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.

Trusting the uknown to the known... again.

Where to start? Well at the beginning I guess… I took a position with a NGO called SILAH Mali located in Mali West Africa. After several weeks of training, I was schedule to spend two weeks at home with my family before flying out to Mali. But then the unthinkable happened, literally the last day of training, the reports came out about a coup happening in Mali. I had been following the political unrest in Mali for the past several months an knew that at elections, which were schedule to happen three weeks later, there might be an upset in this fledgling democratic country. I did not expect a coup. I also had been following the news of the unsettling raids and kidnappings happening to the north of the country. The Tuaregs (a lighter skinned nomadic people group who inhabit Northern Mali, and parts of Niger, Burkina Faso, Algeria and Libya) have been holding uprising periodically since Mali’s separation from France in the 1960’s. I knew they were uprising again in the north but did not predict that they would have substantial enough force to take advantage of Bamako’s instable government and actually be able to conquer the entirety of Northern Mali. 

So here I am the day before my original flight was schedule wondering what now?  I know what will happen to me in the next few weeks. I have been delayed and will go straight to more training in another part of Africa for a month while we wait to find out what will happen to Mali. But no one knows what will happen to Mali and to the work of SILAH Mali. All of SILAH’s volunteers and workers have fled to neighboring countries to wait out the instability. The countries surrounding Mali have cut off trade and closed their borders to Mali until the coup leaders step down and return Mali to its democratic status. Land locked Mali depends on outside oil and other imports to function economically. As every day of the sanction passes, the situation become more dire for the people of Mali who will inevitably suffer from hunger and drought. Also, in the North of Mali, along with the Tuareg rebellion there have emerged an extreme Islamist faction which is trying to enforce sharia law on the newly conquered territory. There have been reports of rape and also the murder of Christian believers.

Things look bad and they look like they will grow worse.  

I am continuing to trust the unknown to the known.  I do not know where I will go after training or how long it will be until I can see the people I have been thinking so much about but I know who does. If you know who does too, then ask him to be with the people of Mali, especially the blvrs in the North who could be facing tremendous persecution. 

In ten days, I leave for training in Zambia where I will have no access to internet, so I’m sorry that this depressing post will be the last for more than a month. But you can follow the news of Mali simply by googling the word Mali and reading the recent articles. 

I remain extremely hopeful that I will soon be experiencing the kind warm of the Malian people I have heard so much about and look forward  to posting about all the experiences and adventures.