August 15, 2007

Hello everybody! It's been so long since I've written, but it's not from lack of trying. I've sat down several times over the past few months to put into words all that's happened to me recently, but there's been 1 event that affected me so deeply that I simply haven't been in a state to want to recall and write about it... Let's just say that the month of June has had the most emotional scope of any month of my Peace Corps service. It began with the highest high- the arrival of my family for a 10-day visit- to 1 of my absolute lowest lows- the death of a baby girl. The month of July was a little more calm, and now August is proving to be positively boring.

I am currently feeling pretty healthy, but I can now check Giardia and Osteochondritus of the chest from my list of African ailments. I can also say that I now only have 1 degree of separation beween myself and 3 famous political figures... A Peace Corps volunteer I know recently shook Laura Bush's hand during her visit to Lusaka. Another volunteer bumped into Bill Clinton at a restaurant during his recent visit to Lusaka. And, a local farmer that I work with had a meeting with Zambia's first lady, Maureen Mwawawasa last week. So obviously, I have my foot in the door with some very influential people.

The cold season is over, and it is hot, hot, dry, and hot! I'd be lying if I said that a frozen margarita hasn't appeared in my dreams every night this week! Well, I'll stop complaining about the weather and get on with the stories/experiences I want to share with you. Please note that although some of these stories are light-hearted, there will be a section where I touch on the death of a child in my village. She's the reason I haven't managed to write in so long, and my heart still breaks for her family...

The Wolf Family African Vacation

During the last week of May and 1st week of June my entire family came for the vacation of a lifetime. I hadn't seen them in almost a year & a half, and it was everything I'd hoped it would be! I was actually shocked at myself for not crying when I saw everyone in the airport terminal for the 1st time... I didn't tell them that I'd been crying as I paced back and forth at the terminal waiting for them to arrive. The anticipation was so much- I was sweating and crying and worrying- I must have looked like a complete wreck when they first laid eyes on me!

Everything about the next 10 days was wonderful. We stayed at some extremely nice lodges with good food, drinks, scenery, artwork, etc. Victoria Falls was amazing- There's no doubt about it being 1 of the greatest natural wonders of the world. There's really no describing its magnificence. I was glad my family was as awed by it as I was. Simply spectacular. We did the Vic Falls gorge swing... Originally, the plan was to bungee jump, but it was closed on the day we were there. The gorge swing was described to us as much more "thrilling" than the simple bungee, so we gave it a try- over a 50 meter drop before swinging across the entire canyon. Yeah, even Mom & Dad took the plunge. It was awesome!

After Livingstone, we crossed the border into Botswana to visit Chobe Park- 1 of the most famous national parks in Southern Africa. Located on the river separating the 2 countries, from our lodge we could watch the sunrise in Botswana and the sunset in Namibia. At Chobe, we saw elephants, hippos, giraffes, wart hogs (so cute!), crocodiles, monkeys, mongoose, black mamba snakes, impala, kudu, puku, storks, a lioness and her cubs, water buffalo, and probably a dozen more species of animals that I'm forgetting to mention. The only animal I was disappointed about not seeing was zebras. I've seen them before, but I really wanted my family to see them too.

After Chobe, we hired a vehicle and travelled all the way up to Kasama (virtually crossing the entire nation in the process). I took them to the rock paintings and our local waterfalls, Chishimba Falls (which I've described in a previous journal entry). The rock paintings aren't what most people typically imagine when they think of ancient rock/cave paintings. They weren't depictions of men hunting animals and stuff like that. There were a few animals, but most everything else was really abstract... 1 rock was covered with dots made by people dipping their thumbs in animal blood mixed with other unknown herbs/chemicals and placing their thumbprints on the wall. This was a form of recording the tribe's population at the time.

Another rock had a very simple sketch of a penis and a vagina. These drawings were used to teach about sex/reproduction during initiation ceremonies... The low point of my trip actually took place at the rock paintings. Underneath and even across the very middle of a few paintings were big Bible verses painted onto the rocks by Pentecostal missionaries who used to hold prayer sessions and Bible studies at the rock painting site. I was deeply saddened, disapointed, and angered by such a disrespectful act to these rocks, which provide this unique glimpse into our distant past.

The following day began with a brief visit with my best Zambia friend Rhodah- She prepared a breakfast of roasted groundnuts and sweet potatoes for everyone... I have never seen her so excited as she was when she met my family! From there, we continued on to my village- Safwa. We were, as expected, bombarded by children. From the time we arrived around 10:30 until we all went to bed, I don't think we had a single moment alone as a family. I first took everyone over to the headman's house, where we sat in his nsaka and went through the Bemba tradition of exchanging greetings and thanking the headman for allowing my family to visit. At the appropriate time we handed over out mandatory bag of "gifts" to the headman. Included in the bag was an Old Navy flag t-shirt (XL... What was Mom thinking? This is sub-Saharan Africa where people are starving. My headman can't weigh more than 120 pounds) and a Dodge baseball cap with a USA flag on the side of it. Although he didn't open the gifts in front of us (That's just not customary Bemba style), I have seen him in the meantime wearing the oversized t-shirt and the baseball cap. In fact, I haven't seen him without the cap on since my family came, so I think he's quite proud of it.

Next, we walked over to my neighbor's house and watched a goat and a chicken get slaughtered in preparation for our evening meal. After a quick trip down to the river to show off the pontoon that ferries vehicles across, we returned to my house fo the main festivities of the day. My entire community came to my house for an afternoon of singing and dancing. My neighbor Ba Patrick had slashed all of the grass between our houses and put out a reed mat and wooden bench for all of us to sit on. Traditional dances were performed by some of the youngest pupils from the local school, then a few adults, and then I got up and danced. The whole village erupted in laughter and cheering when I started dancing... I must have looked so ridiculous, but I didn't care. One of our local church choirs performed a few songs for us in Bemba. I got up and sang with them, but they caught me off-guard by adding new verses that I'd never heard before.

All in all, spending time with my family was just as wonderful as I'd hoped it would be. I've barely touched upon all of the things we experienced... It's difficult to capture such a whirlwind 10 days in a single letter. Just before saying goodbye to everyone came my high point of their visit- My newly-engaged sister Amber asked me to be the maid of honor in her wedding next summer! It looks like bumming around Africa indefinitely is no longer an option... See you next summer!

The Death of a Beauty

On the evening of June 24, my next door neighbor Ba Patrick came by my house to inform me that a little girl in our village had just died. Her name was Sylvia and she was a grade 1 pupil at Safwa Community School. She was 6 years old. I asked him what happened. "We don't know, she just died. Stopped breathing." I asked him when this all happened... "Just now. I have just now returned from her house where she is dead." "Are you sure she is dead? Should we try getting her to a clinic?" "She is dead," he said again. "And you don't know what happened to her? Was she sick? Could she have choked on something and that's why she stopped breathing?" ...I had so many questions and Patrick was being so vague! I finally got out of him that the girl had come down sick the day before- "She was breathing very difficult. You could walk by the house and hear it like this..." He made an imitation of the breathing that sounded like a cross between snoring and gasping. I've never heard of malaria causing such difficulty breathing, but that's the obvious ailment that entered my mind. "Yes, maybe it was cerebral malaria," Patrick agreed. (I was later told that it was probably meningitis.)

Sylvia, Sylvia... I tried to put a face to that name. I knew she was 1 of the kids that plays around my house sometimes, but I couldn't picture her. Patrick explained to me that she belonged to the family that lives just across the main path, as you're walking to the school. I knew the house he was referring to but still couldn't place the little girl.

Here's an excerpt from my journal on June 24: "...I can hear the wailing outside. I'm bundled up in my bed writing in my journal while less than 100 meters away from me dozens of women are crying and lamenting over the death of a 6-year-old.

I wish there was something I could do, but I'm completely out of my element at times like this. Patrick asked if I could spare a candle for the mourning family (so that the wailing can continue through the night)... I gladly gave him a candle. Now all I can do is lay here and listen. Sometimes the wailing is so faint that I assume it must have stopped. But then I'll hear an old woman give a long wail and more women will chime in. It sounds like it comes and goes in waves.

Tomorrow should be the funeral. I don't know if it'll be in the morning or afternoon, but I'm heading to town so I probably won't attend. Sylvia- I wish I could picture her face in my mind. Then again, maybe it's better that I can't."

A couple days later I was just arriving home after a day spent in another village, when Ba Patrick came by and informed me that another child had passed away. Her name was Beauty, and she was only 2 or 3 years old. Apparently she'd been sick for the past few days, and the family took her to the clinic (about 12K away), where she was diagnosed with cerebral malaria. They sent the family to another, newer clinic located about 40K away. So, they took the little girl there and she received 2 "injections". She died that afternoon.

Beauty was actually one of my very close neighbors. Her older brother Mwila (age 6 or 7) is 1 of the boys that is always playing at my house. He is a really sweet kid- 1 of my favorites- and he's always watching over his younger brother Oswald, who is about 2, and is a spitting image of Mwila. I could hear the women wailing: "Ooh! Maayo! Umwaana wandi! Oohh!" (Mother! My child!) It was so sad... The most desperate and mournful and heartbreaking sound. Mwila soon came by and asked me if I was going to come to their house to take part in the wailing. "Beauty afwa (died)," he said to me so matter-of-factly that I was caught off guard by what he was actually asking of me. I really love that little boy, and even though he was behaving so calm and unaffected, I could see in his watery eyes that he understood death... I wanted to hug him and give him the childhood that I had.

An excerpt from my journal on that day: "... Wow, 2 funerals- 2 child funerals- in less than a week. It's exhausting trying to sort through all of the emotions and thoughts and questions that surface when a young child dies... especially from preventable diseases. Neither of these deaths should have happened! It makes me so angry when I look at it that way. Then my heart breaks for the mothers... Then I feel guilty that my life has been such a picnic and these kids never got a chance to really live... Then I feel sorry for all of the other kids, who have gotten used to having their siblings and friends die. They almost seem unaffected by it. Granted, they are just kids, but I get the impression that they've become completely desensitized to death around them. It's all so tragic... but so common, which makes it less tragic and all the more tragic at the same time."

The Funeral

The following is a direct excerpt from my journal on June 29: "I woke up several times throughout the night to the sound of drumming and singing... It is now 7:15 and there are still 2 or 3 women wailing over at Mwila's house. They must be exhausted! I just spoke to Ba Friday (my neighbor), and he said that they are now constructing a coffin, and sometime around 10 or 11:00 will be the burial...

...So I sat in my nsaka and watched a group of men gather at Ba Matthew's house (another neighbor) to chop and saw and nail away at the coffin. It took them about 2 hours. At 9:30 Ba Patrick came over to take me to the funeral. It was at the grandparents' house, which is directly across from mine, going down toward the river. I had been watching the crowd slowly grow- the women in front of the house, inside the nsaka, and surrounding the nsaka, the men sitting in the shade under the trees to the side of the house. I walked over with Patrick. He joined the men, and I put my chitenge down and sat next to the women ouside of the nsaka. For the next hour I listened to the mother wailing and crying from inside the house. I think the grandmother and maybe a few aunts were also inside, crying alongside her. Most of the women seated around me would sniffle, and I'd turn my head to see their red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. After a short while, 4 women came out of the house (it was the headman's wife, Patrick's wife, and 2 others). They began dancing in a small circle and singing church songs.

Next, the coffin was brought out of the house, containing little Beauty. It was covered with a chitenge. I imagine that it was the chitenge that the mother would carry her in (strapped to her back), but I don't know for sure. As the men carried the coffin and placed it on the ground atop a reed mat, the mother and grandmother followed them- crawling on their hands and knees, weeping hysterically.

Several men took turns standing up and praying or reading from the Bible. Then, the small coffin was hoisted onto the back of an old bicycle and strapped on with a piece of black rubber. I got up and followed as the coffin was moved out to the graveyard. There must have been something like 150-200 people proceeding in a single-file line down a small path that led deep, deep into the bush. There was sobbing, moaning, and sniffling all along the way. The path zig-zagged through tall grass, and I felt like we were in the middle of the wild. If for some reason I was left out there alone, there's no way I would have found my way back. As we were walking, Ba Friday told me that we were going to the graveyard for "young ones". "There's another one for adults?" I asked. "Yes," he said as he pointed toward our left in the direction of the adult cemetery.

When we arrived at the burial spot, everyone took a seat somewhere in the grass, making a sort of semi-circle around the grave. "Do you want to see what is happening?" Friday asked me. Unsure of exactly what that meant, I said yes. We seated ourselves in the grass, just in front of where a man was deep in a pit, shoveling out dirt. A couple more men joined in, taking turns with a shovel and hoe, digging the grave to the appropriate depth. When it was finished, they removed the chitenge and lowered the small coffin into the grave. They added about 1 foot of dirt on top of it and a man stomped around, packing that dirt down. The man hoisted himself out of the pit. Then the grandfather approached the grave. His chin was quivering and his eyes were filled with tears. When he got to the foot of the grave he fell to his knees and wept openly. His face was in his hands, and a few men came over to lift him up to his feet. I glanced over at Ba Friday. His eyes were full of tears, and I thought I saw one slip down his cheek. It's uncharacteristic of men to cry in public here, so I knew this was a rare and special moment.

The grandfather collected himself and said a few words to the crowd. I couldn't interpret the majority of it, but I think he was recounting what happened during the past few days leading up to her death. When he finished, the pastor got up and said a few words, then Patrick got up and talked as well. I looked at Patrick's wife while he was speaking... She just sat there crying- Her eyes focused on the ground instead of on her husband. Next, the men began shovelling the rest of the dirt on top of the coffin, filling the grave and making a mound of dirt that extended about 2 feet above the grave.

Immediately to the left of Beauty's new mound was the mound of dirt making Sylvia's grave... These 2 little girls, buried so close together in space and time.

The 1st to leave the gravesite and lead the procession back to the village was Beauty's mother, clearly distraught. Throughout the funeral she sobbed and moaned, "Maayo! Umwaana wandi! Bupe wandi!" (Oh mother! My child! My gift!) Hearing her cry "Umwaana wandi! Bupe wandi!" was almost too much for me to witness. My heart and my tears were in my throat, and hearing and watching her grieve like that was too much sadness to bear! I began to feel nauseus and I seriously thought I might throw up- I've never, never reacted that way at a funeral. I don't think I've ever witnessed such intensity of emotion before. I literally became heartsick for this family.

I didn't mention this earlier, but when the bike with the coffin on its rack began to roll away from the house, the mother and grandmother both made 1 last desperate lunge to touch the coffin just 1 more time. They were already on their hands and knees in the dirt, so when they lunged after the bike they essentially extended their arms and plummeted their bodies face-first into the dirt as well... They moaned and sobbed, flailing about and rolling around. I can best describe it as utterly desperate and heartfelt- These 2 generations of mothers in their last-ditch effort to hold on to their little girl.

After the funeral I returned to my house and sat on my porch. I was shaken up and deeply affected. But honestly, I cannot say all of the ways this has touched me... There were times when I cried for Beauty or her family, then I would cry out of a sense of guilt, then I would look at the mothers around me and cry for them and their fragile, vulnerable children, then I cried for Africa and it's diseased, sickly people, then I cried about the preventability of these diseases- these kids shouldn't be dying like this... maybe 100 years ago, but not today! It's all so frustrating. So sad.

The entire thing was over by 11:30, and by noon everything seemed back to normal... Boys were kicking around the football, women were pounding flour, girls were walking along the paths with pots/pans on their heads. Life returned to normal so quickly that it was positively eerie... As I am writing this, Mwila and one of his other siblings are both in my nsaka, hanging out with a couple other kids- You'd never have guessed that we buried their baby sister this morning."

Happy Coconut

To end this journal entry on a lighter note, I want to tell you a short story about a friend that I made on my trip to Malawi in July. In Malawi, we met some of the funnest and friendliest locals... And they had the greatest names! Here's just a few: There were 3 brothers named Special, Gift, & Eddie, then there was Ujen, Chicken Pizza, Fortunado, Wisdom, Winston, Bently, Smart, Snow, Dark City, and my very favorite- Happy Coconut.

I just had to know the story behind that name. He proudly told it to me... It goes like this: When his mother was over 8 months pregnant, she happened to be sitting beneath a coconut tree when a coconut fell from the tree and landed directly on her belly! She immediately went into labor and was rushed to the nearest clinic. After giving birth to a healthy baby boy, some people jokingly asked her, "So how's the coconut?" Her response: "I have a very happy coconut. Thank you." I love that story.

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful summertime in the States. I look forward to making up for plenty of lost time at the lake when I get back next summer. Take care and remember Africa in your prayers.

Shalenipo.

Erin