A Path into the Past

The man’s chest is bulging to one side abnormally. Walking on the outside of his feet, he hobbles up the path towards us as he slurs out a greeting. I look at Marie and Amanda to see their reaction; my first thought is drunk or maybe touched, but then I see Joseph our host smiling kindly at the man. Joseph brings out a chair for the man to sit in, signifying respect and care for the man. Rapson, our friend and interpreter, hurry’s to introduce the man, “He is one of our members.” The man adds, “I saw you at church this morning but I had to leave before the sermon because I was sick.” Each word is heavily slurred and takes effort. This man’s clothes are a little more tattered and worn than most of the people in Singa Village but through the heavy slurring I can piece together a sketch of this man’s rich life. His crippled body has obviously seen better days, as he speaks to us he wants to know what continent we are from, then what region, then what country and what state. This man seems quite knowledgeable; He speaks highly of his many international grade school teachers. They were from Canada, Ireland, England etc. “Canada is in North America,” he proclaims with a wide smile. “Mathematics was my favorite topic, I loved my mathematics teacher, he was from Canada.” In 1963, the British colonized Rhodesia, which encompassed what is now Zambia and Zimbabwe, dissolved and allowed self-government of the two states. This older man received the benefit of these international teachers while under the Rhodesia era.

“Some people say that men came from monkeys…” He looks at us cautiously to see our reaction. We shake our heads, “No we don’t think that, we believe God created man.” “That’s right! That’s right!” He exclaims with pleasure, “How could man come from a monkey?” He asks incredulously. A young girl, maybe four years old, creeps around in the shadow of the house, her eyes fixed on our white skin. “That’s my youngest daughter. Frieda! Frieda! Come and greet these people.” Grinning he says, “She is scared of you, she’s never seen you before.” Frieda runs across the dirt yard and crouches behind us in the shadow of the branches and tree stumps forming a fence for the backyard. “Some say Africans came from Ham…” his voice trails off as he stares at us, as if for guidance, “…some say it is because of climate,” he continues, looking at his arm. The man seems to ramble his white teachers various tainted lessons. He looks at us, as though we are his teachers. I can see him there, in that class room, a young boy, peering up at his red headed school master. I shake my head, half from actual confusion of where the conversation is going but mostly because I do not want to follow the raciest logic of his former teachers. After sitting for many long minutes, the man smiling thanks us for speaking with him, obviously pleased with the visit he struggles to his feet, says his goodbyes and walks back down the dusty path. Two girls who have been standing nearby take this opportunity to greet us; they appear to be about 6 or 7 years old; one of them is Frieda’s sister. “Muli bwanji,” we say warmly to them as we shake their hands, “Bwino bwanji,” they reply bashfully as they curtsy. Finally, with much encouragement from her older sister, Frieda slowly comes closer, bowing on her knees, she reaches out and holds Marie’s hand. “Muli bwanji,” Marie says warmly to the tiny girl. They remain this way for many moments, Marie leaning forward in her chair, Frieda on her knees, her eyes transfixed on Marie’s face. Then slowly Frieda relaxes and looks away, she uses her free hand to trace her finger through the dirt, but she does not let go of Marie’s hand. Several moments pass, Frieda’s sister stays close by, keeping an amused eye on her little sister, sitting among the white women. Then Frieda finally releases Marie and sits a few moments, before wondering away with her sister down the same path her father had taken.

Singa village.. plus some

Our last adventure in Zambia, was the three day home stay in a Zambians home close to Petauke. I went about 30 minutes away from Petauke with two other single girls to a village called Singa. No one from 40/40 had stayed in Singa before so we were all excited to be the first out there. We stayed with Margaret and Joseph and their two sons Jonny (7) and Freddie (3). Also at the house was their friend Rapson who was visiting so that he could translate some for us and take us around the village. Rapson was originally from Singa village but now live 5 Km away with his wife and son in another village. He said one day he would move back to Singa village with his family but first he had to finish paying the “bride” price for his wife. So he lives in his wife’s village. In Zambia, when a couple gets married the man must pay the family a price agreed on by both parties. Originally they would agree on how many cows they would give the family. In modern day, though they may still talk in cow terms, they find out the going rate of a cow and then pay cash.

 Rapson speaks English very well but there were still many awkward moments of miscommunication, no communication or compressed communication. An example, on the first day in Singa Rapson was so happy to have us there he wanted us to share our stories with a neighboring village across the road. So we all went over and found ourselves sitting on a reed mat in front of an older woman’s house. We told Paul’s story and then I told my own and I asked her if she had a story like mine. She could understand English but she could not speak it. She excitedly answered that she did have a story like mine and then went into great detail explaining it in Nianja. She talked for about 5 or more minutes. Than we looked over at Rapson, “what did she say?” I asked.  “She said, ‘Put Gd first.” That is the way most of our translation went in Singa. We had so much fun in Singa village though. I loved every awkward conversation and the long pauses in between when neither person knows what to say or how to say it to communicate it effectively with the other.

 Margaret was so gracious to us. Generally speaking, when you enter an Africans home they will not let you help with a thing. They are so hospitable and the take offense if you were to help them with dinner or to clear the dishes. They are proud of being hospitable. But we were there to learn about the culture and that meant we needed to do those things that generally would be shameful for a guest to do. Often in the past, 40/40 has had trouble convincing home stay host to allow their guest to help with daily task like cooking, cleaning, and fetching water. But not our host, she was eager to teach us all she knew. Margaret was only one year older then I am but she knew way more about keeping a home and feeding a family than I could hope to know any time soon. Everyday we took at least one trip to the well for water. The village well was an open well, everyone gathered around with their buckets on ropes and it was a great time dropping the bucket down and hauling it back up. This was the time to catch up on local news and greet neighbors. All the woman chatted as they worked. Once the buckets were full the women would carry them home on their heads. Some ladies are talented enough to do it without holding it with their hands.

At meal time, Margaret taught us how to make Nshema, the staple food in Zambia. Marie volunteered to help the first day and then became our chief for the week. Maybe it was because Marie was the youngest, or maybe just because she seemed most eager but every meal time Margaret called Marie over to begin cooking the Nshema. “coo-picka Nshema,” that’s what she’d say every day as she stirred the pot of ever thickening white paste.  On one occasion, after going to the field and picking the leaves of wild okra, we were shown how to make “African soda.” Rapson brought into the house a bowl of wet ashes from the fire. The bowl had holes in the bottom of it. Rapson placed an empty bowl underneath the ash bowl, then he poured water into the ash and caught the water that ran through. The result was a murky brown water that did kind of resemble a coke coloring. As Marie, Amanda and I watched, we would catch side way glances at each other. Rapson kept leaving the room for various reasons which gave us an opportunity to discuss what we were going to do. “I am not going to drink that!” was the first response. “No, No if they boil it we can technically consume it.” “You don’t know where that ash has been!” “Gd, if I can get it down, you keep it down!”  Soon both Rapson and Margaret were in the room pouring the African Soda and wild okra leaves into a pot. A mixture of relief and regret came over me when they began to boil it over a coal fire. Relief because it was boiled and therefore all the germs were dead. Regret because now I could not refuse it because it was “safe” to eat. The okra/soda relish was served with that evening Nshema. It was a lovely slimy consistency. I noticed they did not serve themselves any… I beginning to think they were just seeing what the Americans would actually eat.

That same day they tested our durability in another way. Rapson wanted to take us to his village. We asked if it was near or far (very relative terms in Africa), he assured us it was not very far. Later we learned we would need to take bike to get there. We agreed that this was okay so long as he could borrow enough bikes for the four of us. We watched as he collected bikes throughout the day. By afternoon we could see he still only had three bikes. He announced it was time to go and we nervously began our walk towards the main road. The men he was borrowing the other two bikes from did not leave, they were walking with the bikes. I began to realize what I had previously made myself think an impossibility. By “we are going to ride bikes to my village” Rapson meant, we ladies were going to ride and the men would peddle. We watched as a Zambian man and woman zoomed past us on a bike. She was perched uncomfortably on the back rack of the bike (meant for carrying a package) riding side saddle. Yes, side saddle, is there really another way to ride? Another whispered conversation between us ensued, “Can we really do this? We don’t even know what village we’re going too. How the heck do you ride a bike sidesaddle!” I thought this was an impossibility and for the first ten minutes of clinging to the bike with my fingers I still didn’t believe it. But eventually I did open my eyes and start breathing again and discovered, the country of Zambia is beautiful by bike. There were beautiful boulders with vines and bushes growing all over them. When we finally reached Rapson’s village, it was as if we stepped into another world. The children there were pressing in around us, they all wanted to touch us and shake our hands. I ate 8 times that day. At every house we visited they wanted us to eat something that they had prepared, from raw peanuts to an entire meal of Nshema. That day was amazing. As we clung to the bikes again for the 25 minute ride home, Rapson stopped at a kiosk to buy Marie a stick of sugar cane. The way home was even scarier as it was mainly up hill and my cyclist was rather wobbly, especially when the semis tried to blow us off the road. It was more fun than any person should be allowed to have.

Visit from the Chief's wife

    The morning is filled with the songs of some delightful blue rollers. They dance around bush camp, flashing their brilliant teal wings and perching high in the trees. Today we are preparing for the visit from the Chief’s wife. She is coming for tea time and all the women in bush camp are hurrying about to prepare for her arrival. Sarah, De Anne and the girls are running around clipping flowers from every flowering tree and bush. Others are busy stirring bowls of sugar, chocolate and other ingredients for the different treats. I am inside the building helping to move tables and lay “Shatangies” (pieces of cloth used as skirts) for table clothes. We women are very happy to be using our creative and hospitality skills. At about noon, Ms. Suzy drives onto campus with the Chief’s wife and her sister-in-law. As the walk into the building, we sing the a song and curtsy a bit as they pass. Inside we take out seats and continue with more music and a round of introductions. Soon we are all enjoying the treats and some tea. The Chief’s wife graciously allows us to question her about her duties and her daily life. We learn that she is often entertaining people. She is part of a matrilineal tribe, which means that the Chief is chosen from the sons of his sister. Therefore the Chief’s sister is a highly respected person as well. That is why she attended the party with the Chief’s wife. Some ladies and girls presented a skit about Elijah and the widow whose oil and flour did not run out. One of our last events was to sing a song in Nianja. The words where “Mwamba, Mwamba” but the snake in the wall must have that we were say “Mamba Mamba” because he came slithering out of the ceiling rafters to join the party. He came down directly behind the Chiefs wife and sister-in-law. He was just a harmless garden snake but that did not matter in a room full of women. We kept on singing but there were now screams and stomping of feet mixed in as some ran to find the men to kill the snake. The snake was soon deposed of and we continued on our way. Aside from the snake it was a great day of fun and learning.

Telling our stories

A cousin of my friend on the road

    On our way to Chichimona village (whose name means “killer”), a bearded dragon crossed my path and ran up on the black road to sun himself. He was a very cute fellow; I felt like putting him in my pocket and taking him back to the U.S. where I could make some cash on him.  Today is a special day, we have been telling many stories from the good book but today we also get to tell our own. The first hut we walk up on is open and we see two young women inside. They quickly come out to greet us and invite us to come inside. There is a mesh metal container with burning coals siting in the center of the room to keep the chill of the morning outside. The small house is so crammed with furniture we can barely scoot through onto the couches. We soon learn the lady’s names, Elida and Sarah. We ask if they pr anywhere and find out they are Roman Catholic. Neither speaks English so we communicate solely through our guide Margaret. She asks them if they would like to hear our story and the girl graciously agree. Karissa begins by sharing the story of Paul before King Agripa. She tells them that Paul told King Agripa his life story. Then she details briefly how Paul once ruthlessly persecuted the ch and lived to follow the Jewish law. However, one day, Paul is met by a bright light on the road and a voice says, “Paul why are you persecuting me?” And Paul answers, “Who are you?” The voice says, “I am J.C. who you are persecuting.” Then J.C. tells him he is sending him to a people group not his own to tell them about what J.C. has done for them. After telling Paul’s story we transitioned to our own personal stories. I told them that when I was a child my parents were both followed J.C. but I did not. My parents told me about J.C. and what he did for me, and that if I trusted Him I would not have to go to hell but I could go to heaven. I did not want to go to hell so I asked to receive J.C. Then I explained that as I grew older and became a teenager, Gd continued to teach me. He taught me that He did not only want to save me from hell but He also wanted complete control of my life. So when I was 13 I told Gd, “Whatever you want to do with me and wherever you want me to go, I will do it.” I told them, before that day, when I read my B I could not understand it but after that day the H.S. came to me and I could understand what I was reading. When I got to the part about the H.S. explaining the text to me, Elida began to smile and lean forward as she listened. She told me that she also tries to read the B but it did not make since. I asked if they had a story like mine, if they had ever given themselves to Gd. They both shook their heads no but they said they wanted too that day. We explained that there are no special words to say but if they would believe in J.C. and give themselves to Gd that He promises to save them and send the H.S. to teach them. As we left the house, Elida’s face was glowing. I asked Margaret if they really understood, she thought they did.

                We visited 3 other groups;  Karissa and I rotated telling Paul’s story and then telling our own. We spent about an hour speaking with a Jehovah’s Witness about various doctrines. It was a long drawn out discussion back and forth about where we would go when we died and who J.C. really is. I was beginning to feel we were making no headway and wasting our time until I realized there was a young blvr girl also listening to our conversation. When Margaret spoke with her, the girl confessed that she had been going to the Jehovah’s Witness woman for advice. She had not realized there is such a gap between the two theologies. 

Karrisa and I with Margaret

After that, we met a family of blvrs; we sat under a tree and after telling our stories asked about their own. The young mother told this story. Her first baby became very sick. She took him to the hospital but they did not help her. On her way home from the hospital, she met a blvr woman who said to her, “Do not go to a witch doctor or to anyone else about your baby, only pr to Gd. Maybe He will heal the child and maybe not but you should only go to Him.” So she went home and closed the door and got on her knees and pr to Gd. The next morning her baby was healthy again. She said, “From that day I believed in Gd.” Then the woman’s husband told his story. He said while pointing to his wife, “Every day she was pr for me, she wanted me to know Gd. So one day I needed money to pay for a hospital bill. I went to all my neighbors and friend and no one could help me. So she said ‘You should only ask Gd.’ So that night I pr and the next morning a man brought me the money that I needed. From that day on I have followed Gd.” I was astonished by each of the stories. Back in the states I read a book Power Quest that emphasized Africans need to have “power encounters” in order to put faith in J.C. And here Gd had provided two shining examples of His grace. After speaking with that family, it was getting late in the day and we began to head home. We passed by some young girls who were putting the corn into storage. A large pile of un-shucked corn lay in front of the mud hut with a thatch roof. An older girl stood on a stool dumping the baskets of corn into a small door at the top of the “silo.” A few chickens were pecking around the edges of the pile. The girls called out to us in Ninaja as we passed by. Margaret answered back to them, and then she turned to us, “They want you to come tell them a story while they work.” We of course happily consented. We again told the story of Paul and Karissa shared her own story. The girls continued to gather the corn into baskets and pass them to the one standing on the stool to dump through the door. Each of the older girls gathering the corn kept their eyes on us as much as they could while they continued their work. As the pile of corn grew smaller, Karissa came to the close of her story and asked if they had a story like hers. The girls shook their heads no. The one standing on the stool said, “No we do not, but we are all ready to receive J.C. now.” It is hard to know without having any follow up how much Elida and the girl truly understood. As we pr over the girls I asked that Gd would continue to shape them and that they would truly come to know him.  Just as we were about to leave, the woman who had told us her story earlier came to help the girl finish up their work. She was a friend or a relative. I am grateful to Gd that He has provided a witness to them living just next door.

Girl to a Woman

    After spending several days meeting and greeting people in Petauke, we began to walk out into the surrounding villages. The first day Karrisa and I met a woman names Ester. We asked her many questions about what it means to be a woman in Zambia and what the rights of passage are. Ester was very hospitable; she offered us peanuts that she picked from her field. We sat outside her mud house on a reed mat as she described for us the ceremony that takes place when a girl is becoming a woman. When the girl reaches puberty, she is taken inside her house where traditionally she must stay for several weeks or even a few months. Each day, women from the community come to her and teach her what it means to be a women and how to take care of her husband. We later learned that part of this ceremony involves teaching the girls how to “keep” their husbands, i.e. some very sexual content. Most girls are only 11 or 12 years old when this ceremony takes place. We asked our blvr guide what the women at her ch do when their girls become of age. She explained they realized that teaching the girls such explicit things so early in life led to premature sexual activity, so they leave out the sexual content of the ceremony. For the most part, the blvr girls would be taught by older ch members. Just before the girls are to be married they might have a “kitchen” party in which the girls would receive the more adult lessons. 

Mr. Zulu

      On one of our mornings out in Petauke, Karissa and I met Mr. Zulu. He is a carpenter; we sat down to chat with him on one of his many covered couches. Around the yard are various chairs, sofas, and tables in different stage of construction. The cloth covered couches are all sitting around the yard. It is dry season in Zambia and the nationals know not a single drop of rain comes out of the sky during dry season. So Mr. Zulu can work and store his couches out in the open air without fear of ruin. Our guide in Petauke is Margaret. She tells us, she has seen Mr. Zulu working on his couches every Sunday as she walks to ch. Today is the first day she has spoken with him though. The blvr congregation meets in a building right next to Mr. Zulu’s workshop. As we talk to Mr. Zulu, we learn he has 11 children all with the same wife. Mr. Zulu is 70 years old. Sadly, there has been a break in his relationship with his wife and 3 years ago he moved away from his family to Petauke. Karissa takes the lead as we speak to him about Gd grace. Mr. Zulu confides in us that his wife had disappointed him some years ago and he had moved away as a source of punishment to her. He would not reveal what she had done to hurt him but he seemed very solemn and sorry that the incident occurred. “You know, you have the opportunity to follow J.C. example in showing forgiveness to your wife,” Karissa states. She then tells him again the story of J.C. and how he sacrificed himself for us and forgave us though we did not deserve it. Mr. Zulu seemed genuinely touched by the story. He said, “What you have said has touched my heart, I think that I am ready to go home and see my wife again.” He said he wanted to make plans to travel home again at the end of the year. We encouraged Mr. Zulu that while he was still separated from his family he should join his brothers and sister across the road at the blvr congregation. However, on Sunday as we passed by his workshop on way home from ch, we greeted Mr. Zulu, he was still hard at work on his furniture.

Bush Camp

Home Sweet Home

Fun in the Truck

    After ten joyous days in Lusaka, crowding on to buses, talking with many people and learning lots about Zambian culture, it was time to head to Petauke. Petauke is a town about 6 hours away from the capital city Lusaka. Just outside of Petauke is a small campus that has a few buildings one of which is used as a church. Across the entire grounds, green tents had popped up all over to form what we called Bush Camp. Each family had one or two tents and the singles each shared a tent with one other person. I was housed with Krista, we barricaded our tent against the bugs and spiders zipping our mesh door at all times and stuffing a sock on the small hole at the base of the door. We also periodically doomed the outside edges of the tent. At bush camp, we got to pump our shower water at the bore hole, heat it up over the fire, and shower with ingeniously rigged bucket showers. These were very convenient contraptions unless you happened to lose the rope before tying it off, as Tracy discovered one day. Luckily, we happened to have a Doctor in our number, who sowed the top of her head up. Ouch! I would have screamed like a baby. Tracy was back on her game the next morning.  At bush camp, we had a similar schedule, breakfast at 7am, small groups at 8am and the off to DFA’s. The first few days we took a truck to the town of Petauke to conduct our DFA’s.

Buckets siting in the sun to warm...
for those of us to lazy to heat water
over the fire

    One of our DFA’s was on Witch Doctors. We went to a local women witch doctor to ask her questions. The lady told us of how when she was a young girl, she was taken into the air and left in a body of water. She said no one knew how she was able to get so far away from home. She said her parents followed the water and found her very far away from home. After that day, she said she began to dream about the trees, and which ones had the power to heal. We asked her if she prayed anywhere and she claimed to be a blvr. Karissa asked if she minded if she shared some stories with her about J.C. Than Karissa fearlessly told the witch doctor the story of how J.C. cast out demons and healed the sick and how J.C. was the only one to turn to in times of need. The many customers gathered around were listening with wide eyes. The witch doctor was not as pleased. Soon we took our leave. Later that evening during debrief we heard many similar stories to our own; lots of superstition and dreams. People might go to the clinic, than the witch doctor and then to a religious leader.

The Evil bucket that busted Tracy's head

T.I.A.

                One morning at the seminary, I woke up a bit grouchy. When my alarm went off at 6 am, it took everything in me to force myself to get out of bed. I walked to the bathroom with my eyes still shut, my fellow 40/40 participant making snide comments about how lovely I was looking that morning, I grunted in reply. I drug my feet all the way to the toilet stall. I pulled down my shorts, tied up my skirt and  sat down, after a moment or two I opened my eyes, and to my surprise I was not alone. A spider the size of my palm was just chilling on my right shoulder, like we were playing pirate.  Immediately I spazed out, failing to knock it off my shoulder, it retreated down my back. Somehow, I managed to get my undies back up before I busted out of the stall screaming, “Get it off! Get it off!” Two teens girls (13 year olds), stood with tooth brushes in their hands frozen in horror, as I ran backward towards them with my shorts around my ankles and a gigantic spider on my back. One ran the other way; the other stood with her eyes closed flailing her tooth paste tube in my direction. Then suddenly, Krista burst forth out of the second stall, which I was dancing directly in front of, in one motion she knocked the monstrosity off and stomped on it, just before it went into my undies. She literally saved my butt.  I was now very much awake and indebted to Krista for life. T.I.A. This Is Africa. It’s something we ex-pats are learning.  I was shaking and I was laughing, I was hugging Krista for saving me and I was scolding the teens for doing nothing. T.I.A. Later that day, I was standing in line at an ATM, when I put my card in it pretend to make the transaction but did not give me either money or a receipt. The female guard standing there was hassling me and telling me to move along. T.I.A. So I had to find an internet café, so I could check my accounts and be sure I was not just jipped, but the only internet café there was sooo slow. It took at least 45 minutes just to sign into my checking account and check a few emails. T.I.A. After that I still needed Kwatcha to pay for things with, so I was back in line for like an hour at another ATM waiting for them to put money into the machines. T. I. A. It’s the best way to live, it’s very similar to Timon and Pumbaa’s “Hakuna Matata” life style. You can get mad… and I was angry that day. But in the end, this is Africa, the same rules do not apply here. You can’t choose parts of Africa; you have to take it with the good and the bad.

Montero Sorrows

    The first few days in Montero were spent poking around the open air market and chatting with the venders. The first day an outgoing lady said hello and then reached out to feel my hair. She wanted to know why I had it pulled up into a ponytail. The next day, as I passed, the same thing happened and I learned her name was Angela. She sold many types of greens: rape, cabbage, pumpkin leaves, etc. All of these items are used to make different types of relish to go along with the main dish Nshema. Nshema is made out of corn and has a play dough like consistency. It’s served at every meal in Zambia and generally is served scalding hot. It is meant to be eaten with your hands. First you tear off a piece, then you squish around in your hand a while to cool it off or soften it and then you dip it into whatever relish is provided and stuff yourself.

Me, Christine our guide and Ms. Barbara

                I met one man at the market who asked if when I went back to the U.S. if I would find his sister. I asked, “Hasn’t your sister called you since she left?” He looked at me like that was a dumb question. So I asked him why his sister left for the U.S. She apparently answered some add for work in California but the man had no idea what city and had not heard from his sister since she left several years earlier. It is very odd and sad to me that people would be so trusting of an add. This man will probably never meet his sister again. I doubt she ever was taken to California. It’s horrifying to think of what might have actually happened to her, and ridiculous to me that this man still seemed convinced that his sister was simply living in “California” (no city to mention) and had failed to contact him for several years. This world can be scary and people are too trusting of it.

The Montero Crew plus a few... In Zambia it's just assumed that
 everyone present is invited to the photo :)

                On one of the many bus rides to Montero, I sat next to a young woman named Cheapo and began to talk to her, just random get to know you stuff. Soon my bus stop arrived and we found we were getting off at the same stop. At once, she invited us to come to her house. That day was a special day because we had Stacy, an M from southern Zambia visiting with us. Ms. Barbara, Stacy, Christine and I all followed Cheapo down some ally ways to her house. As we walked, I learned that Cheapo was recently married, only 8 months. I congratulated her on her recent wedding and asked about her husband and what sort of job he had. I was beginning to gather that he was doing pretty well in his business. We came through a rickety gate, passed by a toddler playing in the dirt yard and came to a small block house. When Cheapo opened the door I was shocked to find beautiful furniture, a flat screen TV, Computer, etc. all crammed into her small apartment. She quickly offered us all sodas and had us sit on her very comfortable couch. I immediately told her how beautiful her apartment was, she was so thrilled to have us there and to be complimented on her house she put her face in her hands bashfully and smiled and laughed. When she came back into the room with the sodas, she asked Christine in Nianja if we would pr for her because she had been unable to conceive. I was a little surprised that she would be so concerned so soon after her marriage about having a child. But soon it was apparent how desperate Cheapo was for a child. While Cheapo is a blvr her husband is not. She said hesitantly, “My husband is frustrating me… he says he will leave me or take another wife… and then I will become nothing to him.” Stacy, understanding the situation better then all of us answered, “Tell your husband that frustrating you may keep you from having a baby, stress can be a problem.” Cheapo played with the couch pillow while speaking, occasionally looking up, but mainly avoiding eye contact as she spoke. It was clear her husband had been at the least verbally assaulting. Here, a young beautiful fit women, who appeared to have a good education, only married for 8 months, and her husband was threatening divorce. The heart breaking thing is Cheapo, though frustrated with her husband, was more concerned about conceiving a child then the abuse she was receiving from her husband.  She seemed convinced that she was the problem, but that maybe if we pr foer her that was the answer. As we talked further with her, we began to emphasis that maybe what we should pr was for her husband to know our Father. And that her Husband would see her as the gift from Gd and be content no matter what happens. She listened solemnly and began to seem more relaxed the longer we talked. Stacy, who herself had learned contenment in being childless, spoke gently to Cheapo. She said, "Your name means gift doesn't it? You need to be content and know that you are a gift to your husband even if he does not see that yet." Soon we were all pr around Cheapo, we pr she would receive the child she desired but more importantly that her husband would seek Gd and discover the gift He has already blessed him with. Christine closed the pr in Cheapo and her own heart language, Nianja. As she pr, tears rolled down Cheapo’s face. African women never cry in public, they are taught to be strong and hold in emotions. Cheapo said “I feel whole again, I had been feeling so frustrated but now I feel whole again.” She said she knew she needed to begin to read the good book again. My heart aches for Cheapo, so unloved by her husband, but loved so deeply by my father.

Bus to Montero

Upon arriving to the seminary where we stayed at in Lusaka, I met the King family. Had I made it to Mali we would have worked together at Silah Mali doing humanitarian aid work. The Kings left the country just before the coup happened for other reasons and have been unable to return because of the heated political situation. They told me many things about Mali, they shed a little more light on the complicated political world in Mali and they shared many stories of the beautiful people in Mali. I was quite jealous of the King’s and their experience in Mali but there is one thing about Mali I was happy to be missing, the weather. April is one of the hottest months for Mali 115+ degree weather. Zambia, however, was cool and pleasant, just entering the beginning of fall. Zambia is lush and green, and there were happy black and white crows hoping around campus.  

                At the seminary, I settled into my room shared with three other single girls. I recall the first evening, after playing some card games I came into the room and was hit with a wall of raid. Apparently Krista found a large eight legged friend when she opened her drawer. No other spider dared to step foot in our room after the entire thing had been fumigated with Doom (African version of Raid… pretty sure it’s illegal in the states).

                So we settled into a schedule that consisted of waking for breakfast at 7am, then at 8am small group and then we would set out for our daily adventures known as daily field assignments (DFA) in the afternoons we would debrief and listen to lectures about African Culture. The main event of course were the DFA’s. Every day we’d head out with a set of questions to ask Zambians about their culture. There were two Americans and one Zambian helper per group. My helper’s name was Christine. She was from Montero as were two other helpers Rose and Bridget. So the whole group of us, 9 in all, would head out every morning, walk about a mile to the intersection and then take a mini-bus about an hour to Montero. The Mini bus is a van with four row seats plus the seat next to the driver. On each seat four people were expected to sit, so the capacity of this bus could be up to 20 people including the driver and the conductor. Children never seem to factor into the head count so there might be more than that if children are involved. For the most part, Zambians ride squashed on top of each other in the mini-buses in utter silence… but not when American’s are involved. Since it took us so long to get to Montero we would never have had enough time to ask all our questions if we just sat in silence. So many day we’d cram on the bus, sit in awkward silence with a knee or and elbow stuck in our side, and then we’d start chattering away and in a few moment the entire bus was hoping with conversations.

Starting Off

Packing the Essentials

I left the U.S. on the 17^th of April. The first thing me and my parents did in the airport was enact our own little three stooges comedy. My Dad had my two trunks on a dolly and he got on the escalator first. Then my Mom and I got on behind him each with a roller bag. At the top of the escalator, Dad got the wheel caught which doomed Mom and me to crash into him. Bags, trunks and dollies exploded at the top of the escalator with Mom, Dad and I at the top of the pile. We hurriedly kicked, drug, and shoved all my possessions out of the way before we caused any bodily injury to the other Cincinnati airport guest coming up the same escalator. I laughed really hard.

                Then we stood at the checked bag counter for more than hour debating about bag costs and whether they’d allow four bags… smiling the whole time of course. After that, the dreaded moment had arrived for me to hug my parents good bye. I had a planned speech about them being the best parents in the whole world, etc. But instead we just hugged for a long time and cried. I cried really hard.

                After that everything was gravy, my flights were pleasant. I spent one night in Johannesburg where I left a majority of my luggage in storage at the guest house. Lin Pinter and sat next to each other on the Jo-burg to Lusaka flight; we arrived in Lusaka Zambia on the 19^th. When I stepped out of the Lusaka airport the smell of Africa wrapped warmly around me. It smells like home.