Zambia



The headman

In Peace Corps Zambia lingo, we were “bush rats,” content to stay in our remote village for weeks at a time, and only leaving for food supply runs and periodic vacations.  Although our time was not without struggles, we learned and grew from those experiences.  On our last day in the village in March 2011, we lugged several suitcases containing two years of our life onto the porch in preparation for the Peace Corps Land Cruiser’s arrival.  Then the village headman, counterparts, teachers, students, farming cooperative members, friends and neighbors trickled in to sit vigil with us in the front yard as we waited.  I don’t remember the words of our last conversations because we had been slowly saying goodbye for weeks, only a tone of finality and sadness.  There are snapshots in my mind: our village headman, a former Independence freedom fighter now wrinkled and greying, folded into a forest green canvas chair with a look of solemnity on his face.  Wilo anxiously pacing by our belongings so she would not be left behind, worry constricting her pumpkin-colored eyes.  Our host family’s younger daughters, usually spunky and talkative, sitting quietly in the shade of the mango tree.  Our counterpart standing next to our tall host father, talking animatedly with his hands.  After some hours, we heard the Land Cruiser’s engine as it pulled off the road onto the long dirt footpath leading to our house.  The sound of the deep engine was what made it become real, and we began exchanging handshakes, hugs and tears with dear friends that we were leaving behind.  As we pulled away in the Land Cruiser, my vision was blurred from unshed tears swimming in my eyes, and a part of my heart stayed behind.

Earlier this month, we were fortunate enough to be able to return to our village for a visit, the first time we’ve been back in four years.  The journey from Malawi’s Central Region to Zambia’s Northern Province, though geographically very close, took three and a half full days of bus rides and hitchhiking in private cars because undeveloped infrastructure meant we had to make a “V”, rather than a straight line, to reach our destination.  During this time, we were able to observe how much Zambia had developed in such a short time.  The main roads were in excellent condition, an improvement from the narrow roads we remember with deep craters.  Petrol stations and fast food stores had sprung up everywhere.  Kasama, once a forgotten back-woods provincial capital, now had more vehicles than the roads could handle.  Our friends, who moved back to Kasama last year, joked that rather than the chorus of “how are you’s” from the local children, they were now greeting in Mandarin.

Our counterpart Allan had told people in the village that we were returning for a visit, but it turned out to be a surprise anyways because no one had believed him.  Our Peace Corps predecessor, as well as Peace Corps volunteers in other nearby villages, had left and never returned, so everyone thought Allan was telling stories.  When we arrived the first day, people looked at us with interest, and gossiped with their friends: “Who are those white people?  They look just like Chrisi and Nikki, but they cannot be them.”  By day two, word had spread, and everyone we passed came up to us 

Greeting old acquaintances on the road

enthusiastically, asked how we were, whether we were eating (the consensus was that Chris is very fat, so I’m a good wife, but I’m not eating much myself), and told us how thankful they were for our visit and how much they liked seeing us.  Fortunately, despite not speaking much Bemba for four years, we are a bit rusty at speaking but still understand it we enough to carry on a conversation.  Every day, too, we were improving.  When we visited people at their houses, they showered us with food, which is the Bemba way of welcoming guests.  Upon our arrival, the woman of the house would begin cooking copious amounts of a snack like roasted maize, boiled sweet potato, or boiled groundnuts and serve it to us.  Then when we left, they’d bring us a sack full of groundnuts, pumpkin, beans or sweet potatoes to carry back with us.  We stayed with Allan, and his wife cooked us a full breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as several snacks throughout the day.  Combined with the food we received on our visits, we were eating about every two hours for the entire week we were there.  It is culturally unacceptable to decline food, and there are several varieties of Zambian food that we miss since they aren’t grown in Malawi, so we finished everything. 

RIP BashikuluPrince (L)

Some families had shrunk and some families had grown in our absence.  One of our neighbors, the brother of our host father and wife of the village’s traditional midwife, tragically committed suicide as a result of paranoia, possibly induced by local moonshine.  His house no longer stands, razed to make way for the village health outpost, and his wife and grown children have moved to the Copperbelt.  Our oldest host sister, Doreen, now 22-years-old, is now married with a nearly two-year-old daughter.  Our host father was disappointed that she married young, but she failed grade 8 and had no other options and was determined.  Her husband was educated to grade 12 and teaches adult literacy classes in the village.  With the birth of his first grandchild, our host father is now known as BashikuluMercy (grandfather of Mercy) rather than BashiAmose (father of Amose), to denote his new status.

One of the biggest disappointments was seeing one of our favorite little girls, Pati, now married and pregnant at the age of only 14 or 15.  Another stubborn teenager, she went to live with her boyfriend against her parents’ wishes, and became pregnant.  She now lives with him in a brick house across from his father and mother and in front of her cousin Doreen.  At least she chose well; her husband does not drink alcohol (so many young men do), is polite and a hard worker.  However, I am worried for her labor because she has growth stunting from a childhood of malnutrition and is very young, both risk factors for obstructed labor due to a small pelvic passage.  Bemba women also prefer to have their firstborn child at home, surrounded by loving aunts rather than skilled birth attendants.  It isn’t proper to talk about pregnancy, but we asked Allan to come with us and plead with her and her husband to go immediately to her uncle, our host father, if she is ever “sick” so that he may help her.  Then we left money with our host father with instructions that it should be used for transport to the hospital and/or hospital fees when she needs it.

Pati and younger sister Silvia; then and now

 

With Pati and a young neighbor at the house she shares with her husband

 

 

 



Chanda and her niece Mercy

When we left, we had high hopes that some specific children would be able to escape the poverty of the village and become educated.  Our host sister Chanda, then around 15-years-old, did well on her exams and was sent to complete grade 8 in Kasama.  However, she failed her grade 9 exams, repeated the grade and took the exams again, but still failed to pass and lost interest.  Our host father believes in education and has money to send his children to secondary school, but so far none of his three oldest children have done well enough in school.  The next sister, Maureen, as well as two cousins, was sent to live with an aunt in the Copperbelt in the hopes that a solid early educationwould prepare her for secondary school.  When she left the village, she was in grade four.  However, upon being tested at her new urban school, they placed her back in grade one.  Another student we had high hopes for was Kapembwa, my counterpart Ba Catherine’s firstborn son.  When we left, he was attending grade 10 at Kasama Boy’s Secondary School.  He passed grade 12, but then became involved with the headman’s granddaughter.  She became pregnant, and her parents insisted to Kapembwa’s parents that he either marry her or pay USD 250 for defiling her.  Kapembwa’s mother urged him to continue with his schooling, but he wanted to marry her and soon afterward had a second child with her.

Many of the elders are still going strong.  The former headman, one of our biggest champions, has since retired and his son has taken over.  He has to be in his 80s.  At Zambia’s 50 years of Independence celebrations last year, he was awarded with a gold medal which he now proudly wears on his suit jacket each day.  As a freedom fighter during Independence, he was imprisoned for one year by British colonialists.  He endured harsh punishments such as a severe beating that popped his eardrum, rendering him nearly deaf.

The grandmother who lived opposite us is still as feisty as ever.  Unfortunately she has cloudy

cataracts and probable glaucoma; there is no treatment for that here so she takes ineffective painkillers and snorts tobacco.

Among all families with small children, we were surprised by how much they’ve grown.  Our neighbor BashiMapalo and BanaMapalo are now living in our old house after their house collapsed from heavy rains.  They now have four children including a new baby, and their baby born during our second year of service, Richie, is all grown up.

BanaMapalo and BashiMapalo and the children: (Clockwise) Mapalo (in red shirt), baby Vincent, Richie, and Juliet.  In front of our old house.

Mapalo: then and now

Our friend, BanaPeggy, has a lastborn daughter named Beauty who was another one of our favorite children.  BanaPeggy signed up to take adult literacy classes to learn English so that she could help Beauty with her school work, and she also promised to be able to speak to us in English when we returned again.  Beauty is now in grade 5.

With BanaPeggy and Beauty: then and now.  Cecilia, the older girl and another of our constant companions back in the day is now staying in Lusaka, so we were unable to see her.

Beauty and I, photo bombed by a rooster

Our neighbours BashiMutale and BanaMutale (the parents of Pati, the pregnant teenager, and the brother and sister-in-law of our host father) now have nine children.  They are very kind, nice people, but BashiMutale goes every morning to the station and drinks all day while his wife and children farm.  He always has, and as a result his family is very poor.  Their children are noticeably stunted in growth.  Their oldest son Mutale hung out with us a lot and was an adult literacy student of mine.  Unfortunately he is now following his father’s path and drinks heavily.  One of the youngest boys, Lazaro, we always suspected had some sort of cognitive impairment.  He doesn’t attend school because he becomes very frustrated and hits things if he doesn’t understand, and he listens fine but doesn’t talk much.  His younger brother, Benny, with huge chubby cheeks that we called the cherub before we learned his name, is attending primary school and looks very smart in his blue uniform.  The two youngest girls, Charity and Silvia, who were a toddler and a newborn when we left, are also growing up.  They have had a new baby, a little girl named Jacklyn, since we’ve left as well.

The youngest five: (L to R): Jacklyn, Charity, Silvia, Benny and Lazaro

Our host father and mother (BashiAmose/BashikuluMercy and BanaAmose/BanakuluMercy) have 7 living children and a nephew who've they adopted.  The oldest, Doreen, lives on the other side of the village with her husband and toddler, while the teenager children have completed their highest level of schooling and help at the family's field.  The second and third youngest daughters, Muso and Malama, were about six and four-years-old when we left and could always be found at our house.  They have grown rapidly like little weeds; the whole family is very tall. 

BashiAmose was proud to show us his new acquisition: a Canter truck.  During harvest, he drove his broken-down pickup truck back and forth between his house and field multiple times a day transporting maize, so he sprung for an upgrade. 

BashiAmose and BanaAmose with their new ride.

Longtime readers of TBPLTB will remember the pre-school for orphans and vulnerable children that I worked with, writing a grant, planning and implementing a training for the teachers, and also constructing a new classroom building.  Today, there is a new group of students, many of whom were only babies when we left.  The students I remember are now in primary school, and according to the headmaster at the primary school, are mostly in the top of their classes.  On the final day of the term for primary school, class dismissed early, and many of the pre-school graduates returned to the pre-school.  There were also a few teenager girls, whom lacking anything to do, came and helped the teacher, Ba Allan, with the lessons.


Pre-school graduates and current primary school students returning to the pre-school

 Another one of my large projects during Peace Corps was training community health workers, sensitizing women and men alike, and establishing a family planning supply chain, upon the request of the women in the community.  Previously, the closest Catholic diocese-run health clinic refused to prescribe family planning, and women had no other access.  When I left, the USAID-funded Society for Family Health was supplying us with the oral contraceptive pill.  Unfortunately, funding ended for the project in Northern Province and SFH left abruptly, taking health commodities people had come to rely on, such as the SafePlan pill, Chlorin for water purification and Maximum condoms, with them.  Despite this barrier, the family planning supply chain I established was still active, now sourcing the pill from SFH in Lusaka!  When their supply ran out, fresh boxes were put on a bus bound for Kasama, where they were then picked up an transported to the village.

One of the most bizarre stories we’ve heard is an explanation of why there are no longer any goats in the village.  Apparently, one night all the goats in the village got together (and every family had at least a few), and decided to leave as one and go to the chief’s palace, 12 km away.  In the morning, people found that all their goats were gone, but the sheep apparently decided to stick around.  The chief told the people that if they wanted their goats back, they had to come to the palace and pay a fine.  Not many people were up for the long journey and then paying a fine, so they left the goats there.  Chris and I are whispering about witchcraft as a possible explanation.

When we left, we were able to bring Wilo with us but had to leave behind some other terrific dogs-Tiger, Chankulila, and Wilo’s eight puppies.  We prepared ourselves to the fact that they most likely were no longer living, since dogs in the village don’t have a long lifespan.  Chankulila (Wilo’s baby daddy) did pass away, they said he just didn’t come home one day and they never found out what happened to him.  Six of Wilo’s pups are definitely dead- one ate a poisonous grasshopper like she did when she was young and didn’t survive and another was attacked by a rabid fox.  We lost track of one, but last we heard she was a good guard dog for an agricultural camp officer.  The remaining puppy, Bwafya, is still alive and thriving.  He’s quite a bit smaller than Wilo and Chankulila full grown (ie, poorly nourished), and he looks exactly like Chankulila but with Wilo’s face.  He remembered us too, and ran right over a belly rub.  The most heartwarming dog reunion though happened with Tiger, who is still alive at age 7 or 8.  Tiger is a very reserved dog, wary of strangers, and Chris still bears scars from the time he was bitten by Tiger.  Imagine our surprise when after four years, we enter our host family’s yard and Tiger comes dashing over, his whole body wiggling in joy, emitting little howls for attention.  He greeted us that way every time we came over during our visit, and didn’t leave our sides.

Many people asked us about Wilo too (she was quite the celebrity), and were pleased to hear she was now in Malawi. 

Overall, our visit back to the village was overwhelmingly positive, and it was nice to be surrounded by our family on this continent again.  It was hard saying goodbye again,

Xenophobia

Several kilometers before the Malawian border town of Mchinji, our minibus was stopped at a police checkpoint.  The stern police officer clad in a brown uniform asked to see our passports, as we were the only white people on the bus and obvious foreigners.  After examining them, he turned his attention to our fellow passengers.  He greeted each passenger in Chichewa, Muli bwanji?  He listened as each passenger replied, stating that they were fine.  As he walked away to open the blockade for our passage, a passenger mumbled that he was looking for Zambians because they have money.  The police officer was not truly interested in each passenger’s well-being; he was just listening to the accents and testing that everyone knew Chichewa language.  It could have been a simple immigration checkpoint, but that passenger’s comment implied that if the police officer had found an African foreigner, only kilometers from the Malawi-Zambia border, he could have invented a problem with that person’s passport or entry stamp and demanded a bribe.      

Zambia has changed a lot since we left in 2011.  Chinese and other investment has created a flourishing middle class.  The former late president, Michael Sata, developed infrastructure by repairing and paving roads strategic to trade and tourism. Copper prices, a major export, have risen again.  New malls have sprung up, with South African fast food restaurants and cinemas with the latest blockbusters from Hollywood and Bollywood.  Even in our village, several people now own vehicles and have new iron sheets on their roof replacing the traditional thatch. 

Neighboring Malawi is one of the poorest countries in southeastern Africa.  Most Malawians are subsistence farmers or small scale fishermen living in impoverished villages.  A small elite drive Mercedes Benz’s around the dusty streets of Lilongwe and send their children to universities in the UK.  But there are very few in the middle of this spectrum, because employment opportunities are bleak.  Forty percent of the economy is comprised of foreign aid, and dependency on aid has stifled entrepreneurship.  Massive flooding in January, which destroyed most crops in the southern region and foreshadows tomorrow’s famine, has also hindered the economy.  With no opportunity besides farming, an uncertain venture in the best of times, thousands of Malawians have been drawn to nearby countries, such as South Africa.

There is a woman in our village who lives with her six children in a brick house bordering the primary school.  Her youngest daughter is a student at the pre-school our organization runs, and is six-years-old.  The father of this girl left to work in a mine in Johannesburg (South Africa) when she was just a few weeks old, and has not seen his children since.  He was sending part of his paycheck back every month for many years, but has since stopped and no longer answers his phone.  His wife has not spoken to him for months, and feared he was dead.  Then she heard through a friend, another displaced Malawian in the rainbow nation, that he had taken a girlfriend and planned to marry her.

Our village is full of women who rely on hard work in their fields and a monthly check from a husband in South Africa to feed their children.  Many of these men have not seen their children grow up.  Last week, there was a funeral for a standard 8 student, a girl being raised by her grandmother, who succumbed to asthma.  Her father is Malawian and her mother is South African, but the girl has lived in hot and humid Malawi since she was a toddler, a climate deemed better for her fragile lungs.  She had not seen her father in all those years, and the only event that reunited them briefly was his arrival for her funeral.

Nearly every family in our village has a member in South Africa.  These are hard-working people who have sacrificed family and community to chase a dream of a better future.  So when South Africans in Johannesburg and Durban, rallying with a Zulu king who urged immigrants to evacuate because they were stealing jobs, began fire bombing and stabbing foreign Africans and burning down their houses and stores, Malawians were outraged and saddened.  The Malawi government evacuated thousands of its citizens, returning them to their peaceful yet impoverished homeland on large buses.  All they had worked so hard for in South Africa had to be abandoned. 

Nearby African nations have rallied against what they view as black apartheid.  Mozambique, which supplies power to parts of South Africa, has cut off its electricity supply.  Malawian activists descended on the Parliament building and the South African Embassy in Lilongwe to protest.  Protests in the city have a tendency to become destructive (Malawians have much to be frustrated about), but we were in this section of the city during this time, and saw very few signs of it.  Although we did drive down Kamuzu Procession Road following a police vehicle with shields and officers in riot helmets, presumably en route to a post to ensure things remained peaceful.  These activists have promised that if there is no response or retaliation for comments made by traditional authorities that incited the attacks, they will shut down South African-owned businesses and products in Malawi.  This includes Shoprite supermarkets, Game stores (South Africa’s version of Wal-mart), and dozens of fast food restaurants.

There are always the stereotypes: Nigerians are untrustworthy, the Congolese are violent, etc.  While the Western world often views Africa as one entity, Africans never forget that they are many diverse people residing in 54 distinct nations.  This is apparent in South Africa, where black South Africans have forgotten their own history as an oppressed people upon whom tremendous violence was inflicted, and turned it on the influx of Africans from poorer nations taking advantage of the bustling South African economy.