I just finished a week-long workshop away from the village
where I was able to practice some type of yoga asana such as sun salutations
every single morning at the guest house.
As I did, I was thinking what a treat it was for my body to fall into
this familiar movement pattern of stretches and breathing exercises that I have
been practicing more than ten years after days of sitting and discussing at a
workshop.
Back in the States, yoga was a huge part of my life. Some could even argue that it WAS my life
as I practiced quite a bit at home, taught classes, helped manage a studio and
used yoga postures and breathing techniques with various patients in the clinic,
young and old. I went to
workshops, read yoga magazines and books and surrounded myself with people who
shared the same values. I was so
intent on doing yoga that I dove into
it head on.
Fast forward to the rural Zambian “bush” where if I tried to
explain to the villagers what yoga was (luckily my Lunda vocabulary isn’t that
great) I would probably get met by a bunch of blank stares . . . which is
perfectly natural around here anyway for the strange muzungus. In the village, I’m lucky to get in one
asana practice per week inside the hut, but my body (and mind for that matter) don’t crave it in the village
like I used to. Village life
in itself is its own yoga, rooted deep into the red Zambian earth and filled
with rhythms, movements and sounds of an earlier, simpler time. I don’t need a mat. I just need to open my eyes, ears and
lungs to slowly take in what surrounds me.
For one thing, Scott and I are usually busy from dusk to
dawn. The days start with the
rooster crowing at dawn and morning chores such as sweeping ash out of our
outdoor kitchen, doing the previous day’s dishes by hand, filling our filters
and bathing devices with our water needs for the day, feeding the chickens and
watering the garden. The days
themselves revolve around cycling or walking and multiple meetings with
villagers who always greet us with a smile, and end up with tired 3-4 hour
cooking sessions that involve lots of chopping vegetables and fire-tending. Even when the sun sets we have visitors
eagerly awaiting in our outdoor kitchen under the kerosene lantern to give us a bush note from down
the road about tomorrow’s program change or hoping to get our help with some
math or English homework.
If we’re lucky Scott and I
have 30-45 minutes of candlelit alone time reading in our hut before
exhaustingly putting ourselves into bed, usually before 9pm. Although we are “busy,” we are rooted
and centered as mundane tasks of daily life take on a rhythm and life of their
own.
My mind and body are filled with the rhythm of nature
throughout the day. The lack of
street lights, computers, cell phones (for the most part) and automobiles has
opened up my senses to take in the sights and sounds of nature all around. Even our thatched-roofed hut is open to
the ventilation of the cool breeze we feel each night while slipping into pure
darkness after the last candle is blown out for the evening. If the moon is not full, the sky is
open to innumerable stars and galaxies.
Some of our villagers have even asked if there are stars in America
after watching us gaze at them on peaceful moonless nights, and we have to
sadly report that “yes, they are there, but just not as bright.” When the moon peeks out even to a
quarter of its full self, its bright silver light casts shadows of the trees
that tower above our home and the thatch of the neighboring roofs. A full moon night basks not rouses the
sleeping villagers and children into song and games of football into the wee
hours of the morning. When the
joyful voices die down we often hear different choruses of happy crickets and
frogs, especially after a rain.
During the rainy season the waves of rain come in an orchestra complete
with the drumming of thunder and the eye candy of lightning. We’ve seen the vegetation change from a
dense green low scrub to a dry tall labyrinth of grasses and heard birds of the
morning chirp at first dawn. Instead of alarm clocks, e-mails and deadlines, the
patterns of nature dictate daily life; people wake with the sun and sleep with
the stars. They plant with the
rains, mold bricks out of the nearby earth and harvest thatch for their roof during dry season, and can
tell the time of day from the position of the sun. It’s a life that makes you pause at least once a day, take a
deep breath and enjoy the natural beauty that surrounds you.
The traditional Lundas utilize these same rhythms of nature
every day as the women eloquently pound their dried cassava and sift into a
fine dust to feed their hungry families with nshima and the men take their
slashers and make song-like grass cutting sweeps to clear the tall grasses for
the next season of planting. Small
children find their own hierarchy amongst each other, separating themselves between
genders and age groups as they shift from games to family meals to helping with
the endless family chores. My
neighbor Rasmod sings as he moves in and out of his hut, Selah huddles over her
three log fire flouting the product of today’s work in the fields, Joshua sits
quietly under a tree at his foot-pump sewing machine after a hard day smearing
walls with cement in the town to watch his young grandsons play football, and
Joy elegantly greets her fellow Lunda lady friends while perfectly balancing a
20L jerry can of water on her head and a baby on her back. Small children ride adult bicycles
carrying sweet potatoes on the pedestrian super-highway that is our dirt road,
teenagers of the opposite sex playfully walk together and then separate when
they see someone coming, and young school children form groups to walk 3-4
kilometers to school at different times of the day carrying their notebooks in
small plastic bags on their sides.
Sunday churchgoers with two outfits to their name polish their shoes and
dress in their finest to raise their voices in joyful unison, a pure
celebration of life. When Scott
and I walk by, we are greeted with a handshake, a clap, a bow, and at least
several lines of Lunda formalities by every single person that passes by. When we ride by, sometimes breaking the
speed that is the natural pace of the village, we still get our names joyfully
shouted by the proud villagers and a small bow which we reciprocate with a hand
to the heart and reply “mwani vudey mwani,” out of respect.
Yes, people in the village still experience sickness,
disputes, arguments and grief, sometimes on a weekly or even daily basis. I’ve seen a five year-old boy die in
his mother’s arms hot with malarial fever after she walked with him over 10
kilometers to reach the nearest clinic.
She wailed, shook, and trembled on the ground as complete strangers from
our community came to the ground to wail with her. I’ve seen grown men bicker over village disputes over
property and had friends who have lost the entire year’s bean crop to
insects. I have seen community
counselors use each other to cope after they have to reveal a difficult HIV
diagnosis to a pregnant woman and sat with my neighbors at an all-night vigil
in front of bonfires to commemorate a brother who was stabbed in the Congo. Although these events cause grief
and mourning, I have seen the beauty and strength of the human spirit as it
perseveres and the smile that show through in the wake of turmoil. They have a very keen sense for the
impermanence of life and the need to move on.
So in the village daily life is my yoga. The pause I take every day to enjoy the
crickets or gather water from the shallow spring reminds me that we all have
something to give to this earth. I
am confident that my backbends weren’t as graceful as they once were and I
usually tip over in what’s the name of that sanskrit balancing pose? Why does it matter when the tall
balanced stacks of vegetables the women carry on the way back to the fields
resonate inside of me? My attempts of formal breathing and meditation have
sneakily found their way into surprising corners of the day as the previous
focus on doing has been replaced with a satisfaction of just being and watching
nature and an unwavering human spirit unfold around me. Zambia has taught me to step back and
take it all in as its people slowly mould a pathway into my soul. Inside, I am balanced.
