More Pictures

Hi All,
We have posted some pictures recently in two photo albums.  The links for those are:

https://picasaweb.google.com/110221855486252629515/UpThroughLivingston?authkey=Gv1sRgCPah1aSv9_Xwew

https://picasaweb.google.com/110221855486252629515/UpThroughFlatdogs?authkey=Gv1sRgCKLMq9vKr7ahxgE


Also, Evon LaGrou has been in Zambia for over a week now and will be blogging about her visit to Zambia as well as other countries she is visiting.  Her blog is at:

http://evonlagrou.com/

Here's what she wrote:

It takes just over thirty minutes to travel the fourteen miles from the nearest city to Scott and Gina’s village. We have completely left civilization as we know it. There is no electricity, no running water, no stores for supplies and no taxi’s that drive past this place. Therefore, it is not possible to easily “just make a run to the store”. Women walk the entire way to the city with large baskets of garden vegetables on their heads that they will sell at the market.
We are definitely living the simple life here and no one is in a rush. We seem to wake up and go to bed with the sun around here. It is just easier than using your headlamp or dealing with the mosquitos that come out at night.
Everyone has time to welcome the new visitor. Villagers hold their right elbow with their left hand when outstretching their hand to shake mine. They give a little bow then clasp both hands together and reach to shake my hand a second time. “You do realize we are going be stopped by everyone to shake your hand on the way to the clinic.” Gina said after the third formal greeting. “I thought it was nearly a three mile walk? How will we get there on time?” “We are on Africa time. It will be fine, whatever time we arrive.”
That was definitely a different way of looking at things. The school house was the only place that seemed to run on time. I spent several days assisting at the local school, while I was in the village, teaching a math review class for ninth grade students. These students were going to take their end-of-the-year exams the following week. Only students who passed the test would be allowed to attend high school the following year. Student who continued to high school next year would have to board at the school during the week since the school would be so far away.
I don’t think I ever had students so eager to learn. We reviewed about two-hundred pages of the required math textbook. I had to write important concepts for the students on the board since the students did not have a textbook for math. Only the teacher had a book.
The first day I started teaching I had not realized that I had missed their ten o’clock break until ten minutes to twelve. I asked, “Do you want to take your break now?” I heard a unanimous “no” coming from the group. “Well would you like a five minute break?” Then one boy answered for the group, “You have already missed the break; Just keep going.” I looked at the class who were seemingly agreement and continued on. I thought to myself, “That has never happened to me in America” then continued teaching.
In the middle of my class on the first day a student rapped on the door. “Can I join your class?” “Come on and sit down.” I replied. The boy did not have a uniform on but I did no think very much of it. Not all students in the lower grades could afford uniforms. After class the same boy caught me outside the door with his brother who had been listening to my class from the window. He was actually an eleventh grade student and he wanted to prepare for his twelfth grade exam that he would take in one year. He has to pass all portions of the exam to complete his diploma or he would have to try again the following year. His brother was a twelfth grade student and he wanted help with preparing for his exams in a week. I spent a little extra time with the two students at the clinic until Gina was ready to walk home from work. They seemed grateful for the extra help.
The other comment that through me off guard while teaching was on the last day when we finished for the day. I had already returned one additional day more than planned. Since I was leaving the next day I told them I could not return but I was going to have Scott and Gina report back to me on how they had done on their test. All the kids said thank you and I hear two students shout, “God bless you.” Again, that has never happened in America. I found that the students really wanted to learn and were grateful for help in their studies. It was a pleasure to assist with their learning.
Scott had assisted with me when he was able to break away from his duties. I understand that he is continuing to help the students review as time permits. It sounds like both he and the students are enjoying it. Gina worked nearby at the clinic. Since I was teaching four to five hours straight when Gina popped to in I had her do a few stretches with the kids. They both loved it.
I spent about two hours a day walking to the school or clinic. One day the rains came on the way home so Scott and I ducked in for cover until the rains subsided. Luckily Scott had brought the cards so we could play another game of cribbage. Scott and Gina had wanted to learn how to play cribbage in order to play with the other Peace Corps volunteers. Needless to say we practiced every chance we had on the trip. However, when we stopped under the shelter to play during the rain, it did not take long to amass a small crowd to watch. The kids laughed when I shuffled the cards.
The simplest things would collect a crowd especially when Scott, Gina or I were around. Everyone was interested in their friend from America that looked so different than them. Gina and I sang songs or invited groups to do art activities in the afternoons. Gina had to try to set certain times when the children could come over so they had something to look forward to during the day but would not be outside out hut all day. Gina would make them “do work” before playing. Such as pick up a piece of trash. This helped instilled some type of work ethic as well as the importance of keeping the village clean. However, after it was time to “go home” the children never stayed home for long. The adults are so busy in the village, farming and maintaining daily life, that young children did not do much all day and loved any and all attention.
Scott, a fisheries volunteer for the Peace Corps, walked us to one of the community fish ponds. Some villagers recently sold their fish and made their first ever profit from the man-made fish pond. This had been very exciting for all villagers and provided the needed boost to keep working on the project.
Life in the village is mainly spent doing things which we take for granted; Fetching water, boiling water for drinking, heating water for bucket showers, maintaining your garden and animals (aka: one of your main food supplies), washing laundry by hand, washing dishes in a basin, preparing water with bleach to wash you hands and providing your own transportation by walking or biking to places. One of the most difficult tasks is getting the coal for cooking to burn and stay hot throughout the cooking process. My last day in the village, Gina and I cleaned a large steel drum in order to catch rain water in the rainy season. They are hoping that this will ease the number of trips to the stream to get water.
Next door to Scott and Gina, the family has two young brothers that seem to take advantage of all the experience Scott and Gina have to offer. These brothers have goats, cows, sheep and chickens. They also have made four fish ponds behind the house and dug there own well with a bucket. When I asked how they got the hole that deep they showed me where there were vertical steps straight up in the wall. I could not believe that they had dug this over one-hundred foot well without a machine. They told me they still wanted to go deeper, “until the water was to their waist.” Finally, the last day, I was in the village their pregnant goat birthed twins. They would have the first goats in the entire village that would be used for milk. Gina, who had worked with goats extensively back in the United States, had worked with the family for weeks to get this goat prepared for milking. They decided to named the goats Gina and Evon. So, now I have a goat named after me in Zambia.
I had a wonderful time with my friends and getting to know their village. I know that I was deeply touched by the people I met while I was there. One lesson learned is that the people in the village do not have much, but are happy and grateful for what they have. My stay in the village reminds me to also be grateful for the blessings I have in my life and not to take anything for granted.

Lines and Queues

Gina's Post

We'll hopefully have more village posts and pictures of our recent trips up soon, but while it's still fresh in my mind, I want to recount a funny story I had today about the bank line in Solwezi.

So it's a Saturday morning at the end of the month, which is the absolute WORST time to use an ATM in Solwezi.  This town has literally grown more than 10 times in the last few years due to the nearby mining boom, yet just has one little supermarket and a few banks.  It doesn't help that all the mines pay their workers the last Saturday of the month so the town is a literal zoo.  I would usually rather eat nshima with raw caterpillars than try to finagle my way through the "lines" and crowds on the last Saturday of the month, but we are due back in our village tomorrow, and Mwinilunga only has 1 ATM that charges ridiculous surcharges, is out of power half the time and literally eats peoples' cards the other half of the time.

I took a nice little morning jog and came across two lines of about 40 people each for the ATM's.  I saw a girl get out of a car and casually pretend she was talking on her cell phone, nonchalantly slipping into the middle of the line (which looked more like a mob of people) hoping no one would see her.  I was in the other line so didn't say anything, but got into a conversation with the guy in front of me that we needed to be careful and keep our eyes peeled for people cutting the line, or "jumping the queue" as they put it.  He agreed that he would help.

The next thing I knew, I saw a guy playing the same cell phone trick, and called him out.  His "friend" said, "but he just had to get out of line to take a call and now he's getting back in the queue" but I didn't believe it.  Luckily that caught the security guard's attention, and even though he was too timid to make the line jumper go to the back, he made an announcement that all people arriving needed to go to the back of the queue.  I called a few people out again, although some still refused to go to the back.  One cut about 5 people in front of me, and I said "how would you feel if I just stepped in front of you like this?"  He said, "bad."  And I said, "yes, that's how all the people who have been waiting feel when someone goes in front."  It got to the last straw when the guy directly in front of me invited one of his "friends" right in front with the old cell phone trick.  By then I had been in line for more than 30 minutes, but luckily I had nowhere to be because I was waiting for a friend. 

The crowd knew I was the rebel rouser and started laughing when anyone tried to cut, which did effectively send that person to the back of the line.  They knew I was policing the line and would make a big stink at anyone who tried to cut.  They asked me about bank lines in America and started teaching me Bemba, since most were from Lusaka or other parts of Zambia claiming their fortunes through the mines and didn't know any Lunda.  To no one in particular, I said, "people say your country is corrupt.  Maybe if you called people out when they did something wrong, they wouldn't try to do bad things.  But when people just stand and watch when people do bad things, they will keep doing them."  Most of the spectators just laughed, but I think (or at least hope) it made a few stop and think about their actions.  I know it did, because I overheard someone say "everyone's time is valuable.  One person cannot just think their own time is more valuable than others."  Sure enough, the line moved like clockwork from that point on.

My friend Evon arrived just as I was 2nd from the front of the line and was so appalled by so many people at an ATM she stopped to take a picture.  Once I gathered my cash, I said, "If I hadn't been policing that line for the past 45 minutes, I'd be waiting here another hour."  As we left, the people in line just laughed again in good humor, and we said goodbye to each other in English, Bemba and Lunda.  Talk about a cultural exchange!

A Hollow Sound (Scott's)

Funerals near our village are fairly common.  Up until now I have not participated fully, and only at homes where I had some connection to the deceased.  Usually my attendance involves 15 minutes or so of greeting the grievers as they sit in front of their house, men sitting on stools in one area and women sitting on reed mats in another.  Sometimes there is a crying woman, but always a fire burning, and a meal for all those attending.  Attendees are not invited, but anyone who sits down and wants to spend time with the mourners is welcome.
Gina had interacted with a family in which a male head of household had died yesterday, and she may have her own post about that.  That same man was apparently well respected in our area, and even though I did not know him I chose to attend the funeral.  It turns out it was a Sunday, and even though I was planning on going to church that day to contact some of the fish farmers I work with, all church services that day were cancelled to allow for people to attend this funeral.  Sunday services are one of the few things you can count on in rural Zambia, so when I learned this I felt obliged and interested to go.  Also, my friends Ryvus and Ryford were going, so it would be an opportunity to be able to ask questions about the funeral.
We rode our bikes past a carpenter and we could here the hammering of a coffin being built.  A little further and we dismounted our bikes as we approached the home of the person who died, as is custom to respect the mourners.  We sat down on stools in the "men's area", though as a special guest I was given a regular chair to sit in, even when I protested that I didn't need it.  We heard the muffled sounds of a group of people singing and drumming inside the house of the deceased.  Their were quiet murmurs of those arriving as they greeted the family or informal eulogies being given in smaller circles.  I got a few odd looks from children and others who were surprised to see a white person at a Zambian funeral.  After a while we heard a couple of raised voices arguing about something.  The voices turned into several and slowly elevated in volume as more and more people discussed what was happening.  Eventually the voices died down again but there was one man who was still visibly and audibly upset, so much so that people were chuckling at him as if he was over-reacting.  But Ryvus and Ryford made it clear that what had happened was a grave insult.  One man who was assisting with preparing the body for placing in the coffin (which includes rubbing the joints of the deceased with vaseline to keep them limber) had washed his hands in the same pot from which people had just recently eaten, AND he had gone back and touched the wife of the dead man on the arm.  The first offense was big enough to cause problems alone, but the second offense was grounds for accusation of witchcraft. 
That issue died down for a while and then the coffin was brought out with the body already in it, though the nails simply held the lid down without actually being fully pounded in.  I remarked how small the coffin was, about 5' long and 20" wide for a 35-yr old.  Everyone, including the man who washed his hands offensively, crowded around the coffin.  Another man explained what the man-who-washed-his-hands had done.  And a grieving wife, crying as she approached, accused the man of juju, black magic, otherwise known as witchcraft.  Apparently the man died suddently, appearing healthy up until the evening before his death the following day.  The accused did not seem sorry or regretful.  He simply stood with a permanent frown/sneer on the left side of his face and although about 50 years old, wore shorts, which is practically unheard of in Zambian culture in both rural and urban area for anyone older than pre-teen.  Not even attempting to apologize did not improve his standing with the crowd.  In a crowd grieving for the death of a respected man I watched as they started making an unspoken case against the man, looking for some kind of scapegoat to accuse for the death of a young healthy person.  The man-who-washed-his-hands was pushed away from the coffin before it was raised.  The wife of the man walked underneath the coffin in a ritual that allows the woman to forget, eventually, her dead husband so she can move on with life.  Wailing women, among about 300 mourners, followed the coffin on a 1 kilometer march up the road and into the forest to the graveyard.  The graveyard was nondescript except for a few mounds of rocks half a meter high and the freshly dug hole for the newly deceased, though Ryford and Ryvus pointed out a few other spots with subtle indications of a burial some years back.
A man said a final eulogy before 8 men nailed the lid on the coffin shut and lowered the coffin in, swiftly burying the coffin.  The hollow sound of dirt on the wooden coffin prompted another round of wailing from women and even a few men, including the one who scolded the man-who-washed-his-hands.  After the last shovel was placed on the grave, the 8 men patted the dirt down in a musical rhythm, followed by others placing rocks on top of the grave, acting as a headstone.  A eulogizer thanked everyone for coming and the mourners walked back to the dead man's house.  A woman fainted along the side of the road and was being attended to, likely because of dehydration and hunger.  Mourners particularly close to the deceased such as wives, mothers, fathers, and children spend the previous night crying and wailing and don't eat from the time of the death to the time of the burial. 
Back at the house people gathered again and were thanked for coming.  Typically this would be the end of the funeral accept for a few closer friends who would stay and console or a few stragglers who would come to pay their respects.  But the earlier insult prompted a second gathering within the funeral.  The man-who-washed-his-hands was asked to sit in a larger ring of men.  One important villager, called a headman, explained what had happened earlier in the day.  The man-who-washed-his-hands remained silent, despite obvious calls from the crowd to explain himself.  After 5 or 10 minutes of people starting at the accused, and even going so far as to toss stones at him, a group of headmen conversed amongst themselves and announced that the judging of the accused would commence the following day.  The crowd was not happy to see this go unresolved.  Others yelled that the man had already started removing things from his house and would be running off later today to avoid the judgement tomorrow.  The man's unashamed attitude only made the crowd even happier to declare the man guilty before trial.
About a week later I learned that the man had in fact left the village that evening and so did not get an official judgement.  I could tell from the crowd's attitude that judgement would not be in his favor.