Ndili Nkuku

For five weeks, I haven’t slept in the same place for more than a week, sometimes less than two nights at a time. Tonight I find myself underneath a mosquito net of a very comfortable twin bed with a beautiful maroon and gold comforter. Tonight I find myself in my home for the next ten months. I’m here to stay. Finally.

I can easily leap from my front step to the landing outside the doors of all the classrooms of my school. So needless to say, when I arrived during break time at school I was welcomed with throngs of children, many my own students as of this Monday. I am ready for this more permanent move, but it was still nerve-wracking to say goodbye to my support network of this past month. I kept my emotions at bay, but the next thing I knew my host father told me that my sister wanted to see me in the next room. I drew back the curtain to the workroom and found my sister, Precious, kneeling on newspaper, taking a knife to chicken. Its literally feathered friends lay on the ground around her. Aunt Ruth sat next to her plucking out feathers.

I sat on a stool and observed for a bit. The moment brought me back to an episode in my Nyanja language class the previous week. Our teacher was explaining that Nyanja does not have a verb, “to have.” Instead, one must say, “I am with.” The teacher’s example was “Ndili ndi Nkuku,” literally translated as “I am with chicken,” but which actually means, “I have chicken.” For a brief moment I had incorrectly translated, “Ndili” (I am), as “I have.” So I thought to myself, “Why would you say ‘I have with chicken.’” I then proceeded to raise my hand and ask the teacher, “Why can’t you say, ‘Ndili Nkuku’?” I didn’t register the smirk on the teacher’s face at first. Then it hit me; I had just proudly declared to my Nyanja teacher and the world, “I am a chicken.”

Then here I was a week later with chickens lying all around me. Some with feathers, others with their feathers floating in silver metal bowls with water sitting next to them. I didn’t know what to think. Should I worry about the sanitation of the area? Was I feeling disgusted by the severed head of the chicken hanging from tendrils of its neck? Was this the moment I became a vegetarian?

I decided not to answer those questions and just sit, watching the women work. I watched Aunt Ruth pluck a whole chicken and when she turned to the next one, I plucked up (no pun intended) to offer my help. She handed me the carcass and I felt the weight of its body. I pulled at the feathers, and I was surprised at how easily they came off. Pretty soon I found myself praying. “Thank you, God, for this chicken. For the life it had….for that life that I can feel in my hands as I feel its weight…as I can still feel the workings of its muscles. This chicken is a gift.”

That chicken was another reality check. This is what I eat and have eaten so many times. Most Americans don’t like to think about where their food comes from. Whether you eat plants or animals, we eat other life, and we should be thankful for it. I took that chicken by the legs and started plucking because it was an act of solidarity with my new family. This is how they prepare food. This is my family now. Am I going to back away from this reality? Or am I going to join in?

Commodity Culture

With Zambia’s British colonial history in mind, on my first trip to a grocery store in Lusaka I wasn’t surprised to find some of my favorite treats I enjoyed in my old study abroad days in London. There were all varieties of Cadbury chocolate and best of all, DIGESTIVES! (If you haven’t had the intense experience of tasting a digestive, have no fear, they are not a laxative like the name suggests, but a crispy cookie covered in chocolate---um, yum!!) I’ve been enjoying a drink called Apple Max, apple juice mixed with a white soda, which reminds me of Apple Schorle that I couldn’t get enough of when I was in Germany in high school. And then there is the restaurant scene. Lusaka has plenty of Subway locations. I’ve seen signs for KFC, and they have countless Nando’s, a British chicken chain, even in the northern parts of the country. Finally, Mountain Dew just made it to this landlocked African country, and let me tell you, expats are going wild! When we stopped at a store with a PCUSA mission co-worker, the store was completely out of Mountain Dew because of the initial demand. Most Pepsi and Coca-cola products are available as well.

Pineapple Fanta!

Most of these commodities have made me feel nostalgic for other episodes in my life, even made me feel like home. It all made sense when I was told that Zambia’s economy is almost completely dependent on imports. Turns out all that chocolate and carbonation has a sour aftertaste. As all these goodies flow into Zambia’s borders, a cycle of consumption occurs in which Zambians don’t have the means to create or produce themselves. I might be happy about nibbling my digestive, but this broader economic and cultural reality of dependence on imports highlights an injustice in Zambia that the Western world needs to muster a response.

At Zambia’s independence, White-dominated African countries like Zimbabwe and South Africa, in addition to Colonial powers trying to hold on to their business interests, made life difficult for Zambia economically because Zambia allowed refuge status for African freedom fighters. When Zambia liberalized its economy in the nineties, allowing more privatization, especially in the prominent mining industry in the Copperbelt, loads of direct foreign investment flooded into the country and continues to this day. India and China are two prominent investors, but American interest and power worldwide should be noted even here. Today, Zambia’s economy is booming. Big businesses grow. Foreign direct investment grows.  There is just one problem. One major, important fact….

67% of Zambians live in poverty.

Let me say that again.

SIXTY-SEVEN PERCENT OF REAL LIFE ZAMBIANS THAT I INTERACT WITH AND SEE WALKING AROUND ME LIVE A DAILY REALITY OF POVERTY.

Poverty in Zambia is defined as living on less than a dollar a day. So that 67% doesn’t even include those that might live on two dollars a day, even five or ten dollars a day.

Could you live like this?

Can you live in a world where others live like this?

I get disillusioned with capitalism as I learn more and more about those that fall through the cracks of “The System” in which we all belong; “The System,” that is not fair, and in which pulling oneself up by one’s own bootstraps is not a choice for so many people.

Practically no Zambians can afford to take out a loan. Zambian banks on average offer loans at a rate of 26-28% (source: Caritas Zambia).  Foreign countries, in contrast, get huge tax breaks and have the option to open banks for their own citizens within Zambia’s borders. For example, Bank of China in Zambia offers loans with an interest rate of 1-2% in Lusaka, but for Chinese citizens only (Caritas). Now wonder Chinese economic interest in thriving here.

How can people get themselves out of poverty while working on such an unfair playing field?

All of these topics and statistics come from my time at FENZA (FAith and ENcounter ZAmbia), a Catholic mission in Lusaka who organizes programs for mission workers and others to learn the languages and culture of Zambia. Last week and this week, I’ve attended two speakers, concentrating on cultural issues, in the morning sessions, and then in the afternoon we study Nyanja, the language predominant in Lusaka province and taught solely in Zambian schools through grade four. One speaker, whose topic was politics, sticks out. He concluded his session saying, “The rest of the world needs Zambians more than Zambians need the rest of the world.” To me, this spoke to the untapped potential of the Zambian people. Colonial exploitation which has now fed into capitalist exploitation, compounded upon the fact that Zambians’ have a communal worldview built upon obedience to elders, family, clans, and ethnic groups, all create a culture that doesn’t know what innovation and change it can make, and quite frankly doesn’t have the means to even try.

Let’s make sure the charity and investment the Western world puts into places like Zambia are resources that get into the hands of everyday people and can be multiplied. Simply importing our businesses here isn’t working. How can we invest in people worldwide with full knowledge that the betterment of people somewhere, betters all of us everywhere?

Just Say Yes

There were signs, but I didn’t see them. In Chimbula village, I came forward twice to be the spokesperson of our group—at the bonfire bible study, and the community meeting at the church about the school they wanted to build. Also, when singing songs around the bonfire, we tried out our first form of African dance, various shuffle and arm movements set to song.

We all thought Reverand Phiri (pronounced Peer-y) had given me away. Two of his youths, as he called them, had gotten married earlier in the day, and he invited the three YAVs to attend the reception. The event took place in the meeting hall of a primary school. The room was packed with rows and rows of plastic white lawn chairs for the guests to sit in. In the front there was a stage set with a long, gorgeously decorated table with seats for over twenty people. The white tablecloth was offset by draped purple ribbon which would match the wedding party’s outfits. In front of the stage was a similarly decorated table with displays of purple and white cakes. To the left and right side were special tables set for the bride and groom’s families respectively.

We sat in front behind some women from Mtendere’s CCAP church. The music was blasting Afro-techno and while we waited the forty-five minutes or so for the event to begin, guests couldn’t contain themselves and would come up to the front to dance. Most dancing consisted of turning your back to the audience and doing a little “shake shake shake…shake shake shake…” as the song would say. Everyone was an incredible dancer. Even a particular boy I can’t forget, maybe six years old, dressed to the nine in a tan suit, just shaking it!

As the hall was filling up, Reverand Phiri asked if he could have a word outside (with the loud music and all). My jaw dropped when he made his request. Would I be the Guest of Honor? I only had to make a speech about love and marriage and I would even get served my food first. I asked him if there was a more suitable person for the job, but I already knew I would say yes.

No is a beautiful word. It should be used for safety, security, self-care and rest, but in this instance and in others I faced thus far in Zambia and many more to come I assume, YES, and an all-out, put-your-back-into-it YEAHHHHHHH seemed the only appropriate answer.

                                          The wedding party in their second outfit

                                          The emcee and I during my speech

The hall flooded with people and I watched the bridal party enter down the center aisle, couple by couple, in choreographed dance for what seemed like an hour. The bridal party even had a costume change. If people really appreciated their dancing they would come up and shove money down their shirt. We learned later that this money was to help them cover the costs of wardrobe and such for being in the wedding. Finally when all were seated, the speeches began. After the fathers said their piece, the emcee invited the Guest of Honor to make some remarks. I thought I had done my part as I expressed sincere gratitude for the role and told all that on a wedding day we are reminded that God is love. I got some ahhhs for that one. Phew. I had done it. I handed back the microphone, but to my surprise the master of ceremonies quickly sputtered out, “In our culture, one can’t leave the stage without offering a dance.”

A dance.

Me.

In front of 200 Zambians…

…

BRING IT!!!!!

I shrugged my shoulders. Strutted over to Devin. Threw off my white sweater. Took my position. And I worked it. I twerked it. I shook it.  And the crowd lost it!

A traditional Zambian bride cannot smile during the ceremony to show her sadness at leaving her own family. Devin and Becca told me that the bride could hide her beaming at the oddness of what she was seeing before her at that moment. I call that a win.

When I returned to my seat, Becca remarked that it was a good thing I was chosen because I am such an extravert.  I was struck by her words because I’ve always identified myself as an introvert—slightly self-conscious, deep down wanting to give people what they want. Luckily, my personality makes me love, I mean LOVE, to just say yes. To just say yes and get lost in the music. To just say yes and dance your butt off. To just say yes and enjoy the ride. I think I found my motto for the year. Who knows what else they will ask me to do? I wonder what my answer will be?

Note: If you haven’t see the video evidence yet, check my facebook!

The Space of Humbleness-Four Days in the Village

“Ha-nah…Day-veen…Rrrrebecca. It is time to get up.”

I roll over and feel for the seventh time that night a throbbing in my glutes from sleeping on a clay floor covered only with carpet, a plaid blanket, and an interesting shower curtain type of bed sheet. My eyes open to the underside of a brown grass thatched roof over my head. The sun, only peaking over the distant horizon, still manages to shoot its rays into the small hole in the very tip of the ceiling, where supporting beams, made of trees that were once seedlings in walking distance from this home, finally meet.

“Ha-nah…Dayveen…Rrrrebecca.” This time Amayi (Uh-my) Zulu’s voice is louder and more firm: “A good village woman gets right up to do her chores. Rise and let us pray.”

Rousing three American young women might be the hardest task for our cultural guides, Amayi Zulu and Mabuchi are Zimbabwean and Malawian village women by birth, who have since moved to Lusaka and become active in CCAP’s Mtendere Church. Challenging tasks lie ahead for them: three American Young Adult Volunteers are in Chagalala Village to learn first-hand about life in the Zambian bush near the Chimbula mountain.

Outside the three-room house, the three granddaughters of Mr. Mugala have already completed one of the only tasks we already knew how to do, sweeping the dirt and leaves on the ground of the Mugala home compound.  The day before when we made our brooms for the task, I never seemed to differentiate between the correct tan, leafless, stringy vegetation we were supposed to pick and the other incorrect tan, leafless, stringy bush I always seemed to wrongly pick.  They took these obviously unfit sticks out of my hands, letting them fall to the dusty ground, and piled their own stash of suitable sticks in my arms. 

Omari, Mr. Mugala's grandson, leading us into his home.

The three granddaughters remained mostly silent during our stay at their home, silently taking on the  extra work of hosting these awkward Americans in their space. But on this day,  boisterous laughter filled the air as they sad on plastic buckets and watched us attempt to do their own chores. at us. We must have looked silly. I imagined European colonists observing village life in yesteryear and thinking how pointless and odious to sweep dirt onto dirt. In contrast, after spending thirty-six hours in this Zambian world, I was beginning to understand how complicated and proper this lifestyle was. Zambians used the land around them in a sustainable and waste-less way. Every resource they picked was used. Every act had a purpose. Sweeping the dirt had not only an aesthetic purpose, but was an attempt at reducing the sand in the air in a dry, and dusty climate. Even the way one had to sit on the ground was to be “proper.”  As time passed and the squatting and sitting on the ground created increasing aches in my legs, I was often gently scolded for not sitting “proper.”

With the sweeping completed, we attempted a new task: washing dishes. My stomach growled a bit, wanting food but knowing we wouldn’t get it until all our morning chores were done. We squatted in the sand around the pots, dishes, and tubs of soapy water. After about three minutes, my squatting legs failed me and I humbly accepted a water jug to sit on, offering much relief to my sore legs. We thought we knew how to wash dishes, but it took many interjections to teach us their system of getting soap on the plates without touching dirty water, followed by rinsing and then putting away. Then the challenge was upon us. Cleaning the pots that were black from the open fire. There was no green scrubby or even steel wool to scratch off the soot. But there were copious amounts of sandy dirt around us. We wet the pots, grabbed sand around us, and started scrubbing.

It was like rubbing sand paper on my hands, over and over and over again. Scratching, scratching, scratching. My hands were black from the sandy mud clinging to them, and I could feel the irritated redness certainly forming underneath. We had watched the granddaughters scrub in the same way the two previous days, and we felt determined to take in the pain and do the job. The sand did the job and completely black pots once again sparkled silver.

Next, we set out to retrieve water. I was given a large red bucket and wondered as we walked the rocky and hilly path to the well whether or not I could actually lift it once filled.  When we reached the well I peered over the logs that surrounded an opening in the earth where water lay a couple feet beneath the surface. One could easily fall in as they dipped their body below the earth’s exterior to retrieve the life-sustaining substance. Devin, Becca, and I stood back as the Zambian women did what they did everyday.

“I think we are about to be humbled,” I mentioned to my fellow YAVs.

The smallest granddaughter lay on the logs, held herself in place with one hand, and dove her body into the chasm to draw the water. Somehow she pulled herself back up with the extra weight of the water and passed the bucket to her cousin, who took it and started pouring it in the other jugs. When all buckets were filled, they put the biggest bucket onto the head of the three Americans. We could only handle the weight for a few seconds. Then they tried to hand us the smallest plastic jugs, which looked similar to fuel jugs. I was the one to refuse and say, let us try carrying the heavier buckets. Let’s see how far we can go, I thought.

It felt like an important attempt, maybe an interesting challenge. Let’s see how far I can go, so that I can truly understand the experience of village life. Even in the moment, I knew I was setting myself up for failure, but I was acting out of my American optimism. I can do anything, or at least try. I certainly don’t like the notion that I can’t do something. My offer to carry the big bucket ended up being a silly attempt to prolong the inevitable: this is something I cannot do.

Two hundred yards in, my arms faltered. They had already faltered multiple times, but I came to point where I knew I couldn’t go any further. They youngest grandchild (yes, I said youngest) took my back-breaking, heavy bucket, put it on her head and set into a quick tread back to her home. I was left with the smallest jug, which even after a few hundred yards started to hurt my arms. I walked the rest of the journey in humbleness, knowing full well I couldn’t balance even a small weight over my head on this rocky terrain, let alone in flip flops or bare feet.

I had reached a limit. A boundary. An act I could not do. Maybe instead of pretending like I could do anything, I should just walk into this feeling of humbleness that was growing inside me. Maybe this space of humbleness, that recognizes the strength and beautiful difference of others, which I do not possess, is the space where respect, love, and relationship lives. This year and the rest of my life I will encounter people of different backgrounds, different cultures, different morning routines, different strengths, different diets, different languages and songs. Matching the different rhythm of a new person is a great way to expand our perspective and learn about the beauty of diversity. But solidarity should not be an act that creates theoretical or physical sameness. We are all different. We have different aptitudes. What a beautiful, challenging, messy thought. And it only came to me with sweat, frustration, giggles, aches, smiles, and awe.

A little shock and more than a few questions...

Last night Becca, Devin, and I wrote out a whole page front and back of questions for Kari, our site coordinator: Questions about our host family, eating nshima with them every day, showers (turns out we will only have bucket showers available), job placements, safety… the list when on.

Honestly, the last few days my emotions have been a roller coaster. I feel overwhelmed, scared, out of place, and on display. My skin color makes me blend in about as well as oil does in water, and I feel intrusive and like a novelty at times. I had an idea of what I was getting myself into, but holy, holy moly: I am experiencing some serious culture shock! Unlike the United States, the stark differences and injustices due to privilege are everywhere. I can’t escape it and I finally realize just how wrong it is that the United States can hide its poverty, making it possible for so many to drive passed the world’s problems and just keep on trucking.  I certainly have contributed to this system. I can drive right through segregated neighborhoods of Milwaukee to go eat my nice dinner downtown, but I’ve rarely had to stop or be in relationship with the people that live in poverty. I’ve always known that the American system that creates this segregation is wrong, but I have the white privilege to forget about it by enjoying my middle class comforts.

Zambia, too, is caught up in an economic system that America and its allies helped create. Zambia will celebrate fifty years of being an independent state this October, but the effects of colonialism and the disparity between country’s like the United States and Zambia are stark. Unemployment is fifty percent here and you can see it in the throngs of people walking everywhere on the road, so close to our quickly moving cars. (So close it makes me very, very nervous!)

I’m adjusting and I’m learning to live with the sting of my privilege every day. I’m hoping to learn what the sting will cause me to do or advocate for.