Sol Town

Solwezi is one of those places that unlike our village, we got to know little by little as we traveled 4-10 hours (depending on transport) from our village to get there once a month.  It houses the provincial Peace Corps office, so was a welcome source of hot showers (when the power worked), internet (when the router worked), and a "real" grocery store (when it wasn't stocked out).

You have to look very carefully to find the only "welcome to Solwezi" sign around.  My friend Julie caught this in a good day as usually it's obstructed by women's underwear or other clothing for sale in the street.

Wikipedia claims that Solwezi has 65,000 inhabitants, but my guess is twice that if you include the Zambian, Congolese and other squatters who stick around hoping to get a job at one of the mines but aren't actually employed or living in any type of formal housing.  Because of two very well established copper and uranium mines in the area (Kansanshi and Lumwana) and the initial exploration and development of several more, Solwezi has been claimed to be the fastest-growing city in Africa . . . but not in a good way.  Unfortunately this uncontained growth has not been followed by any sort of urban planning or conservation efforts, so what you get is a sprawled-out conglomeration of urban slums with a few pockets of enormous wealth sprinkled in the outskirts.  A very interesting (but not usually pleasant) mix!

The town of Solwezi sprawled out along the horizon from a bluff that was once covered in trees.

Villagers cut/burn trees at a rapid pace to fuel the city's food and fuel needs.  It's typical to see bicycles stacked with 4-5 huge bags of hardwood charcoal coming down from the hills.  A majority of the population is not connected to the power grid, which experiences blackouts almost daily anyway, so they cook using charcoal.

A typical "neighborhood" with mud brick houses with corrugated roofs and trash littering the dusty road.

Even though Solwezi is urban, much of the population still utilizes the rivers and streams for bathing and washing.

There are only about 3 paved roads in the entire city.  Most are rivited with mosquito-breeding potholes in the rainy season and lines of dust in the dry season.

Gina meets up with a village counterpart who moved to Solwezi with her husband and daughters to seek a better life through employment at the mines.

Note trash pile to the right as there are no municipal waste collection services.  Most locals can't afford for a private waste collection service, so the trash either sits or gets burned.

Running water is hard to come by in these urban slums, so people either use the river or buy it by the bucketful at a kiosk like this one.  Problem is, it's not always open.

The backyard of the Peace Corps provincial office is a little oasis in the midst of it all.  Inside the walled yard is green grass, a small garden, and a backup water tower (left).  The grill in front is a fuel-efficient charcoal/wood burning stove that volunteers use to cook their meals during frequent blackouts.

Solwezi has a few extremely nice hotels to cater to the international mining personnel who come primarily from South Africa, Australia and Zimbabwe.  Apparently there is also a country club complete with zebras running around the golf course, but we never had the privilege of seeing because we're not exclusive members!

So, there are just a few redeeming qualities so one doesn't go crazy in Solwezi, but can't say I'm gonna miss it!

Ode to Nshima

Ode to Nshima (Gina's Post):

Oh nshima yamakamba how you stick in my stomach like a bomba. 
I don't even bite because you are like bubble gum.
And if I don't eat you it's insulting to the mum.
In Zambia I've definitely had my fill . . .
Let's just hope someday it doesn't kill . . . me.

That's right, folks.  Scott and I had our last nshima meal yesterday, and I can't say I'm gonna miss it too much.  When I told the villagers we didn't eat cassava nshima at ALL in America, all I got was shocked expressions, and at least 20 people recommended I bring the smelly white cassava flour home to show how people really eat over here (I heard secondhand that it's been intercepted at customs because it's a white powder, so I didn't even try).  Well, yes, they eat sleep and breathe the stuff, but most westerners can't handle more than a small handful before getting a very heavy feeling in the gut if they're lucky, and excruciating stomach pain if they're not.  It DOES have the benefit of making one full, which is a plus in a culture that just a few generations ago was just hunting and gathering their food.  So, Zambians in general are ecstatic about eating nshima, which has been replaced by maize in most parts.  Unfortunately, cassava nshima is still the staple food in our area, and because it's such an integral part of daily life, I decided to give a step-by-step in the its life--from transplant to a meal.  There is a Lunda word for each and every step, and most of the words relate ONLY to cassava nshima, no other food . . . which is telling to the importance of this crazy food in everyday life.  It's eaten 2-3 times per day with various relishes such as greens, beans or dried fish:


1) kudima niyahanga- making mounds

Cassava is probably so popular here because it doesn't require seeds; just take a cutting, plant it diagonally, and viola, you have a staple food (after a few more steps).

2) kuketehula mu yinkunku- cutting off stem to transplant
 3) kutumba- planting stems in mounds

These young plants have at least a year to go before the root can be harvested for food.

 4) kusela- weeding (cassava root takes 1-2 years to mature)
5) kwanda sombe- pulling leaves off after 3 months to boil and eat

The tender leaves are ready to harvest and eat much earlier than the root.

 6) kwimba niykamba- pulling out the root
7) kuzambika- soaking 4-6 days, depending on the climate, until it is soft and fermented

In our area, they soak in hand-dug ponds/puddles in the flood plain.

In Malawi, they soak in clay pots filled with lake water.  Note the bubbles on the left indicate fermentation.

 8) kuzambula- removing from soaking water
9) kusohola- pounding with a large stick to remove the peels
10) kufumisha mafu- removing the peels
11) kwanyika- drying in the sun for 1-4 days (over fire in rainy season)

The white bowl in the front is dried cassava, while the leaves on the upper right are cassava leaves ready to be boiled and eaten as a relish for the nshima.

 12) kutchwa- pounding

This young lady uses a mortar carved from a tree trunk and pestle to crush the dried fermented cassava into a fine powder.

 13) kusefwa- sifting

Once it is sifted, it is finer than cake flour, but much more dense.

 14) kuhonda- cooking in boiling water to make a thick porridge

This is a relatively small pot meant for 2-4 people.  Sometimes families will cook enough for 20 or more people at a time!

 15) kuketula na makasa- taking a handful to form a lump
16) kukama- rolling into hand like silly putty
17) kupanga masa- making balls
18) kabwimbwa- making a little bowl with one's fingers

The center is like a spoon and can pick up juice from the vegetables or meat.

 19) kutanta- dipping the nshima bowl into sauce

The relish is eaten from a communal bowl.

 20) kuminya- swallowing!

The purplish colored mounds are made from pure cassava meal, while the whiter ones are a mix of maize and cassave meal.  One bowl will feed 6-10 people seated together.  This was cooked by some lovely village ladies for our going away party.

Normally the men and women eat separately.

September/October Photos, Part 1

Craft night in the village.  Amazing how popular cut-up straws and dental floss can be!

One of the many porridge demonstrations to help kids get better nutrition.  This one mixed pounded boiled cassava, sweet potatoes, and pounded greens and sesame seeds.  It was a huge success!

Almost all villagers walk 2-3 kilometers to their fields every day and harvest what they can carry on their heads!

This drama group was just trained how to do skits about HIV prevention.

Volunteers enjoying time with the monkey before he was turned over to ZAWA (Zambian wildlife authority).  A different Peace Corps volunteer saw him almost being poached by villagers, so intervened.

It's bush meat season!  This one is a shoulder of dika.  It's also building season and villagers are in a rush to get their houses finished or added-onto before the rains come.  The one in the background is making a window frame.

Peace Corps volunteers were all honored guests at the Chisemwa Cha Lunda traditional ceremony.

And a little bike excursion to Luawu mission after the ceremony.

Not rocks . . . termite mounds that come in crazy formations!

The traditional drink for ceremonies like Chisemwa Cha Lunda is fermented millet that sits in dried gourds for several days until it starts to bubble!

These kids wanted a sneak peek of the ceremony!

Peace Corps volunteers posing with the Chief and his wife.

Scott and Costa stop for a refreshing water break on one last bike trip to the Zambezi source.

The source monument is technically 5k from the Congo, but they put the sign here for tourists like us to think they went there anyway.

I think these trees drank up all the source water, because the Zambezi source itself was dried up when we went there.

Ladies showing off their new dresses they got because their families had built proper pit latrine toilets.  Thanks Aunt Joan!

Some bush trails near our house.

Badger and her kitten one day they had to be separated and go to two different Peace Corps volunteers before we left the village :(.

September/October Photos, Part 2

Do we really have to go?  We were lucky to catch a Peace Corps cruiser passing through Mwinilunga so we could load our remaining few bags for the next adventure.

This is the time of year where the villagers meticulously stack sun-dried bricks into kilns and then fire them for several days to make waterproof bricks for their houses.

Scott timing himself on the hula hoop while the kids watch in awe!

Gina holding a sleeping Miriam (who by the way is scared to death of her whenever she's awake)

A family gathered around their communal pot of nshima for breakfast.

The chief stopped by our village to say goodbye . . . he had just come from Lusaka where he had finished a leadership course and was extremely proud of his graduation clothes!

There was plenty of singing and dancing at our farewell party!

Locals carving hoe handles out of tree trunks.  They attach a metal blade to the end.

These lovely ladies cooked goat for our going away party.

Yet another bush meat was offered to us for sale . . . smoked monkey.  Of course we did not take them up on the offer.

Crushing millet on a stone slab.  This precious flour is mixed into cassava nshima for special occasions.

And look what the cat brought in . . . Badger, do you always have to pick blue-headed lizards?

Gina leading one last pen-pal letter-writing session before leaving the village.

Braiding hair is a typical village pastime on a Sunday afternoon.

All sorts of local CD's are available in the BOMA.  Mostly just amateur recording jobs, but we bought a few for Mwinilunga keepsakes.

The kids help Gina fetch clean drinking water from the spring.

Witchcraft, Miracle, or Opportunistic Evangelicism? (Scott's)

One evening our friends Ryvus and Ryford reported to us about a 14-month old boy that went missing that afternoon, just before a hard rain.  People were looking for him, but with the rain continuing until the night they couldn’t cover much ground.  I am surprised that we don’t hear about missing children or accidents involving children more often in the village.  The child care during the day is often left to 5-year old sisters while the parents go work in the field and some fathers go to their friend’s house to drink home brew.  The following morning, a church-going Sunday, a woman who typically greets us stopped a little longer than usual.  With my rudimentary understanding of her deep Lunda and knowledge of last night’s conversation, I pieced together that there would be a gathering of people to help search for the missing child… at 2 p.m., five hours from now.  I wanted to ask why the wait, but was pretty sure I wasn’t going to understand the answer and if I did I probably wouldn’t like it. 

So Gina and I rode our bikes to church and on the way saw the beginning of the gathering we had heard about, but everyone was in their usual Sunday best.  Many people cherish their Sunday clothes and only wear them on big occasions, so it seemed odd they would prepare for searching for a missing child in these clothes.  We passed by the house of the family who was missing a child around 10 a.m. and found people beginning to gather there.  I stopped to inquire about the time to start searching and sure enough, 2 p.m. was the official start time.  We went on to church but found it closed and fellow church members headed toward the missing child’s house.  We sat with our friends and watched people slowly congregate until there was about 150 or so people.  It seemed very similar to the way people gathered for a funeral and I began to think that people had written off the child for dead.  Admittedly, I already had.  A 14-month old child would not last long in the nearby small but deep stream.  The light chatter around the area was highlighted only by a man on a motorbike who left for the nearest town to find the police, presumably to help the effort to search.  I learned from Ryford that people were waiting for a prophet to come and help summon the knowledge of how to find the child.  Apparently you can hire one of these helpful people from a village about 7 kilometers away.  After about an hour a “Boma” Zambian woman arrived on a bike.  It is usually easy to distinguish a “Boma” Zambian from a “village” Zambian by the way they dress and act.  This young woman had tight blue jeans and a “better-than-you” attitude.  After getting what seemed to be a preliminary update on the situation she started shouting to no-one in particular about how the child was not looked after well.  Another village woman and man seemed to join forces with her and as a group they ranted on this same topic for about half an hour.  Then a village Zambian that Gina and I know fairly well came forward and politely asked if he could interrupt the vocal group.  He was allowed to speak and stated that the child had been hidden from us by evil spirits and that we needed to talk with respect to one another and pray to God so that the evil spirits would go away and the child could be found.  This man, named Given, quietly left after he spoke.  Ryford explained that the “Boma” woman was a relative of the child’s family and that the caretakers of the child were at a local circumcision ceremony when the child was found missing, so that is why the “boma” woman was accusing them of being poor caretakers.  I didn’t disagree, but was surprised that only a few people seemed to be on the “boma” woman’s side.  It appeared that now that the idea of witchcraft was on the table, people were eager to blame some evil-doer instead of poor parenting skills.  Not ten minutes after Given made his statement, a 14-yr old boy walks into the area with the missing boy saying that he found him walking around a big tree, apparently free of harm.  The crowd got excited like a congregation being wowed by a charismatic evangelist.  Everyone started yelling and crying for joy, holding their hands up to the sky thanking their God for allowing them to find the boy.  Given, normally reserved and mild-mannered, was seen running with his hands to his head, eyes closed, and crying as if he had just witnessed a miracle.  Even Gina was drawn into the crowd to see the child, drawn to the relief expressed by everyone.  I was relieved, too, having prepared myself for the worst already.  But there was something amiss about how things unfolded.  Was it a coincidence that the child appeared just moments after Given’s statement?  If the child had returned before Given had made the statement to implicate witchcraft, would people have continued to berate the caretakers for not watching after the child, or perhaps the caretakers would be charged when the police arrived? 

As I returned home I met the man who had left to go get the police.  I stopped and flagged him down as he rode his motorcycle with the intent to tell him the boy had been found, but I could tell from his manner that he must have already heard the news.  All he said was “My sister was the reason the child was lost.”  This gave me the idea that perhaps Given knew that this man was going to the boma not only to get the police to help with the search but also to press charges against the negligent caretakers.  And perhaps Given wanted to protect those caretakers.  Is it possible that he knew the child was found before he made his statement so that he could set people up to believe that their prayers were answered or possibly to deflect attention from the negligent caretakers?  I don’t have any evidence except circumstantial behavior of people and convenient timing of the return of the child, but there was just something weird about the whole thing.  I bet if you asked a Zambian there about that same evidence they would say that it was evidence of a miracle. 

Crying in Zambia (Scott's)

I went to a funeral again the other day.  Like the last one that I went to and wrote about, I didn't know the person who died.  But I worked with the family and the older woman who passed away was well-respected, so I felt moved to share in what was a community event.  The thing I noticed the most about the funeral this time was the crying.  After being in the village for nearly two years at the time of the funeral, it has become clear that crying by adults is strictly saved for funerals.  Crying after a hard day at work, when a good friend or family member moves to another place, or when a doctor is setting a broken bone is not expected and if you did you probably would be considered weird or weak.  You can frequently find a crying child or adolescent because they did not get something that they wanted, but there seems to be an unwritten rule that adult men and women cry for one reason only- the death of a relative or friend.  The crying I have experienced in America and by adult Americans is usually highly emotionally charged.  When an American cries it is usually after some amount of self-restraint, so that when it comes out it comes out big, for some people like a flood.  And because of that it is usually a sincere, heart-felt cry.  The crying I've seen in Zambia seems fake.  There are tears and grief stricken faces, but it has the sound of a child that is crying because it can, not because it has to.  After being around several funerals I think I've come to see why.  The funeral event can last three days.  The first day is an announcement of the death, the second is the burial, and the third is a sort of remembrance day, which seems optional for guests.  And the effected family, particularly the wife, daughter, mother, niece, or sister, is expected to cry.  A lot.  Say, hourly.  Who COULD keep up a soulful cry for three days?  So the cries come out steady, punctuated by outbursts, but consistent.  It is as if the crying is both mourning for the individual but also an announcement to all passersby that this is an important day, a day to remember this person who is no longer with us.  Also it is a way to mourn completely.  You don't hear about a wife feeling dreary and sad a week later.  The mourning is done at the funeral and there is no dwelling on it afterwards.  I think some reasons for this include 1. there is work to be done.  Can't very well prepare, plant, or harvest fields while you are balling your brains out.  2. funerals are so frequent that the effected family may have another funeral to host or attend pretty soon.  Can't very well respect the funeral of one person the way they do in Zambia if you are already respecting the funeral of another. 
I was compelled to write about this because of the way that I see people cry.  If I was in America and saw a person crying like I see a typical Zambian crying I would be unmoved.  I would think they were trying to manipulate me, and I bet many of you would to if you could see the theatrics involved in the crying process.  But I am sure that the people I have seen crying have legitimate emotional pain regarding the death of their loved-one.  And they need to express it.  It's just another way Zambians are different from Americans, not for better or for worse, but for perhaps for a broader purpose in a society that values family and community more than the individual.

So what did you do in Zambia? (i.e. "what I'd like to put in my resume)

Gina's Post

Peace Corps Zambia encourages us to finalize a resume before we finish service so we can best turn some of the work we did here into marketable skills in America.  Since I had lots of relevant work experience before coming to Zambia, the part on my resume talking about Peace Corps is just a header and a few quick bullet points trying to somehow connect what I did here with the labyrinth of paperwork and insurance reimbursements that is the American medical system.  I tried my best to fill in the 2 ½ year gap and show that my work here in Zambia was somehow relevant to my career.  Try as I might, the resume can never truly encapsulate my Zambian experience, so I’ll try my best in this post.

So what did you do in Zambia?

In Zambia I got dirty.  Really dirty.  I got caked with mud while biking in the rainy season, and covered in a layer of fine dust while riding in the back of flatbed trucks on multiple occasions  during the dry season.   I breathed air so dirty that my snot turned black.  I went hours without washing my hands because running water entails running to the nearest river to bathe, or pouring cupfuls of warm water heated by fire over my body.

I lived in, around, and for nature.  I woke to the sounds of birds chirping, villagers singing, and light peeking through a grass roof and measured time by following the sun’s path in the sky.   I grew some of my own food. I anxiously anticipated the first rains like all of my neighbors and anxiously waited for them to stop whenever a torrential downpour would turn the front of our house into a lake.   I realized that brilliantly-colored insects and lizards were a part of daily life.  I noticed more shooting stars than I’ve ever seen in my life and bathed in moonlight as it filled the village with children’s playful laughter when the moon decided to be full.

I rode my bike.  A lot.  I rode to huts and villages unreachable by car or even motorcycle just to help with an outreach clinic.  I rode my bike to hidden waterfalls and on abandoned bush paths.  I rode my bike with flat tires and broken rims and gears that wouldn’t shift and 50 lb. sacks of chicken feed strapped to the back, dodging pigs and goats along the way.  I rode long distances on crappy dirt roads just to see another Peace Corps volunteer or check the mail, and then rode back, ecstatic, with the package tied to the back with an old piece of rubber tire.

I made friends with people who gave me a different perspective on life.  I befriended religious leaders, subsistence farmers, grade school dropouts, and single mothers.   I listened to stories of people living with HIV and people who lived through watching several of their children die and people who gave birth to twins in the bush . . . alone, and people who were gay but afraid of sharing for fear of imprisonment.  I listened to stories of people who hunted elephants for food before they all disappeared from the area.

I played with kids.  I made kids fetch me water and sweep my yard in exchange for my attention (and sometimes a sweetie).  I taught kids how to read and how to hold a pencil and how to string necklaces made from cut-up straws.   I made some kids cry just by looking at them because they had never seen a white person. I was constantly asked how many children I had, and given looks of astonishment when I told people I had none.    I weighed babies . . . lots of them. I carried babies on my back and got peed on by babies wearing rags instead of diapers and palpated unborn babies inside their mothers’ bellies.  I named babies and saw babies being born.  I watched babies die from malaria and childbirth complications, wishing there was something more I could do but knowing that there wasn’t.

I learned to cook on a charcoal brazier and how you can’t just turn down the heat or click the next burner on.  I learned to stir and make that crazy gumlike substance called cassava nshima until the ladies knew I cooked “well” for my husband.  I ate bush rat, caterpillars, termites with their wings removed, unidentifiable bush meat, wild greens and slimy reddish plantlike substances that others cooked for me, and in turn, taught people to make pumpkin bread and banana bread and goat cheese.

I got sick.  I pooped my pants . . . several times.  I had upper respiratory infections, malaria, a broken toe and egg sacs squeezed out of my feet.  But through it all, I felt stronger and more alive in my skin than I ever had before.

I prayed, and I danced, and I sang, but maybe not in that order.  I prayed in unison at church when the whole congregation got on their knees and asked God to be generous to their families.  I prayed for my life whenever I got onto a Zambian vehicle.  I silently prayed in gratitude when I woke up in the morning just to acknowledge the sun was out or as I was biking through an amazing floodplain, taking in the scenery.  I danced with women when children were born or young ladies were initiated.  I danced with a chieftainess, and drunk men and people in traditional masks half the size of their bodies.  I danced the night away in Zambian nightclubs, and I cranked out songs like “Grease Lightning” on my ipod to dance with the village kids.  I danced the hokey pokey just to show villagers what it was all about.  I sang the eerie wailing pitches that women sing when their neighbor dies.  I sang for joy the best Lunda I could with ululating choruses of women and in English when the Lunda just didn’t come out quite right.

I read by candlelight and jumped for joy when cell phone service actually came and I didn’t have to climb an anthill anymore just to send a message.  I wore clothes that didn’t match (though always below the knee!) and had my hair cut by anyone who had a scissors and was willing.  I drank wine out of a box, Congolese beer, and village homebrew, depending on the occasion.

I got asked for lots of things on many occasions: money, medicine, food, books, biscuits, juice, clothes, my hand in marriage (didn’t matter to them I was already married), an ambulance, my bicycle, a passport to America.  But, despite all the asking, I was offered so much more by people who have so much less:  nshima and greens when there was barely enough to feed the family, a free ride when fuel prices reached record highs, hot water for bathing and a place to stay when I was tired (even if it meant a family of four sharing one bed for the night), words of wisdom and encouragement, and abundant joyful songs and smiles.

I laughed a lot, cried a lot, thought a lot, wrote a lot.  I experienced fear, bliss, and felt every emotion on the spectrum a thousand times over.  I tackled difficult questions about life and purpose and become closer than ever to the man I love and my life partner.  I learned a different way to be in the world.  I learned that life is short, and life is beautiful, and really deep down we’re all the same, and that’s what Peace Corps is all about, isn’t it? 

So what did you do in Zambia?