It’s September 25, 2009.
And it is raining.
It should be the beginning of hot season but there have been signs of rain for weeks now.
The winds are coming from the northwest.
The mosquitoes are insanely bad.
The frogs are singing at night.
The bugs are chirping during the day.
Zambians call it the rains that save the animals. There hasn’t been substantial rain since May which means there is no green grass for kilometers and kilometers. And the dry grass that was there has either been cut to thatch roofs or has been burnt to “improve” the soil for planting next year. The cows and goats are starving. And these are the rains that will, hopefully, save them because grass will now germinate.
And while the animals are going to be saved, gardens will prosper, and people eagerly wait the farming season-I am about to face the worst obstacle I have in Zambia: allergies.
Ever since I was small I have battled allergies. You know you have a problem when you start allergy shots at the age of 4. But don’t think for a second that I was one of those kids who weren’t allowed to play outside. I was always outside running and playing till I couldn’t breathe anymore. I was then forced by my mother to come in to take a shower to wash the outside off. For some reason I’m just allergic to the outside. And I’m not being sarcastic when I say that. I am LITERALLY allergic to the outside. Dirt, grass, dogs, cats, mold, pollen; general rule, if it is green and/or growing, I'm probably allergic. When I lived in India, I was banned from doing any projects related to dirt. We were working on a service project where we planted flowers. Innocent enough. Unless you are me! Within 5 minutes of my hands touching the dirt, I had a bright red rash all over my hands. Needless to say, I have allergies.
Normally, those things would be ok and I don’t like to let them get in the way of what I want to do. In America I could hide from these things in my bedroom, preferably with the AC on, until I'm all better and ready to go. Instead I live in Zambia, where I am allergic to the materials my house is MADE out of! Which makes it difficult to escape from.
Last rainy season, I had a panic room constructed. After having at lease 3 confirmed sinus infections in the course of 4 months and a useless trip to Lusaka, Peace Corps, in their infinite wisdom, decided my house should be ‘fixed.’ This meant having my walls cemented (because mold doesn’t grow on cement) and putting plastic up as a barrier between me and my grass roof. My house is now sporting 4 new cement coated walls, 3 new windows with shutters, and a beautiful clear plastic drop ceiling that the mice like to run across at night. By the time that was all done the rains had stopped and I was feeling better. I have yet to really prove if the Panic Room (or the weather change) made me feel better.
Panic Room Judgment Day has arrived.
My bataata says that it will probably rain this week then stop. He predicts that it will start raining mid-October, stop, and then start again beginning of November. And if there is anyone I trust knowing the weather, it’s him. He could work for the Farmer’s Almanac of Zambia. If there was one.
It’s just strange to see the weather patterns change and shift so dramatically before your eyes, especially in a country with such predictable weather patterns. Rainy season turns into cold season which turns into hot season and it starts all over again. When I came to Zambia in February 2008, it rained once in March and I didn’t see rain again until November. 2009 has proved different. When cold season started, rainy season didn’t get the message because it rained once a month during all 4 months. And now hot season is here and it’s still raining. No one can really tell when one rainy season stopped and the next one started.
As villagers rush to repair roofs and start preparations in the gardens and fields, I can only think that maybe Al Gore was right about that whole global warming thing.
But why does it have to put my allergies to the test?
I'll keep you up-to-date on my allergies and the weather!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
It's The End of The World as I Know it!
August in the village has been pretty slow. Why you ask? Well, school is closed for the holiday and I have no big projects to work on until school starts. What have you been up to? Well, that is why I’m blogging.
For the first week of August I sat at my house, read books, and drank coffee. It was great! Until my world as I knew it came crashing to an end. Well not so much crashing as breaking. I'll start from the real beginning, when I came to Zambia.
If you have ever met me, you know that I love coffee. I came to Zambia with a french press in my carry on (so it wouldn't get broken) and 3 bags of starbucks to get me through the first few months. I drink it all day long, even in Zambia, which is very expensive considering I have to have my mom constantly send me starbucks coffee grounds. Drinking coffee keeps me sane. It keeps me connected to America-land and my old habits. It gives me something to do. The whole time I have been here, I have had coffee everyday except one-I was so sick that I couldn't drink anything. I just love coffee! Ever since I came, I have said that if anything happens to my french press, I'll just go home. I am that connected to my coffee drinking.
And then it happened. My french press broke.
Joy, my little brother, was pretending he was a cow at my house and accidentally knocked it over. And it broke. Beyond repair broke. Not just cracked, but broke. As soon as it happened, I knew it was broken. It was the worst sound that I have ever heard. I knew before I looked at it, it was broken. All the kids that were at my house immediately told me that they were “sorry, sorry.” I sent them all home so I could cry by myself. I cried for a little bit, texted 2 of my friends so at least some one could feel sorry for me, and then Joy came back to my house. And even though he is only a year and a half, he could tell I was mad. I told him to go back home. So he went outside and stood just outside my door, hoping that I would be happy again. He soon gave up and went back home and didn't come back the rest of the day. After a few hours, I was ok with my french press being broken. But I still can't bear throwing it down the pit latrine (where all things glass and un-burnable go). It is sitting, broken and sad looking, on my table.
And as fast as it happened, it was fixed. One of my friends that I texted, Brittany (appleninjas.blogspot.com), texted me back right away and told me I could use hers until I finish. She has saved my life more than she will ever know. And things are right with the world again! (And I have forgiven Joy, even though it was just an accident, and he is back to being happy again!)
Now I'm hanging out in town, waiting for my blisters to heal (that was another August adventure. Long story short, I tried to wear shoes sans socks, got blisters, they got infected, now i'm on antibiotics and waiting for them to heal) and getting ready for school to start next month!
More later!
Christa
PS: I’m not leaving Zambia just because my French press broke. Thanks Brittany!
For the first week of August I sat at my house, read books, and drank coffee. It was great! Until my world as I knew it came crashing to an end. Well not so much crashing as breaking. I'll start from the real beginning, when I came to Zambia.
If you have ever met me, you know that I love coffee. I came to Zambia with a french press in my carry on (so it wouldn't get broken) and 3 bags of starbucks to get me through the first few months. I drink it all day long, even in Zambia, which is very expensive considering I have to have my mom constantly send me starbucks coffee grounds. Drinking coffee keeps me sane. It keeps me connected to America-land and my old habits. It gives me something to do. The whole time I have been here, I have had coffee everyday except one-I was so sick that I couldn't drink anything. I just love coffee! Ever since I came, I have said that if anything happens to my french press, I'll just go home. I am that connected to my coffee drinking.
And then it happened. My french press broke.
Joy, my little brother, was pretending he was a cow at my house and accidentally knocked it over. And it broke. Beyond repair broke. Not just cracked, but broke. As soon as it happened, I knew it was broken. It was the worst sound that I have ever heard. I knew before I looked at it, it was broken. All the kids that were at my house immediately told me that they were “sorry, sorry.” I sent them all home so I could cry by myself. I cried for a little bit, texted 2 of my friends so at least some one could feel sorry for me, and then Joy came back to my house. And even though he is only a year and a half, he could tell I was mad. I told him to go back home. So he went outside and stood just outside my door, hoping that I would be happy again. He soon gave up and went back home and didn't come back the rest of the day. After a few hours, I was ok with my french press being broken. But I still can't bear throwing it down the pit latrine (where all things glass and un-burnable go). It is sitting, broken and sad looking, on my table.
And as fast as it happened, it was fixed. One of my friends that I texted, Brittany (appleninjas.blogspot.com), texted me back right away and told me I could use hers until I finish. She has saved my life more than she will ever know. And things are right with the world again! (And I have forgiven Joy, even though it was just an accident, and he is back to being happy again!)
Now I'm hanging out in town, waiting for my blisters to heal (that was another August adventure. Long story short, I tried to wear shoes sans socks, got blisters, they got infected, now i'm on antibiotics and waiting for them to heal) and getting ready for school to start next month!
More later!
Christa
PS: I’m not leaving Zambia just because my French press broke. Thanks Brittany!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Bye Mutinta!
One of my favorite things in the world has convinced me to stay in Zambia.
I went home for the first 2 weeks of July. It was a great (and really fast) 2 weeks as I got to see a few friends and family I hadn’t seen in the year and five months that I had been gone. But as my holiday began to wind down, I started to have second thoughts about going back to Zam-land. I mean America is amazing. I forgot that the “real world” still existed out there. Hot water that comes out of a pipe and never runs out. Take out and delivery. Tivo. Coffee makers. Driving a car. Mexican food and margaritas. Washing machines and dish washers. An entire AISLE of cereal choices. (And skim milk to go with it!) No one harassing you while you walk down the street. I could go on for days but I think you get the point. It was going so well and I was enjoying it all so much that I didn’t want to go back. On the morning of my last full day in America-land, my Auntie Roxie called me. She asked if I was ready to go back, I’m sure assuming I would respond with a very enthusiastic “YES!” Instead she received this as an answer, “eeeggh, no.” “Well, you could just stay,” she replied. “Yeah but all my stuff is in Africa and I don’t wanna make anyone else pack it all up and send back to me,” which was the only thing making me think that I should entertain the idea of going back. Needless to say, the pros were really outweighing the cons and I didn’t want to go back.
Then fate stepped in.
I went to the hospital to say goodbye to my grandpa. I was wearing shorts, a tank top, and my traditional Tanzanian scarf that I got on my vacation to Zanzibar in February. (And who knew that after all these years of making and wearing scarves that it would suddenly become very fashionable!) I got on the elevator to go up to the oncology floor at the top of the hospital. The elevator stopped. Some boys got off and this tiny little African lady got on. Now, you are probably asking yourself, ‘Christa, how on earth did you know that she was African?’ Easy. 2 ways. One. The facial features. Not all Africans look alike. (Although I usually look the same as any other white person to them.) I can also guess a person’s tribe and tell time by the sun. (I’m accurate within a 10 minute window.) Two. She was dressed very conservatively. Long sleeve button up shirt and a neatly pressed long skirt. But the kicker was the head wrap she was wearing. She immediately looked at me and asked where I got my scarf. I told her and she started speaking Swahili to me! I apologized and explained that I don’t speak Swahili but I live in Zambia. Then she greeted me in Nyanja, one of the 7 major languages in Zambia. I couldn’t believe it! We then continued a brief conversation about why I lived there as she held the elevator since we had reached her floor. The elevator started to beep since apparently we were holding it past the designated limit. She wished me luck, the elevator doors closed and she was gone. I started laughing. (Don’t worry, I was the only one in the elevator at this point!) I couldn’t believe it. And just like that, I knew that I should go back to Zambia.
I got on the plane back to Africa. Even though I got my sign that I should go back, I was still a bit unsure. I mean it is America after all! I got on the plane in Sioux Falls at 10am Wednesday morning and walked into the Choma house in Zambia on Friday at 4pm. Yeah. It’s a helluva journey. But I was back.
I hid at the house in Choma for a week. I just wanted to pretend like I was still in America. Then I finally just forced myself to get on the truck and go back to the village. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay in Zambia but I knew that I should go back to the village first before I made any decision.
I went back in time for the weekend so I just sat around my house and read. Then Monday rolled around and it was WAY too cold to go to school so I sat around my fire all day, drank coffee, and read some more. Tuesday was much better so I decided to head up to school and see what was going on. It was the same old, same old. But it was good to chat with everyone. I had lunch with BaEliza, a teacher at school and a good friend in the village. After that, I headed over to the clinic with Mrs. Banda, one of the nurses. I hung out there for the rest of the afternoon and helped enter patient information into the clinic register. It was the end of the day and I headed back home.
It is at this point in the story that I should stop and fill you in on a bit of information. My favorite thing about being here in Zambia is the kids. All1,100 kids at school know who I am. And it isn’t just because I’m the only white girl living in the village. I’m always greeting the kids no matter where I am or what I’m doing. And don’t even get me started on the kids in my family! They are the reason I’m never lonely or bored. They are all at my house the minute my front door opens (I’ve trained them not to wake me up!) until we go to dinner at night. I like the noise and chaos they bring. Plus they are the reason I know any Chitonga at all!
Back to the story. I was biking home from the clinic and as I came around the bend, there were 2 little girls on the path. I greeted them as I biked past and then I heard the pitter patter of their bare feet as they started running behind me. I slowed down and encouraged them to keep running. Then as we reached the next path, the oldest of the two yelled “Bye Mutinta!” and off they went on their path as I continued home.
I can’t even explain how much those 2 small words made my day, my week, and made up my mind. I knew right then that I couldn’t leave Zambia early. I want and need to spend as much time as I can with the kids at school and the kids in my family. I love them way too much to leave just because I want the convenience of life in America.
I went home for the first 2 weeks of July. It was a great (and really fast) 2 weeks as I got to see a few friends and family I hadn’t seen in the year and five months that I had been gone. But as my holiday began to wind down, I started to have second thoughts about going back to Zam-land. I mean America is amazing. I forgot that the “real world” still existed out there. Hot water that comes out of a pipe and never runs out. Take out and delivery. Tivo. Coffee makers. Driving a car. Mexican food and margaritas. Washing machines and dish washers. An entire AISLE of cereal choices. (And skim milk to go with it!) No one harassing you while you walk down the street. I could go on for days but I think you get the point. It was going so well and I was enjoying it all so much that I didn’t want to go back. On the morning of my last full day in America-land, my Auntie Roxie called me. She asked if I was ready to go back, I’m sure assuming I would respond with a very enthusiastic “YES!” Instead she received this as an answer, “eeeggh, no.” “Well, you could just stay,” she replied. “Yeah but all my stuff is in Africa and I don’t wanna make anyone else pack it all up and send back to me,” which was the only thing making me think that I should entertain the idea of going back. Needless to say, the pros were really outweighing the cons and I didn’t want to go back.
Then fate stepped in.
I went to the hospital to say goodbye to my grandpa. I was wearing shorts, a tank top, and my traditional Tanzanian scarf that I got on my vacation to Zanzibar in February. (And who knew that after all these years of making and wearing scarves that it would suddenly become very fashionable!) I got on the elevator to go up to the oncology floor at the top of the hospital. The elevator stopped. Some boys got off and this tiny little African lady got on. Now, you are probably asking yourself, ‘Christa, how on earth did you know that she was African?’ Easy. 2 ways. One. The facial features. Not all Africans look alike. (Although I usually look the same as any other white person to them.) I can also guess a person’s tribe and tell time by the sun. (I’m accurate within a 10 minute window.) Two. She was dressed very conservatively. Long sleeve button up shirt and a neatly pressed long skirt. But the kicker was the head wrap she was wearing. She immediately looked at me and asked where I got my scarf. I told her and she started speaking Swahili to me! I apologized and explained that I don’t speak Swahili but I live in Zambia. Then she greeted me in Nyanja, one of the 7 major languages in Zambia. I couldn’t believe it! We then continued a brief conversation about why I lived there as she held the elevator since we had reached her floor. The elevator started to beep since apparently we were holding it past the designated limit. She wished me luck, the elevator doors closed and she was gone. I started laughing. (Don’t worry, I was the only one in the elevator at this point!) I couldn’t believe it. And just like that, I knew that I should go back to Zambia.
I got on the plane back to Africa. Even though I got my sign that I should go back, I was still a bit unsure. I mean it is America after all! I got on the plane in Sioux Falls at 10am Wednesday morning and walked into the Choma house in Zambia on Friday at 4pm. Yeah. It’s a helluva journey. But I was back.
I hid at the house in Choma for a week. I just wanted to pretend like I was still in America. Then I finally just forced myself to get on the truck and go back to the village. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay in Zambia but I knew that I should go back to the village first before I made any decision.
I went back in time for the weekend so I just sat around my house and read. Then Monday rolled around and it was WAY too cold to go to school so I sat around my fire all day, drank coffee, and read some more. Tuesday was much better so I decided to head up to school and see what was going on. It was the same old, same old. But it was good to chat with everyone. I had lunch with BaEliza, a teacher at school and a good friend in the village. After that, I headed over to the clinic with Mrs. Banda, one of the nurses. I hung out there for the rest of the afternoon and helped enter patient information into the clinic register. It was the end of the day and I headed back home.
It is at this point in the story that I should stop and fill you in on a bit of information. My favorite thing about being here in Zambia is the kids. All1,100 kids at school know who I am. And it isn’t just because I’m the only white girl living in the village. I’m always greeting the kids no matter where I am or what I’m doing. And don’t even get me started on the kids in my family! They are the reason I’m never lonely or bored. They are all at my house the minute my front door opens (I’ve trained them not to wake me up!) until we go to dinner at night. I like the noise and chaos they bring. Plus they are the reason I know any Chitonga at all!
Back to the story. I was biking home from the clinic and as I came around the bend, there were 2 little girls on the path. I greeted them as I biked past and then I heard the pitter patter of their bare feet as they started running behind me. I slowed down and encouraged them to keep running. Then as we reached the next path, the oldest of the two yelled “Bye Mutinta!” and off they went on their path as I continued home.
I can’t even explain how much those 2 small words made my day, my week, and made up my mind. I knew right then that I couldn’t leave Zambia early. I want and need to spend as much time as I can with the kids at school and the kids in my family. I love them way too much to leave just because I want the convenience of life in America.
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