what amounted to about 10 US dollars per person per night, complete with air conditioning, kitchen, grill, shower, and our own private stretch of beach. Needless to say, we extended our stay in Xhai-Xhai by a few days and found it hard to tear ourselves away from that paradise and brave another round of transport to Tofo. We cooked lobster for Christmas, along with prawns and even shark on other nights. We bought the shark while walking along the beach, intentionally in denial of the fact that the very location where we were swimming was obviously where it had come from… A couple of Mozambiquean teenage boys offered to skin the shark for us, and I can safely put that meal on my ‘top ten most delicious meals ever’ list.
Most vacations I have gone on in the past two years have not been ones that have championed rest and relaxation. From sandboarding in Namibia to snorkeling in Zanzibar, I have tried to take advantage of the all the adventures that sub-saharan Africa has to offer. Mozambique was beautifully different. You couldn’t help but just chill out and soak in the beauty all around you. I went on long walks on the beach, swam in the crazy ocean surf, read my book in the sand, and most nights my friends and I stayed up late into the night, looking up at the stars and out at the endless abyss of the ocean, having conversations you can only ever really have over a campfire; on the beach; in the middle of nowhere.
Reluctantly remembering we are 25 years old and have a duty to get crazy on New Years Eve, we said goodbye to our perfect little haven in Xhai-Xhai and hitch-hiked to Tofo. If Xhai-Xhai is the epitomy of r&r, Tofo is party central, serving as a popular New Years Eve destination for both Mozambiqueans and South Africans. We found ourselves in a tent city in the sand at a backpackers on the beach. It felt a bit like Woodstock Tofo-style. I say this with the realization that I am making a gross generalization…but stereotypes exist for a reason…and white South Africans are small-doses people for me. I actually can’t really stand them. They remind me of the epitomy of racist, southern, conservative ignorance, and they were inescapable in Tofo. I won’t go off on a tangent, but I will say that I fear for the future of South Africa whenever I meet white South Africans in my travels. Again, I know I am generalizing here, but if I never meet another Afrikaner…I’m ok with it. However, I did witness something on the beach in Tofo that gave me hope for humanity. There were two Mozambiquean boys, probably about 8-10 years old, making jewelery on the beach to sell to tourists. I was resting in the shade about 10 yards from where they were working. There was a white South African boy of about the same age sitting with them. He was learning how to make the jewelery, and would run off with one of the boys to the beach whenever they saw potential buyers. I overheard one of the Mozambiquean boys give a bracelet as a gift to the South African boy. For the next two days these three boys were inseparable, playing together around the beach and in town. Racial differences seemed not to exist, and economic, social, and cultural lines were blurred. In a place where one is constantly reminded of their skin color, I found hope for the future of Africa in these children; blame it on the part of me that, through all my frustrations, still knows a solution exists in this crazy world when it comes to hate and discrimination.
New Years Eve Day some of us decided to snorkel with whale sharks. They are the largest fish in the sea; incredibly graceful, beautiful creatures. And we were able to swim right alongside one of them! Of course I had to talk myself out of a freak-out the entire two hours…oceans and sharks are two of my biggest fears. Sharks are actually way out of my league…I’m afraid even of fish. But I can now add it to my list of things that were fun to do exactly ONCE. There was a live reggae band performing on the beach as a full blue moon rose over the ocean on New Years Eve. I’ll never forget what it felt like to welcome a new decade (and the year I get to come home!) in such a beautiful setting. I’m a lucky girl.
Transport from Tofo back to Johannesberg was anticlimactic, just the way I like it. We had one more day at the mall there, and I flew out of that magical airport knowing that the next time I will be there will be en route to Americaland! As I’ve said before, the familiarity of returning to Zambia always makes me feel as if I’m returning home. But I can’t deny that I’m excited for the day when my home makes sense to me.
Speaking of which, it looks like I’ll complete my Peace Corps service at the end of April. The new country director in Zambia seems to be blanketly denying all applications for an early close-of-service. I applied to leave one month early due to finishing work early in the village. Oh well, what’s one more month when I’ll have been here for 25 already? I’ll see all the people I came to Zambia with next week at our close-of-service conference in Lusaka, where we should receive our final ring-out dates so we can book our flights home. And when I say ‘ring out’ I mean it literally. Before we leave the Peace Corps office in Lusaka for the last time, we hit a metal tire rim with a stick, symbolizing the official end of our service. This is of course accompanied by nostalgiac and uplifting speeches, hugs, and sometimes tears. I promise to shout it on the mountaintops once I know the date I get to partake in this ritual.
I hope everyone enjoyed a warm and cozy holiday season, wherever you may have celebrated. I heard there was a lot of snow, and still is! Take care, and much love from Zambia.
~Happy 2010~
.peace.
katie
In an effort to cut back on the number of absolute travel nightmares while roaming in Africa (although they never cease to make the best stories after the fact), my friends and I decided to fly first to Johannesberg in South Africa and continue on from there to Mozambique by bus. At this point in my Peace Corps service, I have no qualms with experiencing a bit of westernized culture for the sake of my sanity. South Africa never fails to be somewhat of an oasis for the Peace Corps Africa volunteer community. McDonalds, malls, customer service, 4-lane highways, sandwiches, diversity, and did I mention McDonalds?? Maybe I should find it a bit shameful to admit that 75% of the time we had in Johannesberg was spent at the local shopping mall. But just to have so many options and people who are willing to help you make decisions; to have efficiency, to be perfectly honest… it made me ridiculously happy.
After spending one night in the big city of Joberg, we hopped on a 6-hour bus headed for Nelspruit (near the border of South Africa and Mozambique). I believe I’ve mentioned this multiple times already on this blog, but you learn to fly by the seat of your pants when you live in Africa. When you make plans you only set yourself up for disappointment; whereas when you let go of any expectations and just let the cards fall as they may, you are bound to be pleasantly surprised. Although this philosophy conforms nicely to my lifestyle in Zambia, I realize it will need to be adjusted upon my return to Americaland. Having some sort of game plan seems to work out much better that side of the Atlantic.
Upon our arrival in Nelspruit, we made our way to the mini-bus station in hopes of getting on a last-minute bus going to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. Living in a peaceful country such as Zambia has increased our naivite when it comes to traveling in Africa. As we were walking to the bus station, multiple people pulled their cars over to concernedly inform us that we should not be walking around this town as foreigners; that is was actually incredibly unsafe. Stuck with only the possessions on our back, no car, and no clue when it came to our orientation in Nelspruit, we justified our will to get to the bus station by the false security of power in numbers. I can honestly say that it was not the best situation to be in and we should consider ourselves fortunate that everything ended up working out sans any sort of confrontation. We got on a cramped mini-bus to the border and proceeded to Maputo knees against the seats in front of us, necks cocked to the side, heads pressed against the roof. All we wanted and needed to do upon arrival at the backpackers in Mozambique was shower. There was no water. We camped on the roof of the kitchen and due to pure exhaustion were able to fall asleep despite the stagnant humid heat that would come to be a common theme for us on Mozambiquean nights. We woke up the next morning dirty and stinky, but with beach on the mind and the determination to get to our next destination.
We were told by staff at the backpackers that due to the nightmare that is transport in Mozambique, we should abandon dreams of making it to Vilancoulos (our northernmost destination), and instead stop in Xhai-Xhai first, then head onto Tofo. Of course when you don’t own a vehicle in Africa, public transport becomes the only option more often than not. But we were just one hellish, hot-box, cramped mini-bus (termed chapas in Mozambique) ride away from surf and sand in Xhai-Xhai. We were like children when we finally arrived at the beach, running to the water through the sand with the energy, it seemed, to swim all the way to India. Someone from above smiled down on us when we scored our own beach house for what amounted to about 10 US dollars per person per night, complete with air conditioning, kitchen, grill, shower, and our own private stretch of beach. Needless to say, we extended our stay in Xhai-Xhai by a few days and found it hard to tear ourselves away from that paradise and brave another round of transport to Tofo. We cooked lobster for Christmas, along with prawns and even shark on other nights. We bought the shark while walking along the beach, intentionally in denial of the fact that the very location where we were swimming was obviously where it had come from… A couple of Mozambiquean teenage boys offered to skin the shark for us, and I can safely put that meal on my ‘top ten most delicious meals ever’ list.
Most vacations I have gone on in the past two years have not been ones that have championed rest and relaxation. From sandboarding in Namibia to snorkeling in Zanzibar, I have tried to take advantage of the all the adventures that sub-saharan Africa has to offer. Mozambique was beautifully different. You couldn’t help but just chill out and soak in the beauty all around you. I went on long walks on the beach, swam in the crazy ocean surf, read my book in the sand, and most nights my friends and I stayed up late into the night, looking up at the stars and out at the endless abyss of the ocean, having conversations you can only ever really have over a campfire; on the beach; in the middle of nowhere.
Reluctantly remembering we are 25 years old and have a duty to get crazy on New Years Eve, we said goodbye to our perfect little haven in Xhai-Xhai and hitch-hiked to Tofo. If Xhai-Xhai is the epitomy of r&r, Tofo is party central, serving as a popular New Years Eve destination for both Mozambiqueans and South Africans. We found ourselves in a tent city in the sand at a backpackers on the beach. It felt a bit like Woodstock Tofo-style. I say this with the realization that I am making a gross generalization…but stereotypes exist for a reason…and white South Africans are small-doses people for me. I actually can’t really stand them. They remind me of the epitomy of racist, southern, conservative ignorance, and they were inescapable in Tofo. I won’t go off on a tangent, but I will say that I fear for the future of South Africa whenever I meet white South Africans in my travels. Again, I know I am generalizing here, but if I never meet another Afrikaner…I’m ok with it. However, I did witness something on the beach in Tofo that gave me hope for humanity. There were two Mozambiquean boys, probably about 8-10 years old, making jewelery on the beach to sell to tourists. I was resting in the shade about 10 yards from where they were working. There was a white South African boy of about the same age sitting with them. He was learning how to make the jewelery, and would run off with one of the boys to the beach whenever they saw potential buyers. I overheard one of the Mozambiquean boys give a bracelet as a gift to the South African boy. For the next two days these three boys were inseparable, playing together around the beach and in town. Racial differences seemed not to exist, and economic, social, and cultural lines were blurred. In a place where one is constantly reminded of their skin color, I found hope for the future of Africa in these children; blame it on the part of me that, through all my frustrations, still knows a solution exists in this crazy world when it comes to hate and discrimination.
New Years Eve Day some of us decided to snorkel with whale sharks. They are the largest fish in the sea; incredibly graceful, beautiful creatures. And we were able to swim right alongside one of them! Of course I had to talk myself out of a freak-out the entire two hours…oceans and sharks are two of my biggest fears. Sharks are actually way out of my league…I’m afraid even of fish. But I can now add it to my list of things that were fun to do exactly ONCE. There was a live reggae band performing on the beach as a full blue moon rose over the ocean on New Years Eve. I’ll never forget what it felt like to welcome a new decade (and the year I get to come home!) in such a beautiful setting. I’m a lucky girl.
Transport from Tofo back to Johannesberg was anticlimactic, just the way I like it. We had one more day at the mall there, and I flew out of that magical airport knowing that the next time I will be there will be en route to Americaland! As I’ve said before, the familiarity of returning to Zambia always makes me feel as if I’m returning home. But I can’t deny that I’m excited for the day when my home makes sense to me.
Speaking of which, it looks like I’ll complete my Peace Corps service at the end of April. The new country director in Zambia seems to be blanketly denying all applications for an early close-of-service. I applied to leave one month early due to finishing work early in the village. Oh well, what’s one more month when I’ll have been here for 25 already? I’ll see all the people I came to Zambia with next week at our close-of-service conference in Lusaka, where we should receive our final ring-out dates so we can book our flights home. And when I say ‘ring out’ I mean it literally. Before we leave the Peace Corps office in Lusaka for the last time, we hit a metal tire rim with a stick, symbolizing the official end of our service. This is of course accompanied by nostalgiac and uplifting speeches, hugs, and sometimes tears. I promise to shout it on the mountaintops once I know the date I get to partake in this ritual.
I hope everyone enjoyed a warm and cozy holiday season, wherever you may have celebrated. I heard there was a lot of snow, and still is! Take care, and much love from Zambia.
~Happy 2010~
.peace.
katie
Thursday, December 17, 2009
and may all your christmases be white
Happy Holidays! I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…but waking up to rain and mosquitoes…and white sand beaches I guess? I’ll be celebrating the birth of Jesus in
Myself and 5 other Peace Corps volunteers living in Mpika district put on
Actually, I think that one theme suffices. Pretty much the entire week was in reaction to this theme. What can you do when you are fully aware of the prevalence of Murphy’s law in your life?
Just a few examples:
**Absolutely nothing was prepared when we arrived at the recreation center. There weren’t enough mattresses, sheets, blankets, and absolutely no sense of organization on the part of the manager of the place we were paying to rent.The center was ‘creepy guy’ central. Men with nothing better to do were just hanging around the recreation center we rented out the whole week. On that note, apparently renting out a center only means renting out two rooms. Everyone else in the center can feel free to blast music and talk really loud. And poke their heads into your space every 5 minutes, ignoring all signs to keep quiet and not enter. The water couldn’t be turned off. Faucets were leaking and bathrooms were flooding. Of course 2 days of absolutely no water were interspersed throughout the week.
**The teachers who came with the students (1 teacher and 2 students from 5 different villages) demanded allowances for being there; allowances on top of the transport, rooming, and meals that we provided for them. One student also expected to be paid to attend the camp. 1 teacher and 1 student decided to leave the first day due to the fact that we weren’t paying them to be there, even though it was clearly stated in a letter drafted to them weeks before the camp began. When the teachers began to demand money, we met with all of them and gave it to them straight; They weren’t going to be paid to attend the camp. The camp centers around equipping teenage girls with the skills and confidence necessary to overcome the many obstacles they face growing up in a patriarchal society. If the teachers weren’t willing to stay and be involved in the empowerment of these girls, we would pay them the transport money to leave right now. But if they chose to stay, they would have to be involved and show that they care. Most chose to stay because they lived so far away, not because they recognized the need to empower young women in their village. I find it difficult to think of a time in my life when I have met a more entitled group of people. The 4 teachers that chose to stay continued to cause problems for the next 5 days.
**We had one session on condom use, and sat down with the teachers before the session to address any issues they may have with teaching abstinence, condom use, and birth control.
So what do you do when everything goes wrong? Do you freak out and throw in the towel? Not here. Or you wouldn't last very long. When you live in
First of all, our caterer was amazing. We had delicious meals prepared for us every day, and for the most part they were ready within an hour of when they were supposed to be, which in
Most importantly, the 9 girls that stayed for the week were unbelievable. It was great to see Zambian teenage girls be able to be teenage girls around each other. They bonded throughout the week and really opened up to and accepted one another. They were so much fun to be around, and were always smiling. We had some pretty unforgettable dance parties. There were 2 18-year old girls we had attend the camp as counselor-types. They slept in the same room as the younger girls and got to know them on a more personal level. They facilitated a session on rape and sexual abuse with the girls (sans Peace Corps volunteers and teachers) toward the end of the week. Following the session, all the girls wanted to go to VCT (voluntary counseling and testing) for HIV at the local clinic.
During the session itself, 5 out of 9 of the girls revealed that they had been raped. Some had been abused by cousins, some by complete strangers. Only one of the men had been put in jail. What these girls face on a daily basis either breaks them or makes them stronger. When over half of the girls in a group of intelligent young women who have shown to be leaders in their communities have been sexually abused, something is incredibly wrong. I wish I could keep Zambian men away from these girls for the rest of their lives. I wish their society would protect them against constant harassment from men who could never hold a candle to their strength. I wish that older women in the community supported the younger generation, and gave them hope that life doesn't have to be this way. But the most I can do is do all that I can to equip these girls, in 5 days, with the tools and skills to stand up for themselves, to realize how incredibly strong and beautiful they are. The most I can hope for is that one aspect of the camp really sunk in; that just one girl gets her boyfriend to use a condom; that just one girl feels she can report her teacher raping her to someone she trusts and not feel blamed; that just one girl fights to continue her schooling. Change is incremental. All it takes is one girl realizing the potential power she holds, and helping other women around her to do the same, for this country to change. You just have to plant the seed...
Thank you so much to all who donated money to Camp GLOW. Without your help, these 9 girls would have missed out on an opportunity to change their lives. It is impossible to be sure that they will take everything they learned back to the village with them and put it into practice. All you can do is try. Story of my life in the Peace Corps.
Happy Holidays! I wish you all a healthy and happy Christmas surrounded by those you love.
Best wishes in the new year!
Love from Zambia.
katie
Monday, November 23, 2009
home sweet home?
Lately I've been ruminating on the concept of 'home'. I owe this not in small part to my 48-hour train ride returning from Dar Es Salaam to Kasama. When my friend Amy was visiting me for the past month, I couldn't stop thinking about home. America home. Minnesota home. Family, friends, seasons, coffee, hot showers, cars, paved roads. Home. When I was visiting Maiken in Tanzania my thoughts went back to home, and that's where my heart was as well. I don't think I've ever valued my friendships and family on that side of the globe more so than in the past two years. While in Tanzania, although enjoying my travels and adventures, I wanted to be back home in the states. I felt that was where I belonged.
Yet while waiting at the train station in Dar Es Salaam (for the train that was of course 8 hours delayed leaving on the long trip back to Zambia), I heard Bemba spoken for the first time in a couple weeks. And I felt an immediate sense of comfort. Most others riding the train were Zambian, and the language I recognized on their tongue reassured me that I was going home. Zambia home. Bembaland home. Bicycles, dirt roads, Zambian family, sunshine, rain, gong show. Home.
I am a resident of Zambia. I own a mudhut in the bush. I know my way around from the bush paths to the crater-ridden paved roads. Yet my life here has evolved into much more than mere residency. Not only have I converted my hut into my own personal space I like to call home, but I walk through my village and people know my name. And finally I know theirs! Although work is still frustrating and at this point almost nonexistent, I still enjoy the company of those I try to work with. I'm happy in my village. Nkomba village. My home in Zambia. Home sweet home.
I write this all at the risk of sounding completely cheesy. ;)
From where I'm standing, America sounds so nice. But Zambia has become a part of me. Leaving this country promises to be more difficult than I anticipate. At this point in my service, with about 5 months to go (possibly fewer), I am trying to relish this home to which I will realistically not return. Although my mind still tends to wander to my home on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, my flip-flops continue to remain firmly grounded in the dirt of Zambia. I will always have these two homes, and wherever I go one will always remain in my heart regardless of where my feet may stand.
.peace&luv.
happy turkey day!!
katie
p.s. a big THANK YOU to anyone who donated to our camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) proposal. We raised the necessary funds very quickly due to your support and will be putting on the camp the second week of December 2009. Your help is appreciated more than you know.
Yet while waiting at the train station in Dar Es Salaam (for the train that was of course 8 hours delayed leaving on the long trip back to Zambia), I heard Bemba spoken for the first time in a couple weeks. And I felt an immediate sense of comfort. Most others riding the train were Zambian, and the language I recognized on their tongue reassured me that I was going home. Zambia home. Bembaland home. Bicycles, dirt roads, Zambian family, sunshine, rain, gong show. Home.
I am a resident of Zambia. I own a mudhut in the bush. I know my way around from the bush paths to the crater-ridden paved roads. Yet my life here has evolved into much more than mere residency. Not only have I converted my hut into my own personal space I like to call home, but I walk through my village and people know my name. And finally I know theirs! Although work is still frustrating and at this point almost nonexistent, I still enjoy the company of those I try to work with. I'm happy in my village. Nkomba village. My home in Zambia. Home sweet home.
I write this all at the risk of sounding completely cheesy. ;)
From where I'm standing, America sounds so nice. But Zambia has become a part of me. Leaving this country promises to be more difficult than I anticipate. At this point in my service, with about 5 months to go (possibly fewer), I am trying to relish this home to which I will realistically not return. Although my mind still tends to wander to my home on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, my flip-flops continue to remain firmly grounded in the dirt of Zambia. I will always have these two homes, and wherever I go one will always remain in my heart regardless of where my feet may stand.
.peace&luv.
happy turkey day!!
katie
p.s. a big THANK YOU to anyone who donated to our camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) proposal. We raised the necessary funds very quickly due to your support and will be putting on the camp the second week of December 2009. Your help is appreciated more than you know.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
.things i'll probably never do again.
I climbed a mountain yesterday. Today I am walking around as if there is a pole shoved up my ass. I am currently in Arusha, visiting Maiken, a friend from my St. Olaf soccer days. She is in medical school at the University of Minnesota and is taking about 6 months to work in a hospital here in Tanzania with two other friends from the U. They have a pretty nice house and are living the crazy life as well. It's been interesting to hear about their experiences at the hospital and also to commiserate with their frustrations. They actually came up with a funny way of 'explaining' how things work/don't work in Africa. Picture a control room full of buttons; buttons that control atm machines, electricity, transport, etc. Now picture this control room taken over by monkeys, who push the buttons at random, with no rhyme or reason, their arms lunging out at random buttons with no sort of order. This is the control room that runs this continent. It has been infiltrated by monkeys and they have accidentally locked themselves in. But at least they are having fun, even if it is at our expense. Since it's accepted that nothing makes sense here, I like the monkey analogy. In a crazy way it helps my mind wrap itself around all the craziness. Luckily I live in the bush and never expect to have electricity, but when I'm in kasama and the power goes out 5 times in 1 day, I can blame it on the monkey button. :)
So back to mountain climbing. Maiken, Katie (one of her med school friends), Amy, and I climbed Mount Meru, the third highest mountain in Africa behind Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya, for 3 days. It stands at an impressive 4,566 meters as is actually taller than Mt. Rainier (the highest peak in the continental U.S.). The first two days we climbed an average of 5 hours per day, going fairly slow to acclimitize to the altitude. The third days we got out of our toasty warm sleeping bags at midnight and began the 5-hour final hike to the summit to watch the sun rise over mt. kilimanjaro. The climb was definitely more technical than I thought, and the high elevation definitely didn't make heavy breathing any easier. We climbed over rocks and shifty dirt for 5 hours with our headlamps on, barely able to make out the path ahead of us in the pitch-black darkness (the moon was just a small sliver). But it was all worth it once we reached the top. We enjoyed Snickers bars and watched the sunrise, resting for 15 minutes and taking in the breathtaking views before spending the next 9 hours completely descending the mountain. There were two camps we stayed at along the way up, complete with rooms for sleeping, a kitchen, and a dining room. We hired porters, a cook, and a guide (complete with gun to scare away any charging buffalo...yikes!). We each packed a day pack with the essentials for each daily climb (water, an extra layer of clothes, a snack, etc.). We also packed 2 larger packs for the 4 of us to share, in which we put our sleeping bags and warmer clothes (there was some snow at the top and nights got pretty chilly even for us Minnesotans). Since Maiken and Katie are doctors here, they scored us all some diamox, which we took to prevent altitude sickness. Despite a minor rolled ankle, some bouts of diarrhea, and the biting cold we all made it to the summit and back down. There were two dutch men who were also climbing the mountain when we were, and one of them struggled a lot with altitude sickness at the top. Thank god for our traveling pharmacy. :) Although I'm sure I will be sore for the next week, I am really glad that I climbed Mount Meru. It was challenging and rigorous, at times incredibly dangerous, but so much fun with our group of 4. We sang disney songs to keep our spirits up, played cards at the camps, and spent more time laughing than gasping for air. Although I don't see myself taking up mountain-climbing as a hobby any time in the near future, I will never forget climbing a mountain in Africa in the middle of the night only to witness a spectacular sunrise with friends. Unforgettable.
Another thing I plan to never do again is bunji-jump. One of the first things Amy and I did once she arrived in Zambia was jump right on a bus to Livingstone with 3 of my closest peace corps friends. We decided on the adventure package, meaning we decided to absolutely terrify ourselves for the next 2 days. As much adrenaline rush as is humanly possible in 48 hours.
The first day our plan was to white-water raft on the Zambezi, followed by a booze cruise at sunset. Rafting was definitely way more intense than when I went in July, even though our boat didn't tip. There was one rapid that was so intense we had to get out of the raft and walk around the rapid on the rocks while our raft braved it alone, only to catch it and jump right back in afterward. After the final rapid, we were told to jump out of the boat and swim to shore to cool ourselves off before the long hike back up the gorge. While we were fighting the rushing current, my friend Claire yelled out that there was a snake right next to me on the rock. Always the calm one in crisis situations, I screamed out 'SNAKE!' and swam for my life. You know it's bad when Zambians are also freaking out a bit. It was a python that was probably just as terrified of us as we were of it. But we don't have the power to kill it with a single bite. So there. We made it safely to the shore, climbed up the gorge, and rested a little before boarding the weirdest boat cruise of my life.
The boat was overcrowed, but we managed to get on early and snag a table on the top deck. Then along came a group of about 20 older dutch people, who stole one of our seats (we thought they were joking at first) and wouldn't give it back. My view on the dutch is a bit tainted after that boat cruise. A girl and her mother were performing a model photo shoot on the back deck. Enough said. That's just weird. A random man came up to our table and shoved his camera in our faces, displaying a photo of his private area that made me nauseas. A random Aussie joined our table mid-cruise just for the fun of it. I have yet to meet an Australian I don't like. The drinks were flowing and a great time was had by all of course. But it was arguably the most confusing and strange 3 hours of my life.
Our second day in Livingstone we saw Victoria Falls (without much water flowing over it due to the dry season) as well as did a zipline, gorge swing, and bunji jumping over the Zambezi. While the first two were 'fun' while also managing to scare the crap out of me, I never plan to bunji-jump again. It literally froze me with fear. (My hands were frozen in a claw/death grip for at least 15 minutes after jumping. The whole operation was a bit janky, with mere towels wrapped around the ankles and then a swift push off the bridge. Once I was bouncing back up I was too terrified even to scream. Something was crazy with the rope and I was spinning and spinning, unable to orient myself or tell up from down. And I was still danging pretty far above rushing rapids. When a man tied to a rope descended to retrieve me and then pull me back up to the bridge, grabbed onto his legs for dear life and came just short of kissing him once we got back up to the bridge. I felt nauseas for a couple hours after the jump from all the spinning. I am glad that I did it, but it was a pretty intensely miserable experience. Of course I bought the dvd and picture cd to document it all. :) I am going to try to upload the video to this blog sometime today if anyone has any interest in watching me at my weakest moments, but don't be surprised if the power goes out or a monkey button is pushed that prevents the uploading.
Jumping off bridges and climbing mountains; two things that are crazy, and that I will probably never do again. Much like living in a mudhut in the bush of Africa. Once is more than enough. ;)
.luv from tanzania.
katie
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
when you are engulfed in flames...
Good afternoon from another sweaty, sticky, sky-wanting-to-rain-so-bad-but-can't-commit day in northern Zambia. My friend Amy and I just arrived back in Kasama today and will be getting on the train to Dar Es Salaam around 2am Saturday. I'll write more about our travels/adventures later but wanted to write a quick post about a weekend trip I made in September with about 20 other volunteers to 'The Wonder Gorge', commonly referred to around these parts as the 'Grand Canyon of Zambia'. We rented a canter truck (basically a big truck with a huge bed used for transporting goods...and people) to drive us 8 hours into the bush. Our plan was to camp for 2 nights at the gorge, and hike into the gorge itself down to the river below to cool off in the thick of hot season. I can safely say this trip turned out to be arguably the biggest shit show I have experienced in this country. And that's says a LOT.
After 8 hours in the back of a truck in the hot sun we rolled into the top of the gorge in the evening. We should have taken it as a bad omen when we were literally driving through fires and smoke. If I haven't mentioned this before, Zambians light their country on fire during the hot season. If the fires aren't stopped they tend to just keep spreading with the wind. We spent literally our entire first night at the gorge fighting these fires which had drifted out of control. There were fires encroaching on our camping spot on the tip of the cliff overlooking the gorge, as the canter truck dropped us off and promised to come back 'on time' in a couple days.
First we tried to make a fire break around our campsite. Although I can proudly claim making it to Junior Girl Scouts in middle school (i'm brushing off my shoulder), my nature 'expertise' doesn't extend to fighting fires. I mostly stuck to knitting and selling cookies. Much more difficult. ;) Luckily the guys in our group became all gung-hoe (sp? is that even a word?) and it was contagious for almost the entire group. We found big leafy sticks and started chasing the fires and hacking them out. Night had fallen and we were a crazy sight in the glow of the flames, sweaty and frantic yet still laughing, mostly at the fact that yes, this was actually happening. We managed to control the fires long enough for us to enjoy some dinner. But before passing out from utter exhaustion we formed groups of 2-3 people who were responsible for 'fire watch' during a 2-hour chunk of the night. Each group, when finished with their shift, would wake up the next group, and so on and so forth until dawn. The flames would calm down during the day, but as the wind shifted during dusk we would once again go into survival mode.
Speaking of survival, I had never before been in a situation that allowed me to witness so many peoples' (and my own) varying ways of handling crisis situations. Some became panicked and needed to pace and talk themselves through it. Others were all about coming up with a plan and organizing the troops. Still others connected their ipods to speakers and played music. Even others just sat and stared...before deciding they needed to cook something. Thank god for the latter groups we fought Zambian bush fires while listening to tunes from America, and had yummy food to eat afterward. There was a point where people actually started setting the bush afire to create a fire break with a smaller circumference around our tents. At one point this self-formed fire got a bit too close to my tent. My friend Joan immediately realized this and sprinted toward my tent, grabbing it out of the fast-approaching flames before they could begin to melt the exterior. However, in her quick movement of the tent one of the poles snapped. Thank god for REI. I already have new poles on the way free of charge! Shout out to them. :)
The theme of our wonder gorge trip was Murphey's Law. Whatever could have gone wrong, went horribly wrong. After a night of interrupted sleep to watch the fire patterns across the hills, we decided to hike down into the gorge. What should have taken approximately 2 hours took at least 4...for those who made it. The wonder gorge is no grand canyon because rarely does anyone go there. There are no trails to the bottom of the gorge. And you are scooting on your booty on a steep incline for most of the trip down, yelling out for the sake of those below you when you accidentally break a rock loose that goes tumbling down...down...down...The whole idea was incredibly dangerous and in hindsight we should probably have been using climbing gear and a balet system. Out of all times in my Zambian life, my stomach decided to have a parasitic attack while I was scaling down the side of the cliff. Instead of calling out to warn of falling rocks, I was calling out "don't look up! i have diarrhea!". I would find the nearest tree and cling on for dear life while my stomach rid itself of something nasty. I won't go into detail. Needless to say I was forced to end my trek down into the gorge, turn around, and begin an equally taxing trek back up the cliff, stopping along the way to relieve myself. It was disgusting. I was disgusted by myself. I made it back up to the top eventually, joining with a few others who had either decided immediately that the hike down was too dangerous and not worth it (they were the smart ones) and others who, like me, had made it part of the way and decided to turn around. Of course it was the thick of hot season so we hung our african fabrics and tent rainfly's in the branches of leafless trees to create some sort of shade. I spent the remainder of the day either running into the bush or laying in the fetile position in the shade. It was one of those days where I wonder what the hell I am doing here. Some pepto helped a bit, and luckily I was ok for the long canter truck ride back to 'civilization' the next day.
To compound the effects of the oppressing heat, we almost ran out of water. The Canter truck promised to pick us up around 8am in the morning after 2 nights in wonder gorge hell, but instead didn't show up until about 4pm. Luckily we had 2 bikes with us and two brave souls biked 15km to the nearest village to fill two jerry cans with water and bike them back to us. By our third day, we could barely move because of the heat, we had just drops of water left, and we were using choice words regarding the drivers of the truck who had dropped us in the middle of nowhere and were 8 hours late in coming back to retrieve us. Oh, and did I mention that someone left honey out overnight and bees were swarming everywhere? gong. show.
I am proud to say we all managed to survive our wonder gorge camping trip. But the beauty of the gorge did not equal the misery of the weekend. The best thing we took away from that trip were the stories of misery and survival. Being a peace corps volunteer in Zambia teaches you two important lessons: 1) that nothing will ever work out as its supposed to, and 2) do whatever you need to do to deal with it. Oh, and that past a certain point, things can only get better... at the very least you will always have a good story. :)
That's all I have for now. It has finally started raining! The temperature has dropped at least 10 degrees. It's my last rainy season in Zambia. Actually, it's the last change of season I'll experience here. It will probably still be raining when I fly back stateside in the spring.
Hope all is well in Americaland!
.peace&hair grease.
katie
After 8 hours in the back of a truck in the hot sun we rolled into the top of the gorge in the evening. We should have taken it as a bad omen when we were literally driving through fires and smoke. If I haven't mentioned this before, Zambians light their country on fire during the hot season. If the fires aren't stopped they tend to just keep spreading with the wind. We spent literally our entire first night at the gorge fighting these fires which had drifted out of control. There were fires encroaching on our camping spot on the tip of the cliff overlooking the gorge, as the canter truck dropped us off and promised to come back 'on time' in a couple days.
First we tried to make a fire break around our campsite. Although I can proudly claim making it to Junior Girl Scouts in middle school (i'm brushing off my shoulder), my nature 'expertise' doesn't extend to fighting fires. I mostly stuck to knitting and selling cookies. Much more difficult. ;) Luckily the guys in our group became all gung-hoe (sp? is that even a word?) and it was contagious for almost the entire group. We found big leafy sticks and started chasing the fires and hacking them out. Night had fallen and we were a crazy sight in the glow of the flames, sweaty and frantic yet still laughing, mostly at the fact that yes, this was actually happening. We managed to control the fires long enough for us to enjoy some dinner. But before passing out from utter exhaustion we formed groups of 2-3 people who were responsible for 'fire watch' during a 2-hour chunk of the night. Each group, when finished with their shift, would wake up the next group, and so on and so forth until dawn. The flames would calm down during the day, but as the wind shifted during dusk we would once again go into survival mode.
Speaking of survival, I had never before been in a situation that allowed me to witness so many peoples' (and my own) varying ways of handling crisis situations. Some became panicked and needed to pace and talk themselves through it. Others were all about coming up with a plan and organizing the troops. Still others connected their ipods to speakers and played music. Even others just sat and stared...before deciding they needed to cook something. Thank god for the latter groups we fought Zambian bush fires while listening to tunes from America, and had yummy food to eat afterward. There was a point where people actually started setting the bush afire to create a fire break with a smaller circumference around our tents. At one point this self-formed fire got a bit too close to my tent. My friend Joan immediately realized this and sprinted toward my tent, grabbing it out of the fast-approaching flames before they could begin to melt the exterior. However, in her quick movement of the tent one of the poles snapped. Thank god for REI. I already have new poles on the way free of charge! Shout out to them. :)
The theme of our wonder gorge trip was Murphey's Law. Whatever could have gone wrong, went horribly wrong. After a night of interrupted sleep to watch the fire patterns across the hills, we decided to hike down into the gorge. What should have taken approximately 2 hours took at least 4...for those who made it. The wonder gorge is no grand canyon because rarely does anyone go there. There are no trails to the bottom of the gorge. And you are scooting on your booty on a steep incline for most of the trip down, yelling out for the sake of those below you when you accidentally break a rock loose that goes tumbling down...down...down...The whole idea was incredibly dangerous and in hindsight we should probably have been using climbing gear and a balet system. Out of all times in my Zambian life, my stomach decided to have a parasitic attack while I was scaling down the side of the cliff. Instead of calling out to warn of falling rocks, I was calling out "don't look up! i have diarrhea!". I would find the nearest tree and cling on for dear life while my stomach rid itself of something nasty. I won't go into detail. Needless to say I was forced to end my trek down into the gorge, turn around, and begin an equally taxing trek back up the cliff, stopping along the way to relieve myself. It was disgusting. I was disgusted by myself. I made it back up to the top eventually, joining with a few others who had either decided immediately that the hike down was too dangerous and not worth it (they were the smart ones) and others who, like me, had made it part of the way and decided to turn around. Of course it was the thick of hot season so we hung our african fabrics and tent rainfly's in the branches of leafless trees to create some sort of shade. I spent the remainder of the day either running into the bush or laying in the fetile position in the shade. It was one of those days where I wonder what the hell I am doing here. Some pepto helped a bit, and luckily I was ok for the long canter truck ride back to 'civilization' the next day.
To compound the effects of the oppressing heat, we almost ran out of water. The Canter truck promised to pick us up around 8am in the morning after 2 nights in wonder gorge hell, but instead didn't show up until about 4pm. Luckily we had 2 bikes with us and two brave souls biked 15km to the nearest village to fill two jerry cans with water and bike them back to us. By our third day, we could barely move because of the heat, we had just drops of water left, and we were using choice words regarding the drivers of the truck who had dropped us in the middle of nowhere and were 8 hours late in coming back to retrieve us. Oh, and did I mention that someone left honey out overnight and bees were swarming everywhere? gong. show.
I am proud to say we all managed to survive our wonder gorge camping trip. But the beauty of the gorge did not equal the misery of the weekend. The best thing we took away from that trip were the stories of misery and survival. Being a peace corps volunteer in Zambia teaches you two important lessons: 1) that nothing will ever work out as its supposed to, and 2) do whatever you need to do to deal with it. Oh, and that past a certain point, things can only get better... at the very least you will always have a good story. :)
That's all I have for now. It has finally started raining! The temperature has dropped at least 10 degrees. It's my last rainy season in Zambia. Actually, it's the last change of season I'll experience here. It will probably still be raining when I fly back stateside in the spring.
Hope all is well in Americaland!
.peace&hair grease.
katie
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