December '10

So, before Americaland, I finished up teaching at Rfunsa Basic. The teachers threw a little "going away" party for me and we drank real beer that was actually cold, carbonated, and served in a bottle. It was a big deal. As a gift, they gave me a collared shirt that said Rfunsa Basic on it. That was enough to make me feel my service complete. I felt accomplished. The stipulation was that I had to go into the other classroom and put it on and upon returning, dance to the music we had playing from a small stereo. Let's just say we all had a good laugh. My hips are more attached to my waist than any other Zambian.

After the school term, me and 3 other volunteers each took 3 girls and 1 teacher (24 total) from our villages to a week long girls empowerment camp, Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). We applied for a grant from USAID that gave us the financing to pay for food, lodging, and transportation in Southern Zambia at Lake Kariba. A friend of a Peace Corps staff member owned the lodge and gave us a substantial discount so we could afford the destination. The planning began back in June '10. The days consisted of morning discussions on topics such as HIV/AIDS, rape and sexual assault, assertiveness, and sugar-daddies. The afternoons consisted of arts and crafts and games. I began the workshop with a self-esteem building presentation. I asked the girls who they thought the most important person in the world is. They replied the president, the chief, their mother, their father. I then passed around a folder with the words "The most important person in the world" written on it. One by one they opened it and inside they found a mirror. They were all surprised and shied away at the site, but quickly got the message that we are all equal and all the most important person. It was a fun way to begin. Minutes after giving my presentation, I became very weak and began to shiver. I went and laid down and soon my back and neck became very stiff and a monstrous headache set in. My temperature became 103. I called medical and they said start taking your Coartem, you probably have Malaria. So, aside from feeling like death for a couple of days, the camp was a great success. The girls got to learn how to use a shower and a toilet, they went on their first boat ride, and they got to eat food that was prepared for them.

A new batch of education volunteers arrived a week ago and 3 of them got to spend 3 days with me to become acquainted with Zambian life and the Zambian school system. We had a great time and all seemed excited to get the training process over with so they too could begin living the dream. Ironically, again, the morning they were to be picked up and taken back to the training site, I woke up with a temperature, my stomach was not cooperating, and I had the energy of something with no energy. Medical told me to come in with the cruiser that was picking up the new volunteers. After breaking out into profusive sweats and nearly losing consciousness, I arrived at medical and once again began taking Coartem, the Malaria medicine. I was down and out for the last few days, but you can't keep a good man down, and you can't keep me down either. I just took my last few pills and will be heading back to site this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Funny as it may sound, and I say this now that I feel better, this is why I signed up. There is something to be said for feeling a sickness of the world (more people die every year of Malaria than any other reason in Zambia), staring it in the eye, and falling upon a new understanding, an understanding of what others feel in times of sickness, and an understanding of what it feels like to be healthy, again.

It's rainy season so the caterpillars are out which means protein for dinner. Picture one is Lamba, Vuca, and Chiza getting the caterpillars ready to fry. The other picture is of all of us at Camp Glow. I'm the tallest one with a green shirt in the back.

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.

Dear Grandma,

Dear Grandma,
I was informed of Grandpa's death a few days ago. I feel the best way for me to deal with the situation is to write you this letter. I have been trying to write more, but find that I am only inspired to do so when I am not feeling up to par, the writing being my counselor. Upon hearing the news I must admit I was not shocked, but rather you, my dad, and Uncle Terry were the first things to pop into my mind. I was riding my bike to Rfunsa, a nearby village, to teach some Math when Eric called me with the news. He told me how my Dad had got to have a nice conversation with Grandpa just the day before. This above all things was what brought tears to my eyes. Imagining that conversation I can only think of how pure and how rich life was at that moment. It's unfortunate, or maybe fortunate, that it takes death or near death experiences to achieve those moments. I believe my tears were not of sadness, but of gratitude that such moments can and do exist.
Thinking back on all the memories I have of Grandpa, I feel very blessed to have so many. I know that some people live with or near their Grandparents, some don't have any at all, but I was given the situation that when I visited you and Grandpa, it was always an event, and a spectacular one for that matter. I remember going fishing, even though it wasn't fishing season, with Grandpa and my Dad up in Canada on "the boat." I might as well had been on a cruise line because the food, entertainment, and hospitality was impeccable. Grandpa had all his stories of wrecking or almost wrecking the boat and I had enough food for a small army. Grandpa made me feel like I was the most talented and important person on the earth. I couldn't help but smile, giggle, and eat the entire trip.
Of course there is the famous peanut butter and jelly sandwich story. This is still of no memory to me, but Grandpa's retelling of the story will forever live on. I ate half of my sandwich and was probably full so I left it on your table and went to play. Grandpa asked if I was done eating and I said yes. What I should have said was that yes I was done but don't eat my sandwich because when I came back and found it gone I apparently threw the biggest fit. Grandpa's version of this story, not the story itself, is what makes it so great, his laughing as he told it.
I think of all things I will remember Grandpa for his love of children. Being here in Zambia, there is a lot of emphasis put on sustainability. Will our efforts last after we have left? When broken down, I think if you've made a child smile and feel good about him or herself, that's about as sustainable as you can get. This is what I saw Grandpa do best. This is what I will try to carry on. As you know, Grandpa could make children smile, especially the little ones, and they could make him smile. Even when his memory had begun to slip you knew that he wouldn't forget that you were to smile at a child. It's as though it was embedded in his DNA, memory not necessary. So, as I sit here in the middle of nowhere wondering sometimes whether I am wasting my time. I know that because Grandpa made me feel special and because he made me smile, I am able to smile that much easier today. And if he was able to do that for me, I know I should try and do that for others knowing that a smile never fades but merely reappears further down the road. There is no waste of time in that effort.
Now I know that you know all of what I have told you in a much deeper context, something in which I am envious of. I also know there was a lot I didn't know. When I think of this, I think of what Ann told my Dad one day. She said that he may not always be a nice man, but he is always a good man. I know my Dad took this to heart. While I think that Grandpa was always nice, I know that he was a Rogers which means that people may not have always seen the niceness, but I think that those that knew him always saw the goodness.
You, Grandma, somehow managed to remain both nice and good, even in the midst of Grandpa being a pain in the butt. As we learned in Tuesdays With Morrie, it is better to tell you this now rather than 50 years from now when you may not be around. Your grace and sweet disposition gives everyone a sense of peace and balance. Because of this, I know Grandpa was a better person. I remember Grandpa driving you and I in the middle of New York City after watching a taping of Spin City. We were trying to leave the city and managed to drive in one direction for an hour only to find ourselves back at the hotel where we started. Grandpa was telling me his dream of buying an old beat up car and going on a rampage through NYC hitting anything that did or did not get in his way. You were saying that it was a beautiful day and that it was great for me to see more of the city. I think I concluded that I would like tour NYC in an old beat up car, ramming anything in the way, a wonderful combination.
We all have a place in this world. I strongly believe that my place is no more or less important than the man begging for change on the street corner. We are derivatives of our parents, and our parents of their parents, and so forth. I wrote this letter on November 14th but concluding it today, the day of Thanksgiving, I am thankful that my Dad had Grandpa as a father and you, Grandma, as a mother.
I love you,
Grant
p.s. Can someone print this and give it to Grandma? Thanks.

Ironic? Maybe something more?

The creek which is dry now still still has some standing water in one puddle of an area, the area we just so happen to walk by many times a day. There is a log to walk across when the water is full and/or running. I'm not sure if it runs but I will soon find out. The log has been pushed aside and you can walk through the dip in the earth from one side to the other on hard, dry dirt. There is still a large puddle or smal pond a foot or two deep bordering the walking dip path. As it may be a stream, there is a step on each side of the dip to go down and then back up when walking. I ride my bike my bike everywhere and have become accustomed to getting off my bike and carrying it on the log and then resuming riding. The same held true when the log was pushed aside, as the steps into and out of the dry creek bed were a bit much for a casual stroll. I did however venture oned day through the bed without getting off the bike, feeling a bit tired to wheip my leg over the rear of the bike to get off. With a bit of a thud ont he way down and a little peel of the tire on dirt on the way up, I made it through without much fuss. That of course was the easy direction of travel, as the lip into the stream on the way down was sharp, but on a bike is just a thump. The lip on the way up is more gradual and therefore not much of a feat for a mountain biker. So, again, feeling lazy or moreso efficient, I thought I'd try to conquer the feat going in the other direction. I was riding back from teaching in Rfunsa, so that meant I had my teaching clothes on, whcih is surprisingly more casual than my Zambian counterparts, a polo, and dress slacks, and dress shoes. I had my book bag nicely placed in a basket I attached to the back of my bike rack, a little contraption I am quite proud to have made as now I don't have to wear the bag and show up to class with a sweaty back and bag. So, I hit the down slope with no problem, but knew I was gonna need some good momentum and a good lift on the handle bars to get up the other side. I did not get what I needed, but hey, no big deal, step off to the left, grab the bike, and walk up the lip. Not quite. I somehow did not process the the whole shift the weight to the left thing in time and ended up witha weight shift to the right, only to the right sat the pond. The step to the right was not at the ground level as the step to the left was, so I didn't get the luxury of stepping into the water and then out saying "darn, my shoe is wet." No, we are talking full body submersion. The mud in my pants and shirt was so bad that my Zambian family had to help me wash them as my hand washing abilities have not improved over time. My house is a few hundred meters from this puddleso I was still dripping mud and water when I arrived. All the kids were relaxing and I was glad to see a smile appear rather than a look of concern when I walked up to them because this all deserved a genuine stomach intitiated laugh. And that we did. Only the older ones understood my english, as I have not learned the Chinyanja words for crashing a bike into a pond yet, but the younger ones were able to comprehend with all the body language. The moral of the story however goes much deeper than pond. My sister, Colleen, sent me a text the next day to tell me there was a big storm and that she and her kids went puddle jumping after it passed. It wasn't till a few days later it dawned on me that we were all puddle jumping on the same day. Let me mind you there is only one puddle in Zambia that I know of. Ironic? Maybe something more?

One picture is of a future co-teacher in his hotel room at a co-teaching workshop. He asked me to take a picture of him in his room as he has never stayed in a hotel nonetheless a room with electricity, so in we went, off his shoes came, and on to the bed he jumped. I thought the pose was worthy of a posting. The other picture is of us upon completion of the work shop. We will be teaching Grade 8 and 9 maths (they say maths here) together starting in January at Chimusanya Basic.

Third term- 2010

Well, I am well underway into the third and final term of the school year. My assignment is to co-teach and that I was with the grade 8 and 9 math teacher at Rfunsa Basic, Mr. Mulenga, until he got shipped off to another school. So, I have had the privilege of teaching my own grade 8 and 9 math class for the last few weeks and have 2 or 3 more weeks to go until they take their exams. Co-teaching was fun, but having the class to myself is a blast and I am enjoying it while I can. The grade 9's take an exam to see if they qualify for high school, so I have backed out of lesson mode and am in review mode to prepare them. Review mode I am finding is actually re-teach mode. Who knows if I will be able to improve their scores, although I must admit I could knock out their test with flying colors. I forgot how good at math I was. It's a bit of a curse because multiplying by the inverse seems logical to me, but to have it make sense to them is another story. Regardless, it is easy to see that the math is not why I am in the classroom but rather to show them that you don't have to hit to punish a child for talking and you can praise an effort, even it is incorrect. Speaking of praise, the kids like to do claps for each other when they answer questions correctly (the younger grades actually), so I took the liberty of introducing my grade 8 and 9's to the Arsenio Hall Show clap, which if you don't know is woofing like a dog while pumping your fist in the air. They of course adapted it quickly, but the best part was hearing it in a class I wasn't teaching and also having the head teacher ask me the other day, "what is this dog barking the kids are doing in class?"

The roof to my hut needed replacing, and aside from the month it took to get bamboo and grass, it took another surprisingly 11 days to do the labor. My fellow volunteer neighbor (40 miles away) said she had it done in a day. Not sure what's up with my village, but I still couldn't help but relive the Shawshank Redemption movie moment where the prisoners are drinkin suds as they tar the prison roof. Now maybe we are prisoners of a system, prisoners of poverty, or prisoners of nothing, but the picture above shows us drinkin suds when the roof was finally done. "We sat and drank with the sun on our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been tarring the roof of one of our own houses. We were the lords of all creation. As for Andy - he spent that break hunkered in the shade, a strange little smile on his face, watching us drink his beer." Note- we were drinking actual suds. Real beer is like champagne here, as they drink Chibuku which is made from maize, has no carbonation, and costs a quarter.

The other pictures are of the teacher's at Chimusanya Basic on World Teacher's Day BBQ'n some chicken, and the kids are some neighbors JB or Jebby (not sure which) and his sister Kausine.

Village Re-entry

Again, a blog short-cut.. a journal entry the other day.

It is August 31st, 2010. I have just returned to Chimusanya from a three week venture into Lusaka and Malawi. I was in Lusaka for a two week In Service Training and then "Mu U" (those who lived in Mwampikanya during training) ventured to Nkhata Bay on Lake Malawi in Malawi (picture above from the balcony of my room. 8 bucks a night!) for 6 days. There is a ton to recall but for now I want to focus on the re-entry into the village life and the feelings associated with it. There are some long lost feelings of home sickness. I have opened a care package mailed three months ago and have six wonderful pictures of American knuckleheads to look at. I hesitated opening the package upon first arriving to my hut becuase I was already missing my american interaction. I did not want to add to the emotion. I, out of the blue, said the fell with it and opened it. I haven't stopped smiling at the pics. Jake has the greatest grin/ laugh in one of them that made me laugh out loud. There was, after all, no need to hesitate. The pics made me feel in touch again. My mom called this morning worried cause I haven't been in cell service (no service in Malawi). I thought it was known I was going unavailable for a week, but regardless I felt bad because as independent as being in Africa can seem, it is the love, longing for, and respect I have for my family that keeps me going, and I don't want them to feel that they are not part of this and a part of me. Just as important or significant at least, I want them to know I am a part of them, for when you find yourself alone in a village you like to know that you belong somewhere. So, I find myself alone yet amongst my Zambian family. The language barrier is still there and may always be. I sit in the middle of them to show either I care or am not scared. In my house I would have a television as my friend. Here I have a pen or a book. I try to break from them, but feel as there is too little to say... a reocurring theme anywhere, not just Zambia.

Lunch has just been served and I find myself quickly back in the mix. Mambwe (the boy in the picture above. He has no idea what DORK means) has asked me for help with his math which was a good break from the solitude. The sun is setting in the clouds giving one of those Bible phrase post card pictures and I look for its comfort and connection. I still marvel at its sight, but tonight its full effect is not there. The peace and purpose I question is in question, yet I think as though it is now that when the sunset carries me, the footprints are just a little deeper in the sand. Becca and Chiza (the two knuckle heads here) are singing and that instantly makes me giggle. I look forward to a restful slumber and hope the mice don't wake me. I look forward to sleeping in. I look forward to exchanging greetings with my village friends tomorrow. They make me feel so welcome and important and I hope I can return the favor. My ankle may be broken so there is no futbol for a while which does not help the situation. Vuka is pulling a car made of empty milk cartons by a string, about as primitive a toy as you can get, yet still so relevant. That shouldn't make sense. That shouldn't entertain, but in this time of volatility it makes more sense to me than it may ever will. What is there not to make sense of? The man is in his element. What is my element? Do I have one? My Amai (village mother) has told me she will find me tomorrow. She is off to yet another funeral. The sun rises, and the sun sets. We pull cars by strings. We try not to feel bad. Sometimes we do.

The Fair

Community entry has ended which means I am now free to leave my site and travel within the standards of Peace Corps. The school term has ended as well (three months on, one month off). With school out and our entry period complete, Peace Corps calls all the new volunteers in for an In-Service Training. It's a two week workshop where we all share our experiences, challenges, successes, and new techniques for teaching and sustainable development within our communities. We have just completed the workshop and it was a long two weeks. Some topics covered were dealing with corporal punishment, school gardening, and learner centered classroom techniques. We had a counterpart from our villages come in and do a Project Design and Management workshop for two days as well. Almost everyone brought a fellow teacher to the workshop. I brought a futbol teammate. He and I would like to start a sports club so I felt this was a good opportunity to get a plan together. We learned some good strategies, but we'll see what happens in the village. All in all, it was a fun getting to see everyone and hear all the crazy stories that we all could relate to.

Right before the training, some teachers in my village were taking their kids to the Agriculture show in Lusaka, so I tagged along and brought the two first grade girls I live with. The two girls have never been out of the village, nonetheless seen electricity or city before. They were quite like a deer in head lights, yet they took the experience in stride. I was rather impressed. They took to the jumping castle like pros and got cotton candy all over their face like they're supposed to. I can only imagine what they were thinking as they looked around. The Agro show was very similar to a county or state fair with lots of entertainment. There is a picture of the crew above.

There is a picture of some of the grade 7 class getting ready to take a mock exam. There is also a picture of Rachel, the granddaughter of one of the ladies I live with.