I've been asked several times by Zambian women if Chris and I have babies that we left in America. Most girls my age have infants slung on their backs and a couple of toddlers with dirty faces and distended bellies trailing behind. There's a plethora of babies in our village. African babies, as I see them, are wonderful accessories. They're much cuter than white babies and they don't fuss and cry nearly as much either. Unless they see us, that is. Most of the babies burst into tears when we acknowledge them in any way. Chris and I are the only white people within a 30 km radius, and the only other musungus are also Peace Corps volunteers.
We got Willow in early June, the darkest puppy with the most expressive eyes out of a litter of three scruffy, half-wild little dogs. She urinated from fear when she was caught and touched by human hands, and trembled the entire journey back to our village. Within just under a week, though, she had lost all fear of us and instead wiggled her lanky frame into our laps to be pet. All the animals here are free range, which is a much better life for them, and Willow, too is free to be a puppy. She spends her days chasing goats and chickens, playing with our host family's very patient dog, and chasing guavas that we throw for her. I hope, and I think that we are, setting a good example for dog ownership, because Willow is not lacking from affection or food. People see that we are very fond of her, and the children will call her name ("Weeloo! Weeloo!") when we walk around the village and play with her. Some of the adults even will pet her. That may not sound extraordinary for you guys in America, but if you've been reading my previous posts, you know that Zambians do not have quite the same relationship with their dogs as Americans do. In other animal news, we have acquired two more chickens, bringing the grand total up to three. The chief gave us a young black and white rooster after Chris took his picture. One of the farmers Chris visited gave us a golden hen. She remains my biggest hope for actually getting eggs, because she doesn't stray far from our home. We've also heard that our first hen is sitting on a brood of eggs now, so we should have some chicks soon.
I had another venomous snake sighting one afternoon while Chris was at the garden with our host family. I was sewing in our insaka, our outdoor cooking structure, when I heard a rustle on the grass roof, about three feet above where I sat. I saw the end of a tail, too big to belong to one of the little lizards that frequently crawl around up there. I scrambled outside and sure enough, it w
as a large green snake. I called a few boys who were passing by, and one of them ran to get a man who lives nearby (Bashimpollo, father of Mpollo, the rambunctious and mischevious four-year-old I've written about before). Within a couple minutes, a crowd of about two dozen children materialized in my yard, all staring up at the insoka on my insaka. With precise aim, Bashimpollo hit the snake behind its neck with his slingshot, and its limp body fell to the grass, where the boys proceeded to beat it with sticks. Satisfied that it was dead, they stepped away, and I got my first clear look at it. It was about two and a half feet long, the thickest part of its body about half the size of my wrist. I ran to get my wildlife identification guide, and it immediately became clear the snake was a boomslang. Boomslangs have highly potent venom that prevents blood from coagulating, which makes its bite more dangerous than those from a cobra or mamba. When Chris returned later that day, we skinned it. Some girls watched with wide eyes and asked if we were going to eat it. I just wanted its skin, but Chris insisted if he had returned earlier and he didn't fear the meat was bad, we would have had it as a relish.
My counterpart, the head teacher at the school nearby, has received a transfer to another school near Kasama. He is very motivated and has worked well with the previous volunteer, so I am sad to see him go. The new head teacher, if his reputation is to be believed, has received the transfer because of his reported conduct with some of his young female pupils. One is said to be pregnant. In Zambia, teachers are very rarely fired; if they behave inappropriately, they're just transferred. Too often, male teachers take advantage of their position. In the case of the new head teacher, I haven't met him yet, so I think I will suspend my judgment of him. It may very well just be a rumor, but I worry about the girls in the village in general, because of the attitude that women should submit to men. Too many get pregnant when they are still children, and subsequently drop out of school, further hindering their progress in this patriarchy.
My new counterpart, Ba Catherine, has been teaching me about Zambian culture. A few days ago she taught me how to smear the floors of the insaka and toilet with a mixture of clay, ash, and water. Sort of like village concrete, I guess. It was a lot of work, and of course Ba Catherine had covered five times of much area as I had in the same amount of time. And that's supposed to be done once a week! On Sunday, she and BanaPeggy (the mother of Beauty, another of my favorite kids), brought over some peanuts, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken for a cooking demonstration. I couldn't bring myself to actually slit the chicken's neck, but I helped with preparation. First she dipped it in a pot of boiling water so that the feathers would come off easier. Then we plucked it, and cut it into pieces, and boiled it. The necks are reserved for men, as is the gizzard. The rest was delicious, delicious chicken though. The women also showed me how to make porridge; cooked sweet potatoes mixed with a peanut paste and either salt or sugar. It's one of my favorite foods here.
Chris and I have been tutoring a grade seven boy that lives nearby, Patricia's older brother, Mutale. His books are all in English, but most of the kids in the village do not understand much English. Part of my work as a RED volunteer is to sensitivize the community on the value of education; in a village where everyone are subsistence farmers, children miss school often because they're needed in the fields, and it's assumed they will have the same lives as their parents, and their parents' parents before them, and so on. So according to the Ministry of Education's guidelines, grade one is taught in local language, but after grade two all instruction is to be done in English. At my government-run school, the teachers will speak first in English, then Bemba, so the children can actually understand.
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To all our readers: It's so nice to hear from so many people that you really enjoy reading our blog. One of the Peace Corps three goals is to educate Americans about the countries it is active in, so I feel like I'm accomplishing that much at least. It's really hard for me to write e-mails or messages to people because typing on my internet phone is hard, and I only get to Kasama to use internet about once a month. So while I can receive your messages on facebook and e-mail within a couple of days after you send them, I can't reply as much as I would like to. I'm slowly becoming a letter writer, though, so you can definately expect a reply to letters. Our new address, which I keep forget to post, is P.O. Box 410374, Kasama, Zambia, Africa.
Mom (and maybe Andrea): I got Andrea's letter. It was postmarked July 8th from Endicott and July 16th from Kasama- that's got to be a record. The pictures are so great, I can't believe how much older Makayla looks in a matter of 5 months. I miss the kids and you guys so much. I still seem to cry everytime after I talk to you or read a letter from you guys. I'm going to try to find some trinkets and mail them in a package.
I have a slip for a package at the post office, so I'll let you know if it's the package you sent, mom.
We got Willow in early June, the darkest puppy with the most expressive eyes out of a litter of three scruffy, half-wild little dogs. She urinated from fear when she was caught and touched by human hands, and trembled the entire journey back to our village. Within just under a week, though, she had lost all fear of us and instead wiggled her lanky frame into our laps to be pet. All the animals here are free range, which is a much better life for them, and Willow, too is free to be a puppy. She spends her days chasing goats and chickens, playing with our host family's very patient dog, and chasing guavas that we throw for her. I hope, and I think that we are, setting a good example for dog ownership, because Willow is not lacking from affection or food. People see that we are very fond of her, and the children will call her name ("Weeloo! Weeloo!") when we walk around the village and play with her. Some of the adults even will pet her. That may not sound extraordinary for you guys in America, but if you've been reading my previous posts, you know that Zambians do not have quite the same relationship with their dogs as Americans do. In other animal news, we have acquired two more chickens, bringing the grand total up to three. The chief gave us a young black and white rooster after Chris took his picture. One of the farmers Chris visited gave us a golden hen. She remains my biggest hope for actually getting eggs, because she doesn't stray far from our home. We've also heard that our first hen is sitting on a brood of eggs now, so we should have some chicks soon.
I had another venomous snake sighting one afternoon while Chris was at the garden with our host family. I was sewing in our insaka, our outdoor cooking structure, when I heard a rustle on the grass roof, about three feet above where I sat. I saw the end of a tail, too big to belong to one of the little lizards that frequently crawl around up there. I scrambled outside and sure enough, it w
as a large green snake. I called a few boys who were passing by, and one of them ran to get a man who lives nearby (Bashimpollo, father of Mpollo, the rambunctious and mischevious four-year-old I've written about before). Within a couple minutes, a crowd of about two dozen children materialized in my yard, all staring up at the insoka on my insaka. With precise aim, Bashimpollo hit the snake behind its neck with his slingshot, and its limp body fell to the grass, where the boys proceeded to beat it with sticks. Satisfied that it was dead, they stepped away, and I got my first clear look at it. It was about two and a half feet long, the thickest part of its body about half the size of my wrist. I ran to get my wildlife identification guide, and it immediately became clear the snake was a boomslang. Boomslangs have highly potent venom that prevents blood from coagulating, which makes its bite more dangerous than those from a cobra or mamba. When Chris returned later that day, we skinned it. Some girls watched with wide eyes and asked if we were going to eat it. I just wanted its skin, but Chris insisted if he had returned earlier and he didn't fear the meat was bad, we would have had it as a relish.My counterpart, the head teacher at the school nearby, has received a transfer to another school near Kasama. He is very motivated and has worked well with the previous volunteer, so I am sad to see him go. The new head teacher, if his reputation is to be believed, has received the transfer because of his reported conduct with some of his young female pupils. One is said to be pregnant. In Zambia, teachers are very rarely fired; if they behave inappropriately, they're just transferred. Too often, male teachers take advantage of their position. In the case of the new head teacher, I haven't met him yet, so I think I will suspend my judgment of him. It may very well just be a rumor, but I worry about the girls in the village in general, because of the attitude that women should submit to men. Too many get pregnant when they are still children, and subsequently drop out of school, further hindering their progress in this patriarchy.
My new counterpart, Ba Catherine, has been teaching me about Zambian culture. A few days ago she taught me how to smear the floors of the insaka and toilet with a mixture of clay, ash, and water. Sort of like village concrete, I guess. It was a lot of work, and of course Ba Catherine had covered five times of much area as I had in the same amount of time. And that's supposed to be done once a week! On Sunday, she and BanaPeggy (the mother of Beauty, another of my favorite kids), brought over some peanuts, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken for a cooking demonstration. I couldn't bring myself to actually slit the chicken's neck, but I helped with preparation. First she dipped it in a pot of boiling water so that the feathers would come off easier. Then we plucked it, and cut it into pieces, and boiled it. The necks are reserved for men, as is the gizzard. The rest was delicious, delicious chicken though. The women also showed me how to make porridge; cooked sweet potatoes mixed with a peanut paste and either salt or sugar. It's one of my favorite foods here.
Chris and I have been tutoring a grade seven boy that lives nearby, Patricia's older brother, Mutale. His books are all in English, but most of the kids in the village do not understand much English. Part of my work as a RED volunteer is to sensitivize the community on the value of education; in a village where everyone are subsistence farmers, children miss school often because they're needed in the fields, and it's assumed they will have the same lives as their parents, and their parents' parents before them, and so on. So according to the Ministry of Education's guidelines, grade one is taught in local language, but after grade two all instruction is to be done in English. At my government-run school, the teachers will speak first in English, then Bemba, so the children can actually understand.
---------------
To all our readers: It's so nice to hear from so many people that you really enjoy reading our blog. One of the Peace Corps three goals is to educate Americans about the countries it is active in, so I feel like I'm accomplishing that much at least. It's really hard for me to write e-mails or messages to people because typing on my internet phone is hard, and I only get to Kasama to use internet about once a month. So while I can receive your messages on facebook and e-mail within a couple of days after you send them, I can't reply as much as I would like to. I'm slowly becoming a letter writer, though, so you can definately expect a reply to letters. Our new address, which I keep forget to post, is P.O. Box 410374, Kasama, Zambia, Africa.
Mom (and maybe Andrea): I got Andrea's letter. It was postmarked July 8th from Endicott and July 16th from Kasama- that's got to be a record. The pictures are so great, I can't believe how much older Makayla looks in a matter of 5 months. I miss the kids and you guys so much. I still seem to cry everytime after I talk to you or read a letter from you guys. I'm going to try to find some trinkets and mail them in a package.
I have a slip for a package at the post office, so I'll let you know if it's the package you sent, mom.
