I sent this as an email a couple weeks ago. So, for those of you not on the email list...I'm sorry for the delay.


Hello friends,

Just wanted to announce what some of you already know...I'm back in the states! I arrived home one week ago. Just to dispel any rumors about homesickness or the like, I was unable to renew my permit so I had to come home. Rest assured I am very happy to be home (just as I would have been very happy to be in Zambia right now). If Zambia taught me one thing, it was this: don't sweat the small stuff; in fact, don't sweat anything at all. :) If I truly believe that God is in control (which I do), I have nothing to worry about in this transition. There has been no culture shock, no re-entry shock. Just peace. I only regret that my return happened so quickly that I left VillageSteps with some loose ends to tie up on the Zambian side. So we are busy getting the last few things straightened out.

Currently I am in Texas at Port Aransas on the Gulf Coast. It's refreshing to see the ocean after eight months in a land-locked country. I'm vacationing with my mom and sister and in a few days will go see my sister's new place near Fort Hood. I should even have a chance to visit the University of Texas at Austin, a school I may attend this fall. Then I will go back to Enumclaw where I will spend a few weeks resting and journaling about my experiences before I start looking for a summer job.

I have tons of wonderful memories, pictures, and best of all, lessons learned because of the time I spent in Zambia. Especially as a future social worker, I learned a lot about the operation of an NGO and the struggles and joys that are involved with international social work--things that can only be learned through hands-on experience. And as cheesy as it sounds, I gained friends that will last a lifetime. Friends that have much different perspectives and goals than me. Friends that won't let me forget the eight beautiful months I spent in Africa and my new, broadened understanding of the world.

Thanks for taking part in this journey with me! I'll keep you updated on my future endeavours.


I have some more things I'm typing up about my experiences. If I get it together soon enough I'll compile a book. If not, I'll post some more things on here. But it may take some time...so you can wait a while before checking up on the blog. Thanks so much for your interest in Africa and in my endeavours while there! Peace.

The average rainfalls at my old home and my new home are as follows:

Seattle: 37.2 Inches/year
Lusaka: 32.1 Inches/year

So, there isn't much of a difference. Funny thing is, in Lusaka we only get rain for eight months of the year on average, with well over half of the rain occuring during just two months, December and January.

So while a graph of rainfall, January to December, for Seattle would look like a gently sloping valley, Lusaka's would be a deadly cliff.

SEATTLE
5.4, 4.0, 3.5, 2.3, 1.7, 1.5, 0.8, 1.1, 1.9, 3.2, 5.8, 5.9 37.2

LUSAKA
8.4, 6.8, 4.1, 0.9, 0.1, 0.0, 0.0, 0.0, 0.0, 0.6, 3.4, 7.9 32.1

On a lighter note, today my $1 speaker from the Dollar Tree stopped working. His last words were garbled gospel music. He had survived for three years including two Campus Crusade for Christ leadership retreats, a nasty fall into the toilet and a plane ride from Seattle to Washington DC to Senegal to Johannesburg to Botswana to Johannesburg to Zambia (and possibly some other places during the four lost luggage days). RIP Dollar Tree speaker. You were a good speaker. According to the “made in china” imprint on your back, you had a long life. I will never forget you.

So today I went to visit a community school in Chibolya (the Compton of Lusaka). This place is famous for criminal activity. It’s located just adjacent to the main downtown streets. It feels ominous. I guess that may have something to do with the black dust and black mud caused by charcoal production. The place has no color. It’s like a scene from a hippie movie against deforestation or something. Everything is black, grey or brown with the occasional sighting of dirty white. Many of the buildings are incomplete, finished with mealie meal bags, grocery bags and other trash. The kids are playing outside with bare soot-covered feet. A mother is sitting on her dirty doorstep breastfeeding her newborn. Behind her, the windows have all been broken on her house. The high-rises of downtown tower in the background.

Last time I went through the area I was in a taxi. My boyfriend was so nervous that he reached across me to lock the door and roll up the window. Two minutes later he removed my purse from my shoulder and tucked it under his feet.

This time I get out from the car and walk into the community school, completely unprotected by walls or guards. Instantly my heart is pulled out of my chest. I know I will have to leave it here…for a while at least. At the school they are teaching 40 kids but I’m told about 80 kids are benefiting in some way from the center (food, clothes, etc.). There are two rooms, rented, and a half-built latrine. An old lady across the street has allowed the kids to use her latrine until one is built for the kids. I recognize that this is against the community development rules in the city. They could shut her school down. But who are they to do that? Isn’t some help better than none?

The class greeted me in the standard way, “Hello Madame.” I reply the way I’m supposed to, “Hello class. How are you?” They respond with, “Very fine and how are you?” Well, I tell them I’m fine but clearly I’m not. My heart is on the floor. I ask the director all the standard questions: How many children do you teach? How many teachers do you have? Do you pay them? How do you pay them? What plans do you have for future expansion? What happens to the graduating students?

The one answer that really hits me is about future plans for the school. I’m told that they want to take ALL of the kids and build a home for them somewhere outside of Chibolya. Well, this sounds crazy to me! Why would you relocate so many kids when they all have families? I’m sure their families don’t have a lot of money but surely there is some love in the home. So I ask her if the parents don’t have the means to care for the kids or don’t have the desire to care for the kids. Her answer shocks me, “They just don’t care. They will allow us to take them. Most of the kids have one meal a day. They aren’t cared for at home.” Wow. “So the parents will just let you take their kids,” I ask. She then explains that she knows all the parents and they frequently ask her when the kids will be taken. They don’t want them.

Now I’m speaking quietly to the director because the building only has two rooms and one bench. We are sharing the bench which is positioned at the front of a classroom full of quiet, attentive children. I glance up, scanning the room. I notice one girl wearing a dress that looked like Cinderella’s first gown after her stepsisters ripped it. She is facing the back of the classroom and crying. The girl in front of her smiles and I notice her terrible dental situation, many of her teeth missing. I see a boy staring, his eyes are crossed. Further back I notice some of the older kids with rashes and other medical issues. I’m told many of the children have been sexually abused and are carrying HIV. And I suddenly have that very social-worky feeling, the I’m-not-doing-enough feeling. No, we don’t run any HIV/AIDS programs right now. Aren’t there tons of other programs working on that? We have to stay focused on education. If we disperse funds too widely we won’t have an impact. Besides, we are looking to do projects that have a set end-point. The program must be self-sustainable when we leave. That’s not how HIV/AIDS programs work. But the justification doesn’t make me feel better.

As I am walked to the taxi rank, we are greeted by several friendly neighbors as if we are leaving our white-picket fence to go to our 9-5 jobs. Then I see a small boy, the size of a six-year-old, but I suspect he’s eight or nine. He stands on the edge of the path, bare feet, torn clothes, holding an empty bottle from cheap wine. I fear the bottle will slip from his hands as he stares at us with extreme focus. He has sad eyes that make me want to hug him. But I refrain.

The rain is starting and it quickly becomes heavy. I jump into a cab and we drive off through the door-handle-deep black pond-puddles.

I left my heart in Chibolya today.

I wrote this on Feb 1. Sorry for the posting delay...

Yesterday I organized my bus money, as usual, before I left the school building I was working in. I always try to retrieve my bus fare from my purse before I get on the bus. Not only do I dislike opening my wallet in full view of the other bus passengers, I also want to avoid the awkward elbow poking that occurs when someone reaches into their purse or back pocket while wedged like a door jam between two other passengers. I shoved K3200 in my pocket, hung my bag on my shoulder and walked out to the bus stop, dragging my tired feet.

Yesterday was the deadline for turning in my application for the University of Texas Master’s in Social Work program. I left the school at 13:25, leaving the rest of the day for completing my application. I tried to do it late last night, like a recently-graduated college student that is still trying to break the last-minute habit. One minute after I began typing, the power went out. I only had about 30 minutes of battery power left. And that’s how I found out that procrastination is not a calculated measure here like it is in the states; it’s a risk. Anything could happen keeping me from turning an application in on time: the power could go out, the internet service provider could go on strike, someone could steal the power cord to my computer, or I could have the worst minibus ride ever…

The school I was working at is located between Chazanga and Kabanana compounds. It comes from muddy Chazanga, to edge-of-civilization Kabanana and back. I can watch the bus travel from Chazanga up a long gradually elevating dirt road toward the last bus stop. About ten minutes later the bus will come back, headed for town. It took about 10 minutes before I even saw a bus go up the hill. It was a 27-seater rather than the typical 14- or 18-seater. Lining the windows was wavy metallic blue edging making the bus look like an elementary school bulletin board. I waited another 10 minutes, my bag pulling my body down, wrestling with my shoulder. When the bus didn’t come I decided to wait another five minutes. Five minutes became twelve and I finally decided to start walking toward Chazanga. After all, it’s only a 15 minute walk, 20 on tired days like today.

I rolled the bottoms of my pants up before I trudged through the mud in my flip-flops. I knew that as the kids yelled “Muzungu!” they were watching my shoes flip mud onto the back of my pants and shirt, but I didn’t care. I tried to sound friendly greeting the many passersby. I periodically glanced over my shoulder each time expecting that darn bus to show up. No luck, until…

I thought I’d caught a bit of luck when one of the minibus conductors at the distant Chazanga market saw my arm rise and went about 100 meters in the wrong direction just to pick me up. After I climbed on, I reduced the cash in my pocket to K2700, the bus fare from Chazanga. The minibus traveled around Chazanga market area for about 15 minutes, the conductor shouting amai bwela or “come mom,” harassing potential passengers.

Just after the Chazanga market area is the Chazanga mud-hole area (lovingly nicknamed by me). There is a series of about four unavoidable mud-holes which cover the entire road. On a good mud day the dust-colored mud covers the minibus tires completely. It’s not unusual to see a vehicle get stuck here. I opened the window not only because it was hot but because I wanted to take some pictures. After we made it through all four mud holes, we reversed back through two of them! The conductor had seen a passenger on a side road a ways back. She was standing on the side road wearing a fuzzy army-print jacket that matched her fuzzy army-print pants and she was balancing a suitcase on her head. (Ah, the modern Africa.)

As we were preparing to leave the side road, another minibus passed by on the mud-hole main road. I’m sure our bus driver was thinking that the first bus to make it through the mud holes would get the next couple passengers (or the next K5,400). He started racing through the mud. Just as we were beginning to get a lead on the other bus, the other driver noticed and hit the gas hard. The tires spun at warp-speed, refusing to grip the muddy earth.

Instead, the wheels flung mud about five meters out, in all directions. I was sitting next to my open window, watching the show, when a mud-storm ripped through every window on my side of the bus. I analyzed the situation while I waited for my fickle mind to decide whether to laugh or cry. I tasted the swampy water in my mouth and felt the grit lining my lips. I reached behind me and felt the wetness in my hair dripping down onto my back. I looked at my bag, the moisture seeping through the fabric. I imagined the mud desperately trying to reach inside and destroy my computer, and my University of Texas application. After wiping my face, I managed a weak laugh and promptly disembarked.

Other passengers began to argue heatedly in Nyanja making threats at the bus driver. Really? I thought to myself. What is he going to do to fix the situation? Is he going to give you money for a new handbag? No. Is he going to magically find a bottle of warm milk to make your baby stop crying? No. Is he going to give you some shampoo and a hairdryer? No. If he doesn’t have a solution, I’m leaving. I started walking toward SOS on the Great North Road, a junction where buses from two different directions meet and travel toward town together. On the 15 minute walk to the bus five buses passed me, all traveling toward Kabanana. Not a single bus was driving toward town.

Just as I arrived at the corner, the devil-mud-bus caught up to me. It stopped, allowing a single passenger to disembark. The conductor didn’t even try to offer me the vacant spot. Instead, another bus pulled up just behind and the conductor slid his hand to the front door handle, offering me a first-class seat. Although I didn’t know the bus fare from that point I thought optimistically and reduced the money in my pocket to an even K2000. After making a joke about asking the Muzungu for K50,000 as bus fare, the conductor reluctantly accepted my K2000.

The bus was moving quickly but took a long stop after about five minutes. While stopped the bus with metallic blue edging passed us. And I was beginning to think it had broken down in Kabanana. On the racetrack (Great North Road), the metallic blue edging bus competed with my bus and the devil-mud-bus for a first place arrival at Millennium Bus Station. At the last minute, my bus sneaked past the other two. My bus arrived first. And that’s all I usually ask for. Maybe I’m going to start asking for something different.

I had to take a second bus to get to the internet café. After I sat down (a window-seat of course) a vendor came to the window selling lollipops. K500. I had saved K700 on the bus ride. Wow, it was like being a kid again and getting a free lollipop after waiting in line for ages with your mom at the bank or after getting a shot in the butt at the doctor’s office. Some consolation… I decided to save my money and buy chocolate for K6800 instead. I knew I would need it after walking into the most modern mall/entertainment facility in Zambia while covered in mud. (Remember, I didn’t have a choice about going there. My University of Texas application was due and this was the only internet café which was open late.) As I entered the internet café my hair was disheveled, I had very tired eyes, my pants were still a little wet, my shirt was discolored with mud and I was holding a bar of chocolate. I was waiting for someone to ask, “Shitty day?” Instead I got stared at. Which, by the way, is really good for self-esteem.