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.