Welcome back

Welcome back to Zambia. Yes, welcome back. I went to America and now I'm back. I'm back in the hut, back in the heat, back in the sweat, back in nature. I had a wonderful stay in Americaland and it surprisingly did not go by as fast as I thought it would, but, I told myself before I came that I didn't want it to, and it worked. I, being my usual self, put off all the people I wanted to contact and all the things I wanted to do for my return until the last day, so I didn't call half the people I wanted to and didn't get my ipod ready for another year and a half of Africa, etc. Oh well, Celine and I are still on excellent terms. Like I may have mentioned before, living in the village is not difficult, it is the day or two (give or take a week) that you return to it that are. So, I was not looking forward to leaving a roof that didn't leak, a toilet that existed, and a sleep uninterrupted by the flight of bats. So be it. I left America on a Wednesday, literally travelled as fast as I could (missed a connection), and arrived in my village on Saturday. I swept all the rat and bat poop off my floor, fetched water at the well, got my books in order, and was ready for the first day of school on Monday. I arrived at school a little before 7a.m. knowing that nothing really happens the first week except the sweeping of classrooms and the slashing of grass (there are no lawn mowers). I was quickly notified that a 7th grade student had passed away the day before due to Malaria and the funeral was now, let's go. I hadn't yet been to a Zambian funeral, but it is common in the village to attend even if you are not close with the family. After following two fellow teachers, Mr. Bambala and Mr. Mwaba, through the bush for 20 minutes or so we came to a house (hut) that many women were sitting around and a short distance off the house were all the men. Inside the house I could hear women wailing, a long and somber cry. After a few minutes and a lot of greetings, all the men proceeded to the house. A few entered and then exited with a casket on their shoulders. So began the procession to the burial ground. A long single file line of about a hundred people or so followed the casket into the bush for another 20 minute journey. During the walk, the family wailed, but as they did they and others also sang. The song sounded as such that it was difficult to distinguish between the crying and the singing. It was somehow beautiful to me, definitely unlike anything I have ever heard. I remember waking up that morning waking up that morning thinking to myself that it is very possible to be elsewhere, but there and then all I could think to myself was how could I imagine being anywhere else. That moment, that place, that experience, that feeling. The casket was buried, words were said, there was a meal, and then it was back to the market, field, or school where life continued on. I'm back.