Zambian Trevor

"Ah, by now you are used..."

2009-01-08T16:44:00.009-05:00

Thank you so much to everyone who has continued to follow my blog over these past two years. Your support and encouragement are indescribably important. I have a few things that I wrote over these two years that I never managed to post, and I am hoping to put them up over the next few weeks, so keep checking. Feel free to give me a shout (trevorfreeman@ewb.ca) if you want to hear more, or hear about something specific. Also, please visit http://www.giftofopportunity.ca/trevorfreeman if you haven't already. I am very close to reaching my goal, you can help for the final push!!

During my last week in Zambia I was wandering through a market in Lusaka, buying some vegetables for dinner that night. As is usual for a market trip, I got into a conversation with the lady I was buying my onions from. She was asking what I was doing in Zambia, and upon hearing that I had been living there for almost two years, she exclaimed (full of expression and in the smooth rhythmic bounce that all Zambians speak with) "Ah, by now you are used!", meaning of course that I must have gotten used to life in Zambia after so long. She asked where in Zambia I had been living, and I told her. She said, "You even know how to speak Bemba?" It was both a statement and a question. "Panono", I reply, meaning "A little". This of course causes the whole section of the market, all of whom were listening to this conversation, to burst into laughter. Muzungus speaking Zambian languages will never get old.

There definitely was some truth to her statement though, by now you are used. I am. Zambia, as I've suggested many times before, has indeed become home. I am comfortable walking the streets, dodging traffic, interacting with people. My ears are accustomed to the sounds of the Bantu (the "root" tribe for most Zambians) languages. The intensity of the sun on my face no longer seems unbearable (though I do still turn red if I'm not careful!). My parent's visit a few weeks ago brought into sharp relief just how much I've become familiar with. Listening to their reaction after walking through the crushing crowd on Cairo Rd. in Lusaka, or seeing the meat counter in City Market, or driving up to Mansa and experiencing the poor condition of the roads reminded me that I too once felt out of place in these settings. Zambia has clearly changed me.

Just how it has changed me is a tougher thing to articulate. There is no question that these past two years have left me a different person than I was when I left, but it's hard to say exactly how. I feel that I am more patient, more interested in people, and more keen to find the beauty in things I may have overlooked before. Yet that is only scratching the surface. I've learned and experienced a vast amount, and trying to sort it all out is a bit of a daunting task.

However the things that immediately come to mind when I think about influential moments, are not just about seeing a new country, a new part of the world, learning a new language, etc. It is the interactions with people. It is connecting with people on a personal level, one which no book, documentary, or even first hand account can accurately describe. I miss Zambia, there is no question about that. I miss the smells, the sights, the sounds, but most of all I miss those interactions.

I miss sitting around in the village darkness with the Lwandos, full from a simple meal of Nshima, listening to them sing.

I miss sitting on my front porch in Milenge after work, while all the "neighbourhood" kids play in front of my house.

I miss being greeted as I drive into a community on my motorbike, being surrounded by a crowd of kids, sitting and laughing with an old woman who I can't understand, discussing the technical details of the community well with the men, being served lunch and eating with everyone.

I miss the market ladies I would buy vegetables from in Mansa, always ready with a smile, always quick to throw a few extra tomatoes in the bag for me.

I miss the way people interact when they talk, with extended handshakes, and hand slapping when you laugh. A conversation with a Zambian seems so much more engaging.

I miss Mommy, my landlord in Mansa, and her eclectic but wonderful family. Her son Bwalya, a huge man who spends his days as a trainer at tiny gym in Mansa, usually so reserved and serious, but get him laughing and he'll shake the house apart. Her daughter, Grace, so warm and friendly right from the first moment I met her, always smiling, sharing an inside joke, teasing me about something. Grace's son, Junior, as wild and crazy as a three year old could be and then some. Shirley-Anne and Maria, Mommy's granddaughter and niece, shy and giggly as any young girls are. I miss them all.

I miss Sunday afternoon lunches at the Lwandos after we both moved to Mansa. Hanging out with the girls while Mrs. Lwando prepared lunch, joking around with the oldest, Chishala, hearing about Chola's week at school, trying to understand her steadily improving English, colouring with Ruth, her insisting on colouring the Canadian flag I drew for her blue, instead of the red that I suggested, playing with little Trevor...or at least until he realized that I look different from everyone else and would cry every time I went near him! Talking with Mr. and Mrs. Lwando over dinner, discussing the latest gossip, politics, my work, theirs, everything you can imagine. I especially miss the Lwandos.

Even being away from all these things, missing all these things, I have not stopped learning from them, however. I continue to be shaped by these people I met, and am sure I will be for years to come.

At the lodge where we stayed during our safari when my parents were visiting, there was a excerpt from an essay on a poster in the common area. It was a play on another book title, "The Trouble with Africa..." which outlines the development troubles Africa has had this century. The title of this excerpt however, finished that sentence a little differently. "The trouble with Africa ... is that it gets in your blood". That couldn't be truer. I would love to be able to express just what Zambia means to me, what the people of Zambia mean to me, but I don't think I can properly do that with this blog. Ask me the next time you see me.

For now though, I'll leave you with this poem that I came across a while ago. When I first read it I had never seen Zambia, never seen Africa, so I thought it was nice, but it wasn't personal. I reread it the other day and had tears in my eyes. I can't think of a better, more beautiful way to express what I feel. The poem is about Africa in general, but for me it rings true for Zambia.

-I am an African-

I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa's
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa

When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When African honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing

I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life

When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of music
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history

I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world's shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred

- Wayne Visser

A Christmas request...

2008-12-15T03:29:00.004-05:00

Well my parents are on their way back home after a great 2.5 week visit in Zambia, that included a visit to Victoria falls (see last post), a great safari (we saw EVERYTHING!!), but even better, my parents seeing my home in Mansa, and meeting my Zambian family, the Lwandos. I was really hoping to put up a few more pictures from their visit, but the internet isn't cooperating. I'll try again later this week, but given the many things I hope to accomplish before I leave Zambia on Saturday, it may have to wait until I get back home.

For the moment though, I have a request. I have committed to raising $2500 for EWB this Christmas season. Many of you supported me two years ago when I was first setting out to Zambia. I ended up raising over $3000 toward my placement. Now, after spending two years living and working here, I am even more convinced that EWB is contributing toward creating a better world, both in Africa, and at home in Canada. I would humbly ask that you check out my personal site, www.giftofopportunity.ca/trevorfreeman and help me reach my goal. This is a great alternative to the thousands of dollars we spend on each other at this time of year. Help me and help EWB spread the love a little wider this Christmas season. Thank you in advance for your support. It means so much to me, but more importantly, it is creating positive change for thousands of wondeful people who deserve the same chances we get in Canada.

Looking forward to seeing everyone in just a few days!!
Much love from Zambia,
Trevor

A few pictures...

2008-11-29T08:32:00.005-05:00

Here are a few quick pictures of my parents visit so far. I'll put up captions later, but for now, these are pictures of us at the airport a few minutes after their arrival, a bunch of us walking around the falls, including right along the edge (it's dry season so the water level is extremely low right now) and some of my dad and I swimming in the Devil's Pool, a natural pool right on the edge of the falls. Yes, you're seeing that correctly, that is us hanging over the edge of the 110m waterfall!! Enjoy!

When Worlds Collide - Part II

2008-11-26T01:41:00.003-05:00

I apologize in advance if this post is a bit incoherent and rambling. It isn’t well polished, but rather just a dump of my thoughts that I haven’t taken time to articulate well. I’m also rushing to get it posted before the “big event” happens tomorrow morning! (“Big Event” = arrival of my parents to Zambia)

At the beginning of this year I wrote a similarly titled post regarding my brief visit back home to Canada, and the difficulty I had reconciling that reality with the one I’ve come to know and love here in Zambia. As I sit in the hot, stuffy room in the EWB house in Lusaka, listening to the rain beat down on the roof, I can’t help but think I’ll need to go through the same process again in just a few short weeks. Except this time it won’t be a brief visit home, it will be a transition back into Canadian life. Yet even before that happens, another collision of realities will happen, one which I will both be a part of, and an observer. As I type this my parents, Gerry and Deb, are somewhere over the Atlantic, on their way to London, then down to Lusaka, to visit me here in Zambia. It seems almost surreal that their arrival is only a day away. We first started discussing this trip last year when I was home at Christmas. Over the next few months plans were made, accommodations arranged, (including three nights at the luxurious Chez Freeman … which is my tiny house in Mansa!), and flights were booked. Now here we are, mere hours away from the first (that I’m aware of) Freeman reunion on African soil. To say I’m excited would be a grave understatement. I think I can say the same of my parents.

Yet excitement does not rule out nervousness. In the last few months I’ve often sensed a bit of trepidation from my parents (especially my mother) as they prepare for this trip. This, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is quite understandable. I too was nervous (at times bordering on terrified) in the weeks and days leading up to my departure from Canada two years ago. It is mainly a fear of the unknown (and possibly a bit of fear of the known … things like malaria are very real here, and not extremely fun…trust me!!), but no amount of reassuring from me can assuage that fear. It will take seeing things with their own eyes, experiencing things for themselves, to understand and accept (and grow to love?) the things which they now might fear.

It isn’t just my parents who are nervous however. I am too. After all, this is the first time my world from Canada is coming into contact with my world here. It will be a test of my communication skills over the last two years. How accurately have I portrayed things here, the work I’ve been doing, the people I love? Have I glossed over the not so pleasant details, left things out in my blog posts and emails home? This will also be a check on my own personal experiences, a chance to see my world through others’ eyes. Am I naïve in the things I love here, the things that bother me? Do I actually understand my reality, or are the biases I carry with me too overpowering? What will my parents think of my friends, my family, my house, how I live, the things I like to do, the “risks” I take (I do realize that the definition of that word “risk” may differ between my view and my parents view, hence the quotation marks).

All of these issues aside however, I am extremely excited for my parents visit, and proud of them for pushing themselves to take this trip. I can’t wait for them to meet the Lwandos, to see the beauty of Luapula province, to experience the chaos of the Lusaka markets, to smell Zambian air. I have no doubt that it will all be overwhelming for them, an assault on the senses, but a wonderful one which will leave them (I hope!) and me with cherished memories for years to come.

This trip will not only impact my parents and me. The Lwandos (my Zambian family) have been waiting for this moment for a long time as well. Since the first time I told them a few months ago that my parents were coming to visit, hardly a week goes by without them double checking the date with me, asking about what my parents will want to eat, double checking that the trip is still on. I actually just got off the phone with Ba Na Lwando (“Ba Na” is the Bemba equivalent of “Mrs.”, and basically means “Mother of”, though that isn’t a literal translation), wanting to know if they have arrived yet. I had to tell her “Not yet, one more day, I’ll call you when they land!”). They too are excited to finally bring my Canadian and Zambian families together. It will indeed be a special moment.

So I wait, counting down the hours until their plane lands. My list of task to accomplish today, which once seemed extremely important, now just seems like time filler, things to do to make the day go by. I liken it to the day before a big trip, or your birthday, or Christmas. Part of me feels like I’m missing some important step in preparing for tomorrow morning, but logically I know that there is nothing left to do. Well…maybe I’ll go buy a few bottles of water for my parents for after they get off the plane. I’ll wait a day or two before trying to get them to drink the tap water here… ;)

Soaking it all up

2008-10-22T02:32:00.014-05:00

As I was walking through the EXTREMELY crowded streets of Lusaka the other day, it hit me. Two things hit me actually. The first was a makeshift wheelbarrow that someone was using to transport a gigantic load of…something, across town. This is a pretty common method of transportation of goods here in Zambia. If you’ve got to move something from one end of town to another, be it a gigantic bag of “tropicals”, as flip-flop sandals are called here, or 100kgs worth of sugar, you hire a delivery boy. He will strap an impossibly large amount of goods to his impossibly large wheelbarrow (modified with welded re-bar, pieces of wood, and other random materials), and walk, sometimes 4 or 5km. Anyway, this morning I happened to step in front of one of these delivery boys when he was going downhill. He saw me at the last second, and dropped his load down, but it kept skidding into me. Even though it was obviously my fault, the delivery boy was fairly pleasant, though obviously not extremely impressed that I interrupted his momentum. We chatted briefly, and then both continued in our separate directions.

That’s when the second thing hit me: “That didn’t seem weird at all!”. I realized that after close to 20 months living in Zambia, the things that seemed strange during my first few weeks and months here are now common place. I don’t fumble for my camera when I see a woman carrying a 20L container of water on her head, with a baby tied to her back with only a piece of cloth. A man wheeling a cage made out of sticks, and full of chickens through the city streets hardly warrants a second glance. I don’t even turn my head anymore when I see children playing with toys made out of pieces of string and old dirty plastic containers. These things are simply part of life, part of the everyday surroundings.

As much as this seems like a natural and desired step, and indeed this transition into feeling comfortable here has helped me immensely, it is something that I’ve begun fighting against recently. It is slowly dawning on me how close I am to leaving this country that has been my home for the past two years. I find myself trying to get back that sense of awe and wonder, trying to soak up every sight I see, every sound I hear, and every smell that javascript:void(0)reaches me. More than this though, I am trying to understand and articulate the emotions that accompany these sights, sounds, and smells. Every time I walk down the street now I worry that I will forget what it’s like to have a group of kids burst into excited laughter as I pass, while one of them works up the courage to yell out “Muzungu!!! How are you??”, to strike up a conversation in Bemba with the ladies selling fruits and vegetables on the side of the road, sending them into fits of laughter when I greet them with “Muli Shani” rather than “How are you?” I don’t want to forget the feel of a mud-brick wall beneath my fingers, the sound of kids playing in a village, while goats and chickens join in the melee, or the smell of maize roasting over charcoal, or the sickly sweet smell of the garbage pit burning. I don’t want to have to rely on my digital pictures of the sun setting over the fields of Milenge, of the village ladies walking in their simple, yet beautiful chitenges, of the splash of brilliant colour that results from a village meeting under a tall mango tree. I want those images to be imprinted in my brain so I can recall them at will.

Most of all it’s the faces that I’m trying to file away. There are those of friends and family here, people I know and love dearly. I want the images of them laughing, of them serious, of them asking me questions, telling me a sad story, singing, playing, crying. There are those of people I don’t know. The random people I see on the street whose faces fill me with wonder. Stoic looks, intense looks, happy looks, confused looks. Never before have I paid such close attention to people’s faces that I don’t know, and it’s something I’ve pledged to continue upon returning to Canada.

I now use each walk through town, each conversation, each moment as an opportunity to gather more of these sights, sounds, and smells and file them away. They will make the stories I tell when I go back home more rich, more real. They will help me truly represent my friends here, and their country, their reality. They will help me remember, not in a sense of bringing up the past, but of living again in the present.

I’m off now, into town. I’ll be gathering as I go. For my sake, for Zambians' sake, and for yours.

Stay tuned....

2008-10-20T03:13:00.001-05:00

A new post coming soon...I promise! Check back in a few days.

True Patriot Love

2008-07-12T08:50:00.003-05:00

For the second year in a row, I celebrated Canada day a little different than most other years of my life. Last year it actually passed quite quietly. I was surrounded by my fellow EWB volunteers, on the shores of Lake Kariba in Southern Zambia. We wished each other “Happy Canada Day”, and our British friend who ran the lodge we were staying at shared a drink with us, but not much else. Those of you who know me will know that this is a little bit off character for me, as I am a bit of a patriot. At the time however, we were in the middle of a retreat, full of some pretty intense sessions on organisational development, influencing behaviour change, and pushing our own personal development. Sometimes during these retreats the world outside can pass by in a blur.

This year however, I was not at an EWB retreat, but on the way to one. Most of the other EWB volunteers had already arrived a few days previous at Lake Malawi, and were waiting for myself and two other volunteers, my good friends Nina and Thulasy. It was a multi day journey, and the morning of July 1st found us in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, a few hours drive from the lake. The previous day we had made the almost 700km trek from Lusaka, and were pretty tired. As the other OVs were doing some training that we didn’t need to be a part of (the rest of the group had just arrived in Zambia and Malawi in February, so were doing a few extra things that those of us who have been around longer didn’t need to attend) we weren’t due at the lake until the evening, so we took our time waking up, and wandering Lilongwe before catching a bus.

The three of us exchanged "Happy Canada Day" wishes with each other as we awoke, and even set off a small firework (tiny really, I swear) at the guesthouse we were staying at, but it was a conversation that Thulasy and I had over breakfast, and that extended onto our bus ride, and then again into a bumpy ride in the back of a rundown pickup truck that was my true “Canada Day” moment for this year. I would love to say that our conversation was about maple leaves, multi-coloured forests in the fall, lakes as smooth as glass, the Rocky Mountains, hockey, or mounds of crisp, fresh snow, but it was of a slightly different flavour. Let me explain, but a word of warning first; this may not make your heart burst with pride, and it may just make you think…or at least I hope it does...

Thulasy and I had just finished breakfast at Summer Park, a nice outdoor café style restaurant in Lilongwe, and were relaxing in the shade of a big tree enjoying our tea. The tall green trees and cool breeze (we’re at the tail end of the cold season in Southern Africa right now) made me a little bit nostalgic for the Canadian spring that I have now missed two years in a row, and I remarked how I was a little bit bummed to not be in Canada on Canada Day. I explained to Thulasy my slightly higher than average level of patriotic pride, and she asked me what it was about Canada that I loved so much (not because she disagreed with me, but rather out of curiosity). Without pause I answered “Well I love…”.

I sat with mouth gaping for a moment. It’s not that I didn’t have an answer. On the contrary, I’ve actually thought about this many times in my life. However as my answer was on the verge of leaving my mouth it occurred to me that since coming to Zambia, since seeing beyond my own country, my own culture, beyond the fraction of the world’s population that I belong to which is nowhere near representative of the rest of the planet, I haven’t really re-examined these reasons. Why do I love Canada? Why do I beam with pride when I hear our anthem, or see our flag? Those few seconds of silence started Thulasy and I on a fairly deep conversation about our country, its values, and how they matched up with our own.

While I can’t possibly capture everything we talked about in this post, I’ll try to summarize our discussion in the big questions we asked each other:

What do you personally love about Canada?

Do Canadians as a whole love their country? If so, why?

Do we as Canadians really understand what being “Canadian” means, both to us and the rest of the world?

Are the images of “Canada” and “being Canadian” that we love real, or are they images that haven’t existed other than in our minds for many years now, if they ever did?

Is Canada everything you want it to be, and if not, what does your ideal Canada look like? What will it take to get there?

A little intense for a breakfast conversation under a tree, I know, but nonetheless my mind keeps wandering back to these questions whenever I find myself with time to just sit and think. I made the decision that morning to carefully re-examine my image of Canada, and what being Canadian really means. You’ll be happy to know that I’m still intensely patriotic. My heart still pounds at the sight of our flag, and those first few notes of our anthem will always make me stop what I am doing and listen with pride, but that question still remains on my mind; “What do I, and all Canadians, want Canada to be, and what can I do to help get us there?”

As I said, our conversation continued on the bus, and in the back of a beat-up old pickup, and before long we found ourselves on the shores of beautiful Lake Malawi. I had a great week, surrounded by my great Canadian friends, and some wonderful Malawians, and I realized one thing; I love people, and I want to live in a country that loves and values people, with no exception. I feel that this is the first of many articulated thoughts on what I want Canada to be, but you’ll have to be patient, I think this process will take time.

I’d challenge you as well to think about those questions above, especially number one and number five. I’d love to hear your responses. Post them as a comment on here if you like. If you’d rather not, feel free to email me (trevorfreeman@ewb.ca). Even if you don’t really want to do that, at least think about them for yourselves. If you’re not Canadian, think about these questions for your own country.

While July 1st 2008 may have been different than most of the other July 1sts that I’ve experienced, I feel as though it may turn out to be one of the most important for me, in terms of my Canadian identity and pride.

I hope everyone back home celebrated in style, and enjoyed your day. I definitely enjoyed mine. From all of us here in Zambia and Malawi, Happy Canada Day!!!

Zimbabwe: A Zambian Perspective

2008-06-23T01:29:00.005-05:00

“So what do you think of what is happening in Zimbabwe?” It is a question I find myself asking more and more of my Zambian friends and colleagues, and one that gets asked of me nearly as often. The answer, sadly, is generally always the same; a shake of the head, and a statement of how Mugabe will never give up power, regardless of the results of an election.

You are no doubt well aware of the situation in Zimbabwe right now, so I won't go into detail. If you aren't aware of what is happening, check out the links at the bottom of this post. Things seem to reach a new level of chaos every day. Supporters of the MDC, the opposition party contesting the rule of the incumbent Mugabe and his ZANU-PF party, are daily beaten, arrested, and murdered as gangs of pro-Mugabe supporters roam the streets of Harare and the rest of the country, and man roadblocks. There are countless reports, often smuggled out of the country by Zimbabweans desperate for help from the rest of the world, of people being forced to chant pro-government slogans, or wear pro-government regalia, or risk being beaten or killed.

On Monday Morgan Tsvangirai, the leader of the MDC, announced that he was withdrawing from the run-off vote, to be held this Friday. His reasoning was that there is no way the election could be even remotely fair, due to all the government sanctioned violence, and that he feared for his, and his supporters’ lives if he continued campaigning.

My colleagues and friends here in Zambia were saddened, but not surprised by this decision. They have already resigned themselves that Mugabe will remain in power, likely until his death. For my part, I am filled with sadness. I think back to a week I spent on the border of Zimbabwe one year ago. I was there with some other EWB volunteers and we went to see the Kariba Dam, which provides power for a large portion of Southern Africa. While there we met some Zimbabwean women who had come across the border, as they do every day, to sell goods and take the Zambian Kwatcha back home, as they are far more valuable than Zimbabwean dollars. That was one year ago, when the inflation rate was around 66,000%, and the Zimbabwean dollar was trading at approximately 254.5 Zim Dollars per US dollar. Now the inflation rate is well over 2 million percent, and still climbing, and the exchange rate is around 7.5 Billion Zim dollars per US dollar (this is the official exchange rate, though the black market rate, which is what most people have to deal with, is much worse).

I think about those women now, wondering where they are, if they’re still alive. They were clearly not in favour of Mugabe, as we talked at length of what Zimbabwe needed to improve, and they were adamant that they needed a new leader, that Mugabe needed to be removed from power. I wonder if they joined the protests, if they were jailed, or beaten, or worse. I would post a picture of these women, but I’m afraid that someone in Zimbabwe would see it, and they’d be place in danger. The fact that I need to worry about that sickens me.

My heart breaks for my adopted neighbours to the south. At the same time I am amazed and impressed at the resilience and persistence of Zimbabweans who are fighting for change. This is a fight to rival the storied independence fights against colonial powers, the memory of which is used by Mugabe to garner support and slam his opponents.

I am also saddened that stories such as the situation in Zimbabwe, or the recent violence in Kenya, or the horrors of HIV/AIDS are the only stories that make it into the headlines in Western countries. Any time we read about Africa, it is a story of kleptocracy, or genocide, or corruption, or suffering. To be sure these problems exist, and I am glad that they are in the world’s eye, but what about other stories from Africa? I just read a post from a friend which commented that in 1976, Freedom House listed only 3 African countries as “free”, and 25, by far the majority, as “not free”. Today, most African countries are labelled as “partly free”, and the “not free” category has shrunk to only 14 countries. While there is still room for improvement, there is clear progress being made.

Africa is not without its problems, but these problems are not what define Africa, and the countries of this continent, no more than political scandals, pollution, and bad traffic are what define Canada. Africa is a continent of amazing natural beauty, of vibrant and honoured culture and tradition, and most important, of dedicated, hard working, optimistic people. So my heart breaks for Zimbabweans, and for Africans in general, because the world yet again sees this continent as a backward, corrupt part of the world, worth our pity, but not much more. I want to tell you that this isn’t true.

Please pray for the people of Zimbabwe, for peace and stability. Please take a few minutes to learn more about the situation in Zimbabwe. Below are some links worth checking out. If you’re still not convinced that Africa is a beautiful place, please read my previous posts, and those from my EWB friends (links to their blogs can be found on the right).

An excellent article by Stephanie Nolen, from the Globe and Mail, which was posted on the EWB message board:
http://my.ewb.ca/home/ShowPost/44535

A post by Parker Mitchell, the co-CEO of EWB, regarding the current situation in Zimbabwe:
http://my.ewb.ca/home/ShowPost/44534

The BBC is a great resource for daily updates on the Zimbabwe situation. This is the latest article, but on the right hand side of the page are links to previous articles and more information. Check back with the BBC daily for more news on Zimbabwe:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/7473429.stm

This website compiles many different resources regarding the Zimbabwe situation, and is updated regularly:
http://www.zimbabwesituation.com/

New Location - New Perspective

2008-05-26T04:33:00.007-05:00

I step to the side of the bumpy, uneven dirt road to let a car go by, and wait a minute for the dust to settle before continuing. The rains have been over for a few weeks now, and things are beginning to get dry and dusty, including the roads in my new neighbourhood. As I wait, I hear giggling behind me, coming from the other side of a grass fence. I peak my head over top to find 3 small girls crouched down, peering through a hole in the fence at the muzungu. They see me looking at them and burst into laughter. This attracts their friends, and they all practice saying “How are you?”, which they learn in school. I respond to each one individually, having already learned my lesson. If you only answer one child, or try to answer the whole group together, they will chase you down the road, still chanting “How are you? How are you?” until you answer!

After I greet them, and they have run off screaming and laughing, I continue on my way. I pass through the market near my house to pick up some vegetables for supper; tonight it will be Catapa, cassava leaves. As I near my home, I reflect at how my walk home from work is much different than last year, yet not without similarities. This year I spend part of my walk on paved roads, and must watch for cars, which is definitely different from my walk in Milenge. However I still am greeted by people all along my walk. It didn’t happen at first, as people usually just stared in wonder at the Muzungu who was walking through neighbourhoods where Muzungu’s don’t generally live, but people are getting used to me now. I pass a group of kids flying kites, home-made from shopping bags and sticks, and round the corner to my street. As usual, there is a group of about 10 children playing in front of my gate. I smile at them and they all greet me with “Ba Clever, Muli Shani?” (How are you?) “Bwino!” I tell them (Fine), laughing at how they still can’t say my name properly, and head inside. This place feels like home now, though I haven’t been here long. I have developed a routine, usually involving collecting water from the well, maybe doing a bit of laundry, or washing any dishes left over from breakfast or the previous day, and then starting to prepare supper.

It has been a while since I’ve given you an update, so there is a lot to cover. First, as you might know, I have moved to town. Last year you’ll remember that I was living in Milenge, a very rural district in Luapula province. After returning from Christmas, I moved up to Mansa, the capital city (more like a small town) of Luapula. I am now working out of the WaterAid provincial office, from which our three Luapula project areas are managed. It has definitely been a big adjustment, and though I miss Milenge, and my friends and family there, I am happy to be in town now. My job has changed significantly. Whereas last year I was working directly in the field on the actual implementation of the project, I am now mostly in the office, in more of a supporting role to the project. I still make trips out to the field, but spend most of my time in the office. This in itself has been an adjustment. I enjoy the work that I am doing, but I definitely miss driving my motorbike around the paths of Milenge!!

With my new location comes a new perspective. No longer do I spend every day in the rural areas, talking with the direct stakeholders of our project. Now that I spend most of my day on my computer, or reading reports, or simply discussing “the beneficiaries” in meetings, I have to constantly remind myself that those who we are ultimately working for are more than just numbers and targets in our project plans. They are individual mothers, school children, farmers, and fisherman. All too often development projects forget this, and simply look at development as a “problem to solve”, something that just needs a more innovative piece of technology, a more durable pump, a better irrigation system, or a more hygienic latrine. I relish my infrequent trips to the field, where I can remind myself of the personal side to our work.

Outside of work, I have moved into my own place. It took me a while to find, and I spent my first month and a half back living in a guesthouse, but the waiting paid off and I have found a great place. It is a servant’s quarters, which means it is just a small tiny house behind a main house. Our compound is walled, as are most in the area, and has a gate at the front. The family that lives in the main house is great. Like most Zambian households, there a number of people living there, from a number of different families, and there are also always people coming and going. The head of the household is a woman named Winifred Mulubwa, but I just call her “Mommy”, which is a respectful term for a woman older than you. She’s probably in her mid-late 50’s, and is a bubbly woman, always laughing and talking loud. Two of her grown children live with her, her son Bwalya, and her daughter, Grace. They are both in their early thirties, and very friendly. Bwalya is a dealer of precious stones, and Grace is an electrician, though she is looking for work at the moment. The number of children living in the house generally fluctuates from week to week, but the two constants are Grace’s niece, Shirley-Anne, who is either 8, 9, or 10 (I’ve gotten all three answers, even from her aunt and Grandmother), and Grace’s son, Junior, who is 3 or 4. Shirley-Anne is very quite and reserved around me. Junior is nothing of the sort. He is often playing in the street in front of the house when I come home from work, and will yell out my name at the top of his lungs when I round the corner. At any given point of the day, he is likely to be found running around the house, laughing maniacally at whatever prank he has just played on Shirley-Anne, while she chases him trying to get even. Jonathan and Maria are both in their late teens, and also stay at the house. I don’t think they’re related, but can’t be completely sure. Jonathan goes to school during the day, while Maria is the house-girl, helping with cooking and cleaning and taking care of the kids. Jonathan’s English is decent, though he is quiet. Maria’s English is limited to basic greetings and phrases, and I’m usually just greeted with a small, shy smile whenever I try to talk to her. Though she is usually very quiet around me, I get the feeling that she is a very kind person, always taking time to play with the young ones, never hesitating to stop and help me out with carrying water from the well or some other task that I’m probably not doing properly!

Those 7 are the main occupants of the house, though other people are always coming and going, including a few more of Mommy’s grown children, Grace’s husband, and numerous other small kids who I assume are cousins or siblings of Shirley-Anne and Junior. Everyone is extremely nice and though I have my own house and kitchen facilities and can cook my own meals, I often will sit and eat with the family in the evenings.

There are two servant’s quarters at the back of the property, mine and another one, which is being rented by Mrs. Banda. She is probably in her early 40’s, and works at a family health NGO in Mansa, specifically working on TB care and prevention. She is also very nice, and we usually chat in the evenings after work. She is originally from Lusaka, and so Bemba is not her first language. Her native tongue is Nyanja, and she is working hard to teach Shirley-Anne and Junior how to speak it. I usually get a laugh out of her when I dig into my memory for the Nyanja greetings that I learned back when I first arrived in Zambia last year.

My little house is two main rooms, with a tiny bathroom attached, but accessible only from outside. One room is my bedroom, and the other serves as my kitchen/sitting room. It is small, but more than enough for me, and the rotating list of other EWB volunteers who have been living with me off and on. There is electricity, which is a big change from last year, but no running water, so I still have to gather water from the well at the front of the property.
The other great thing about living in town is that I get to see the Lwando’s all the time. You’ll remember that the Lwando’s were the family I lived with for the first 4 months of my time in Milenge. In September of last year they moved from Milenge up to Mansa, as Mr. Lwando got a new job in town. I was extremely sad to see them go, and they were equally sad to leave me behind in Milenge. Now that I am living in town I am able to spend lots of time with them. I usually go over to their house for lunch/dinner at least once a week, plus I run into Mr. Lwando in town all the time.

The Lwandos are doing well, and much has changed with them in the past few months also. The girls are all getting bigger, and Chola (the middle one, 6 years old) is getting much better at English. She is now able to tell me what she is learning at school, though her narrative is usually interspersed with some intense giggling. The biggest change for the Lwandos though, has without a doubt been the arrival of the newest and littlest Lwando. Mrs. Lwando was pregnant last year, due in late January, so the whole time I was home I was waiting for news, hoping that the baby wouldn’t come until I arrived back in Zambia. About a week before I flew back to Zambia however, my cell phone rang (I had commandeered my Canadian cell phone from my dad, who has been using it while I’ve overseas). Much to my surprise, it was Mrs. Lwando. She had just come home from the hospital after giving birth to a baby boy. Here’s the best part…his name….Trevor Lwando

Needless to say I’m pretty fond of the little guy, and I like to think he’s fond of me too. The Lwandos insist that he takes after me, because he sleeps during the day and cries at night (they explain that he must be on Canadian time), and he babbles all the time and makes lots of noise, though of course no words that they can understand (he is speaking French, like a Canadian, according to the Lwandos).

As with last year, the days, weeks, and months are flying by. A new group of EWB’s Junior Fellows, the four month volunteers, have arrived, and are all heading off to various parts of Zambia for their placements. I am coaching one, who will actually be living in Milenge and working with Eddy, my co-worker from last year. Olivia is from the University of Waterloo. She’ll be keeping a blog about her time in Milenge, which you can check out here. For the mean time, until she heads off to Milenge, she’s staying at my place, which now makes four of us in my tiny little house. Ashley, my friend from Windsor who is also an LTOV, has been staying with me off and on while she waits until her project starts and she can settle in one place, and Madavine is another Junior Fellow who is on her way to her project. Olivia is the one in the orange shirt, and Madavine is in purple. Ashley is in the picture with me.

So, as I walk down the dirt roads of my neighbourhood, greeting the people who have quickly become accustomed to their muzungu neighbour, I reflect on one of the things I love the most about Zambia; how quickly one can form a community, and be welcomed by people. Of course, that also makes it much hard to pack up and leave when the time comes. As usual, during these times of reflection, another though pops into my head; “What do my Zambian friends think about me dropping into their lives, becoming part of this community for such a short time, and then abruptly leaving?” And as with every other time, I still have no answer.

Canadian Water Network Article

2008-05-02T04:04:00.002-05:00

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm working on a post, and will hopefully put it up soon. Until then, here is a short article that I wrote for the Canadian Water Network. CWN is a network of Canadian water researchers, mostly from universities and government, that focus on finding and promoting sustainable solutions to water quality. They are a big supporter of EWB, and their donations have funded a large part of my placement. For more information, check out www.cwn-rce.ca

World Water Day

Every March 22, World Water Day comes and goes. In Canada, this day usually passes us by unnoticed. There may be a short editorial in the paper or perhaps a small display at the local university campus, but most of us are completely unaware that this day means so much to so many.

Here in Zambia, it is a very different matter - World Water Day is marked by small celebrations all across the country. This year I had the opportunity to take part in the festivities in the village of Chinweshiba. The celebration drew people from all the surrounding villages, as well as local leaders, including chiefs, village headmen, and local government officials.

Why then is World Water Day such a big deal in rural Zambia, whereas in Canada it passes by with hardly a murmur? Likely it is because water itself is hardly given a second thought in Canada. Merely turn on the tap, or turn down the right isle at the grocery store, and you can find safe, clean water. We rarely need to worry about where our water comes from, or whether it is safe to drink.

This is not the case in Zambia, and indeed in much of the world. In these places, getting water can often mean walking one or two kilometres and carrying water back to your home, and there is no guarantee that this water is safe to drink. In Zambia, in 2004, only 58% of the population had access to safe, clean water, and around the world, millions of people every day suffer from water-borne illnesses, many of them children.

It is for this reason that any opportunity to promote and celebrate clean water is welcomed with enthusiasm, and why I spent March 22 surrounded by over four hundred rural Zambians, celebrating and discussing water and sanitation. The particular event I attended celebrated achievements in water and sanitation in this area over the past year and reminded the community just how important clean water is. There were speeches, traditional singing and dancing, an essay competition, and a water-related quiz with plenty of prizes.

Towards the end of the day, as the events were starting to wrap up, though the atmosphere still festive, I took a few minutes to chat with Matilda Nkunta. Matilda is about 70 years old, and takes care of her three grandchildren – a reality for many grandmothers in Zambia whose own children have all passed away. She beamed with pride as she told me about the new well near her house, and how happy she is to not have to walk to the river to draw water any more.

Matilda received an award for having the cleanest household, and one for her contributions to the many development projects in the community. She also spoke to me about her granddaughter, saying “I know that she will be able to attend school more regularly now, because she won’t get sick as often. That is why this new well is so good for us, and why it is so important that we work for clean water”.

Matilda’s story is a perfect example of why we celebrate World Water Day. She reminded me how fortunate we are to have such an abundance of safe water in Canada and that we don’t need to be in rural Zambia on World Water Day to remember the millions of people around the world who lack access to clean and safe water.

A Zambian/Canadian Easter Extravaganza

2008-04-07T07:49:00.007-05:00

A multi-cultural gathering, a 30lb turkey, a homemade oven built out of bricks, washbasins, corrugated metal sheets, and iron bars, a white guy dressed up like the Easter Bunny, and a party that lasted well into the night. It may not mean much to you, but to me, these are just some of the many ingredients of an impromptu Zambian/Canadian Easter party in Southern Province.

In the week leading up to Easter there was a flurry of text messages between the 7 EWB volunteers located in Zambia regarding what, if anything, we could do to celebrate Easter. Suggestions were given, numerous plans were made, then fell apart. Finally, at almost the last minute, a decision was made. There would be a party on Easter Sunday evening, in Monze, about 2 hours south of Lusaka, at Jenn’s house, all were invited, and there would be a turkey. No other details were given, as no other details were known. At the beginning I had actually decided not to go. After all, Monze isn’t exactly around the corner from where I am. It involves an 8-10 hour bus ride to Lusaka, then another 2 hour bus ride to Monze, and of course the same to get back to Mansa. Also, at the time, I was into my 4th week living at a guesthouse, so money was a little tight. Finally, Saturday of Easter Weekend also happened to be World Water Day, and I was busy with the celebrations in one of our project areas. This is a pretty big deal here, as we have a large ceremony in the village, and invite all the traditional leaders and local government officials. So it was looking like it would be logistically impossible for me to make it to Monze by Sunday evening.

On Good Friday I happened to be chatting with one of the other volunteers on the phone, and she mentioned that I was going to be the only one not attending the party. She also mentioned that there was a rumour of an Easter egg hunt being organised for the morning after the party. I was sold. My brain immediately started working overtime, trying to figure out the logistics of how I could make the 1000km trip down to Monze in time for the party, and then make it back to Mansa without missing too much work. Saturday came, and I spent the whole day in the village busy with World Water Day events. At about 5:00pm we packed up and headed back to Mansa, trying to catch the 6:00pm bus leaving for Lusaka. We were still a few kilometres outside of town when we saw the bus speeding down the road toward us. We flashed our lights, and I leaned out the window and managed to flag the bus down. I thanked my boss, and hopped on the bus and began the insanely long trip south. We travelled through the night, making only a few stops. I managed to get a whole row of seats to myself, as the bus wasn’t full, so I was able to stretch out and sleep off and on along the way. We arrived at the Lusaka bus station at about 4:00am, and as it was still dark, and not really safe to be out at night in Lusaka, all of the passengers just stayed on the bus until it got light. At about 5:30am I got out and bought my ticket for the 6:30am bus to Monze, boarded the bus, and got a bit of sleep. After the Mansa-Lusaka leg of the journey, the two hour trip to Monze was a breeze I arrive just after 8:30am. I walked the kilometre from the bus stop to Jenn’s house, and collapsed for a quick hour of sleep.

I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. Most of the other OVs wouldn’t be arriving until late afternoon, so for the time being it was just myself, Jenn, David, and a bunch of Jenn’s Zambian friends and family. There had been talk about a turkey, but I wasn’t fully convinced it was actually happening, so I asked David to show me. He took me to the side of the house, where a makeshift cage of chairs, books, and curtains had been constructed. He pulled aside the curtain and sitting there was one of the biggest turkeys I have ever seen. In all honesty, I had been expecting that we might cook a chicken or two and pretend that it was turkey, but the day before Jenn and David had taken a trip out to village and purchased, for about $30, this massive turkey. We all took a turn lifting the bird (much to his annoyance) and the general estimate was that he was somewhere between 25-30 lbs. Given that it was Easter, David named the turkey “Kijolwe”, which in Tonga (the language of Southern Province) means “Little Bunny”. After all, it just wouldn’t be right to eat the turkey without giving it a name first.

We spent a few minutes planning out our strategy for the day, what needed to be cooked, how we were going to do it, etc. Only the more well off households in Zambia have an oven, and even then it is usually apartment size. The EWB volunteer monthly stipend doesn’t really accommodate for having an oven, so we were faced with a bit of a dilemma regarding the cooking of our pterodactyl. Lucky for us, Slady, our good Zambian friend that Jenn lives with, is extremely handy and bursting with ingenuity. He had earlier that week constructed an oven in the yard, using bricks, some cement, iron poles, and a few metal corrugated roofing sheets.

Anyway, after getting general idea of the things that needed doing throughout the day, and dividing up the tasks, we set about our work. First up, David and I had an appointment behind the house with Kijolwe. We posed for a few pictures, giving Kijolwe a few more minutes to enjoy life, then set about our gruesome task. (Sidenote: We did document this process with pictures, but some of them are a little too graphic for a general post on this blog. If you really want to see them, send me an email and I’ll be happy to forward them to you.) Once the deed was done, the next step was to clean the bird. When cleaning a chicken, the best way to do it is to boil a pot of water, then place the bird in it for a few minutes. This makes the feathers come out easily. However when you’re dealing with a massive beast of a turkey, it is not quite so simple, mainly because such a large pot is extremely hard to come by. We scratched our collective heads for a minute before devising a solution. We boiled water in two pots and poured them into a large plastic bucket, normally used for bathing or washing dishes. After plucking all of the feathers out, we paused for a few minutes to make some hats from the turkey feathers, then moved onto stage three in the process, removing the innards. Without going into too much detail, we accomplished this task quickly, and without incident (in case you were wondering what “incident” might occur, puncturing any part of the digestive tract while removing it from the bird would be considered an “incident”, I’m sure you can imagine why!). At this point we left the carcass with Mutinta, another one of our Zambian friends, so she could clean and wash it, and we headed into town to buy some supplies.

Jenn, David and I set off to roam the markets, armed with a long list of required items. One of our biggest problems was to find a vessel in which to cook our monstrous piece of poultry. As previously mentioned, we didn’t have a pot big enough to fit the bird. We came across the answer rather quickly in our shopping trip…a metal wash basin. We had another quick strategy session, and decided to buy two of these basins (I’ll explain in a bit). The rest of our purchases went into the basins as we moved throughout the crowded lanes of the market stalls, and after an hour or two we were heading home, hauling two wash basins full of all kinds of vegetables, apples, various spices, cooking oil, sugar, salt, groundnut powder (peanuts that have been pounded into a fine powder), and some much needed utensils.

Upon arriving home we found that Mutinta had just finished cleaning, and was about to cut up the turkey. In Zambia, cooking a chicken or turkey in one piece is generally unheard of; usually they are cooked in pieces. We of course wanted to cook the entire thing whole, and arrived just in time to save Kijolwe from an early carving. Though Mutinta, along with all of the other Zambians present, thought we were crazy, they reluctantly handed over the bird to the Muzungus to take care of. Jenn, Mutinta, and a few of the other neighbourhood girls started washing and cutting vegetables, while David, Slady, and I set about the manly task of building an oven to cook meat in the yard. As the basic structure of the stove was already built, by Slady earlier in the week, we merely had to add the finishing touches. We dumped an entire bag of charcoal in the bottom of the oven and got it burning. The turkey then went into one of the wash basins, with a small amount of water in the bottom. This basin sat on two iron bars, suspending it over the bed of carcoal. The second basin then went on top of the first, inverted, creating a lid. We lined the edge of the top basin with rocks, and filled the middle with more charcoal, creating an oven with heat from both sides. Finally the metal roofing sheets were used to close of all of the openings of the stove. When the construction was completed we stood back for a moment to stare in awe at our manly creation. Red Green, Chuck Norris, Tim Taylor, Clint Eastwood, Mike Holmes and every other manly man you can think of, eat your heart out.

We quickly chopped up some onions and added them to the pan, and sprinkled some salt on the turkey. After that, our only task was to baste the turkey every hour or so, which was a pretty difficult task since the lid had a pile of charcoal on it. Braving numerous burns and near disasters (such as almost dumping a load of charcoal into the pot, onto the turkey) we vigilantly cared for our precious Kijolwe, ensuring that he cooked nice and slow, and remained juicy. While girls handled the vegetables, the boys sat, had a few drinks, watched movies, basted the turkey, and thus passed the day.

The turkey seemed more or less cooked and ready to eat after about three and a half hours, but the rest of the group wasn’t due to arrive for another two or three hours, so we took it out of the oven, and just set the wash basins on a bed of charcoal on the ground to keep it warm, while continuing to baste it.

One by one the vegetable dishes were prepared, and set aside on some coals to await the feast. Finally, just as the last dish was nearing completion, we could see four muzungus, surrounded by a crowd of Zambians, coming down the road. After a boisterous reunion full of hugs, laughter, picture taking, and David, Slady and I giving a detailed explanation of our killing, construction, and cooking techniques, we were ready to eat. We quickly boiled up some gravy from the turkey juices while David and I carved up the turkey, and added it to amazing spread laid out on the table.

Here is a quick tour of our dishes:

Juicy, tender turkey with a crispy brown outside, complete with turkey gravy made with the turkey juices and maize flour.

Semi-mashed sweet potato (the white variety, not the orange variety we’re used to in Canada) in a pounded groundnut sauce (basically sweet potatoes and peanut butter, absolutely amazing!)

Boiled regular potatoes with herbs and spices

Curried Eggplant

Stir-fried okra and green beans

Boiled pumpkin

For dessert, homemade apple crisp and half melted ice-cream

To drink, an eloquent inexpensive boxed white wine

Even now, weeks later, I am still amazed at the amount and the quality of the food that evening. It might have been the fact that in the previous 36 hours I hadn’t had more then a few uncomfortable hours of sleep on a bus, but all of that food laid out on the table might have been the best looking meal I’ve seen in a long time!

We all loaded our plates up to overflowing with food, found a spot to sit or lean somewhere in the house or the yard, and dug in. As the chief cooks of the turkey, David, Slady and I all got the best pieces. David and I each took a massive drumstick, and Slady got the two juiciest side pieces. The amount of food was staggering, so we all felt responsible to do our duty and make sure we ate our share. Leftovers aren’t really an option when you don’t have a fridge. We were saved by the fact that the noise and excitement of our party attracted numerous neighbours, all of whom partook in the feast. By the end of the night we estimated that about 20-30 people had come through the house and joined our party.

The party lasted well into the night, and included an attempt to explain the ridiculous and absurd idea of the Easter Bunny to our Zambian friends. As part of this explanation David dressed up as an Easter Bunny, which only reinforced the Zambian's conclusions that Canadians are ridiculous and crazy. With the night winding down, everyone either began to make their way home, or to stake out a spot on the floor of Jenn’s house, or if they were lucky, a spot on a bed. We designated David and Eli to wait until everyone had gone to bed, then hide candy and chocolates for our Easter egg hunt the following morning.

Only a few hours later the sun slowly woke us up to find a disaster zone, and we grudginly rolled out of bed to tackle the mountainous pile of dishes, leftover food, and other general party mess. All throughout we munched on candy and treats that we found along the way. In true Easter style, Jenn and Slady will be finding hidden treats for months to come.

After some semblance of order was restored to the house, and we had downed a breakfast of French toast, we headed as a group to the bus station to each begin our long journey’s home. For me, it would involved a cramped 3 hour ride in a mini bus to Lusaka with 5 other OVs, spending the night in Lusaka, then luckily catching a ride with some UNICEF colleagues back to Mansa the following day.

I arrived back in Mansa late Tuesday evening and collapsed on my bed at the guesthouse. As I drifted to sleep, I took stock of the past 72 hours; over 2000km traveled, half it throughout the night, 30lbs of turkey devoured, likely an equal portion of vegetables, apple crisp, and other goodness consumed, a full sized live Easter Bunny, a home made oven, and a great party with great friends. All in all, I can think of worse ways to spend a weekend.

The Sound of Silence

2008-03-26T06:46:00.002-05:00

You may have noticed something over the last two months, or rather the lack of something. A blog post. First of all, just a reminder about my current location. I am living in town now, with power for my computer, and an internet café very close. So why no post? If anything I should be posting more.

There are a number of excuses I could give, all of them at least a little bit valid. I’ve been really busy since coming back, trying to get caught up on all I missed while I was at home, trying to do some background learning and research and getting started on the projects I want to do this year. I’ve also been on the road a fair amount, throughout Luapula province visiting some of our field offices (although I haven’t made it back to Milenge yet!), and also all the way down to Livingstone to see the falls, out to Churundu (a town on the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe) for our EWB quarterly meeting, and to Lusaka to welcome the new group of volunteers that just arrived.

However it hasn’t been lack of time that has kept me silent. I have sat down numerous times to start writing a post, only to find myself unsatisfied with my words. At times I find them to be a very poor representation of what I actually see, of the people I actually talk to. Other times I reread what I have written only to find it trite, and worn out, merely a rearrangement of what has already been said. It is as if it’s written more because it is expected, than because it is what I actually wanted to say. That is something I’m not happy with. So post after post sits unfinished, some pages long, some only a few sentences typed out in a word document.

I think this might be a product of me still not feeling settled back into life here. I’ve still not found a place to live, and with all the travel I have been doing, I don’t feel like I’ve found my “groove” in Mansa yet. I’m fine with this, I know it will come with time, but it’s making it hard to find time and space for self reflection and time to process what I see and the conversations I have.

I’ve decided that I need to spend some time thinking about what the original goals were that I had for my blog, and to see if I’m still (or ever was) meeting those goals. I figured since you, friends, family, and people I don’t even know, are the ones reading, you should be aware of these goals, since you can give me the best feedback as to how well you think I’m accomplishing them. So here they are, bearing in mind that I’ve never actually articulated them before, they were just thoughts in my head until this moment.

I want to use this blog to:

Keep you up to date on what is happening with my project and life while I’m in Zambia
Introduce you to some of the people I meet and interact with while I’m here, from my friends and neighbours, to my colleagues, to other EWB volunteers, to random people I meet on the street, on the bus, or in the market
Give you a bit of insight into the complexity of “development”, and to share some of my successes and frustrations
Put a “face” on all of the statistics about poverty and Africa, and hopefully debunk a few myths as well
Give me a chance to articulate some of my thoughts, give you insight into these thoughts as I form them, and to share with you how my time here is affecting and changing me

I guess those are the broad goals I have. If you have any thoughts on whether you think I’m meeting these goals, or whether I should have different/more goals, I’d love to hear them. Feel free to email me (trevorfreeman@ewb.ca) if you’d rather not leave a comment.

Anyway, I’m sorry for the long delay without a post, and I promise you, I’m working to get back on track with my posting. I’ve got an easy one coming up soon about how I spent Easter (would you believe that a 25 lbs turkey is involved?), so look for that in the next week or so. Thanks in advance for your comments and feedback.

When Worlds Collide

2008-01-28T17:04:00.001-05:00

The faint breeze is warm, and slightly moist against my face as I walk the narrow winding path. The tall grass to either side of me deadens the faint crunch of the gravel and dirt underneath my feet, making the world seem no bigger than what I can reach out and touch with my hands...

The air is cold and biting against my face as I trudge down the sidewalk, feet crunching in the fresh, crisp snow. To one side, traffic steadily crawls by, throwing up sounds that meld into one constant drone in my ears. To the other side, tall, cold brick forms an impassable barrier, blocking in both sight and thought…

I am trying to find comparison, but am left with only contrast…

I lean back, stretching my arms above my head, my hands just touching the thatched roof of our isaka, our kitchen structure. Memory, my neighbour and friend, sits across from me and smiles as she stirs the chabwabwa (boiled pumpkin leaves). She is laughing at my tiredness, because she knows that I was at the office today, not really “working” in her mind. She, on the other hand, spent most of the day preparing her field for planting, which will happen any day now, as soon as the rains are “right”, as she puts it. After her work in the field she still had to gather water, and pick the chabwabwa that we will eat shortly….

My heart rises a little with excitement as the wheels thud down onto the runway and the plane taxis to the gate. Around me a faint buzz turns into almost a roar as the other passengers jostle and push to collect their belongings and make it first to the door. I join the melee, anxious to get moving, anxious to see my family, anxious to put an end to the long journey that has brought me here. I am thankful for some time to rest, for some vacation, to just relax. As I reach into the overhead bin for my bag the woman across aisle steps back and bumps into me. She murmurs an apology over her shoulder as she squeezes by another passenger on her way to the door, pushing him a little into the seats as well. Memory’s face flashes in my mind. Her quiet, shy manner. Her calm, kind gaze. My throat seizes and my heart sinks. Memory doesn’t get vacation, she rarely gets time to rest, but she never pushes and jostles on her way to her fields, the fields which feed her. Her patience in surviving shames me as I consider my rush to relax….

How can I compare these two realities that I have? These two worlds which I know? I take my memories of each, and line them up next to each other, but have trouble making matches.
Both realities seem so real, the memories of each so vibrant and life like. I was there, I experienced them both…didn’t I? Surely one must be imagined, some strange dream. These two worlds can’t exist together, at the same time…can they? It doesn’t seem possible, such stark opposites existing at the same time, with only an expanse of water, and endless opportunity separating them.

My return to Canada brought these two realities to a crashing co-existence. I’ve always known these contrasts in the back of my head, but somehow managed to gloss them over. Yet when you’re wandering the chaos of the ragged market stalls in Lusaka one minute, and 24 hours later you’re wandering the chaos of the starkly clean and digital Amsterdam Schipol Airport, it’s hard to find enough gloss to cover such a contrast.

However, even with these jarring differences, seemingly too much to handle as I paid more for lunch in Amsterdam that I do for my monthly rent in Milenge, by the time I reach my house in Windsor I have regained some semblance of stability in my thoughts. As I walk slowly up my Canadian driveway to my house, while my entire family waits inside, thinking I’m still thousands of kilometres away in Zambia, I am at peace. To be sure, I am anxious, excited, and nervous about the surprise that is mere moments away, but as I pause, shivering in the cold Canadian wind that I’m in no way used to, with my hand on the icy doorknob, I think of Memory again, and I smile. I smile because I know that Memory doesn’t resent me for resting, for seeing my family, for laughing. Rather, she laughs with me, a world away. And when I return to Zambia, after showing my pictures, giving small gifts, sharing funny stories, Memory will still give that small, shy smile, the one where I know she’s laughing at me for something I’ve said, or something I’ve done. Though it may seem only a smile to you, for me it is hope. That smile says so much to me. It tells me that Memory won’t give up because her days are filled with hard work. It tells me that although Memory is happy to have met me, she is still happy to be herself. It tells me that I have a thing or two to learn from Memory.

I think I’ve found my comparison…

It is the morning I leave Milenge to spend a few weeks in town then head back to Canada for Christmas. I’ll be coming back to Milenge in a few months, but only to visit, not to live. I’ll be living in Mansa now, in town. I am leaving early, at 6:00am. My neighbours and friends all get up to see me off, and I say my goodbyes to everyone, except for one. Memory. She is nowhere to be found. I saw her walk by my house early this morning, at about 5:00am. I figured she’d be back. She wouldn’t let me leave without saying goodbye….would she? Finally I can delay no longer, we have to go. I climb in the truck, and we start off. The sky is dull and gray, rain imminent but Milenge has never looked more beautiful. Everything is green and vibrant, the fields are black, and prepared for planting, the smell or rain and rich, fresh earth in the air, but I hardly notice. I am beside myself with frustration, almost at a panic. How can I leave without saying goodbye to Memory? About 5 kilometres down the road I see a figure in a red and black sweater, head down walking slowly. I tell my friend who is driving to stop. It is Memory. I get out and she turns to look at me. There is that smile. “Sorry Ba Mapalo”, she says. Her eyes are glistening. She is afraid of saying goodbye, afraid of saying the wrong thing, so instead she is on her way to her field. Another minute and she would have turned off the road and I would have missed her. One tear escapes her eye, and rolls down her cheek. I hug her, smile, and say nothing except “Tukomwanana pa February”, a mangled attempt at “We will meet in February”. The smile is back, bigger than ever. It doesn’t fade as she turns and continues on toward her field….

I grip the icy doorknob, turn, and as quietly as I can, push open the door. I hear voices, laughter, and excitement from the back of my house. It is my family. My brother Chris has just arrived with his wife, Kathy, and their 8 month old baby, Natalie. The have effectively made sure that everyone, my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone is in the back of the house, away from the door. Little does my family know that Chris and Kath have just driven back from Toronto, from picking me up at the airport, and have dropped me off a few houses down the street. While the commotion continues in the other room, I hastily, but reluctantly shed my two jackets, thinking of the Zambian heat while I do so. I kick off my shoes and walk quietly, slowly, through the dinning room, into the back of the dark kitchen. My family is all there, in the family room, playing with Natalie, oblivious that I am standing only ten feet away in the shadows. I savour the moment for a few seconds, then slowly walk forward into the light. It takes a moment or two, and I’m not sure who reacts first, but I am aware of both my Aunt's and my Dad’s jaws dropping simultaneously. It takes my mom a few more seconds before she turns around and realizes what is happening. Tears start flowing immediately and the next few minutes are a blur of hugging, laughing, and some crying. A little while later I am sitting on the couch, surrounded by my family, holding my niece who I’d only met hours earlier at the airport. I look at the massive smiles on the faces of my family, and know that they are a mirror of my own, a smile that doesn’t fade as the conversation continues into the night….

I’ve found my comparison. It is in the deep meaningful relationships that are not restricted by borders, cultures, or income classes. My comparison is love.

Second Showing

2008-01-10T13:41:00.000-05:00

Thanks to everyone who came out on Tuesday. For those of you who couldn't make it, I'll be giving another presentation tonight. My good friend Ashley is about to start an EWB overseas placement, also in Zambia, and is holding a informative get-together and fundraiser tonight. I'll be giving a short talk about my placement, and sheding a bit of light on what Ashley can expect over the next year. Here are the details:

What: "Ashley Goes to Zambia" get-together
When: Thursday, January 10, 2008 at 7:00pm
Where: Plush, the upstairs part of Pepper's Bar and Grill, 375 Ouellette (corner of Ouellette and University)
Cost: Nothing to get in, but donations towards the cost of Ashley's placement are greatly appreciated

Sorry again for the extremely short notice, even shorter than last time. Once again, I hope you can make it. As always, don't hesitate to give me a call with any questions, at any time. My number is 519-551-2224

Shameless Advertisment

2008-01-07T15:42:00.000-05:00

Just a very quick note to let you know that I will be giving a short presentation at the University of Windsor tomorrow night (Tuesday, January 8, 2008) at 6:00pm in the CAW Student Centre Boardroom. (More logistical details below). I will be sharing some of my experience and pictures from this past year in Zambia, and answering any and all questions. This presentation won't be long, and will be very much driven by what everyone wants to hear, not what I think you want to hear!!

This is not a fundraiser, I'm not asking for donations, there is no cost to get in. This presentation is merely to give you a glimpse into the life of an EWB Overseas Volunteer. I would love for you to join me so I can share with you a small piece of this wonderful experience I have had. I'm sorry for the short notice, but I hope you can make it if you have no prior comitments.

Here are the details:

What: Presentation on my past year living and working in rural Zambia
When: Tuesday, January 8, 2008 6:00pm
Where: University of Windsor, CAW Student Centre, Boardroom
(In the student centre, go to the wide open atrium, stand in front of the information desk, turn around so your back is to the desk and look up. The row of windows you see is the boardroom. The people at the information desk can further direct you)
Cost: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!!

If you have any questions at all, feel free to email me, or you can call me at 519 551-2224. This is a cell phone so I'll be answering all day until 5:59pm!

I hope to see everyone there!

Surprise!!!!

2007-12-27T15:56:00.000-05:00

Just a quick post to let everyone know that I'm back in Windsor for a little while. I flew home on the weekend and showed up to surprise my whole family (literally the whole Freeman family was down for Christmas). The best part was that my brother and sister-in-law (who were in on the surprise) showed up at the airport to pick me up and take me home, and I got to meet my little niece, Natalie, for the very first time. Very cool. Check out the pictures.

I'm only in Windsor for three weeks, then off to Montreal for the Engineers Without Borders National Conference, then back to Zambia for another year. I've decided to extend my placement until December '08. I'll do another post soon about what I've been up to, and what I'll be doing this coming year. A few big changes coming up!!

Anyway, it's great to be home, and hopefully I'll get a chance to see most of you at some point in the next few weeks.

Merry Christmas!!!!

Water is Life

2007-10-20T08:30:00.000-05:00

I'm back!! Sorry for the EXTREMELY long delay in posting. In the last two months I've spent a total of 7 minutes on the internet! This post was actually written about a month ago, so although it says the rains are only a month away, they are in fact mere weeks, or even days away. It has already rained a few times, and it won't be long now before it's raining everyday, which is the signal that the rainy season has actually started. Again, sorry for the long delay, I hope there is still people out there reading this! I'll try hard to make the next interval between posts a little shorter! Enjoy!!

My head turns slowly, because all I can manage are slow, deliberate movements. It is hot…very hot. The air feels thick, and everything looks hazy, as though I’m looking through water. I squeeze my eyes shut for moment, trying to block out the sun, but it’s no use. The back of my eyelids are a brilliant red. I tip back my Nalgene, even though it is empty, in the vain hopes of catching a few drops that I missed the last few times I tried this. Nothing comes out. I wipe the back of my hand, dirty and grimy with a mixture of sweat and dust from the road, across my forehead. I’ve long since stopped caring about looking dirty; it’s useless to care anyway. I am standing in a field, watching the digging of a new well. The hole is 110cm in diameter, and we’re about 7m down. I briefly envy the man down in the hole digging, because I know it is cooler down there, out of the sun, surrounded by cool damp earth. Then I remember my experience digging a well in Malawi, recalling that it’s not nearly as easy as it looks (and it doesn’t even look remotely easy!). There are about 6 of us watching: myself, Eddy (my coworker), and 4 community members. Except for Eddy and I the whole group rotates to take a turn digging when one gets tired. Feeling guilty for not helping, I take a turn at mixing the cement for casting rings used to line the well, and take a shift hauling the dirt up out of the hole with a bucket and rope. I try to do my share, but it’s obvious that I’m just not used to working in the heat. After only a few minutes I’m breathing heavy. At the very least I’ve amused people with my efforts. We all laugh as one of the men tells me to rest, and takes over.

Time hardly seems to be moving. Each minute feels like an hour. Despite the heat, the sweat, the dirt, and the scorching sun, I savour this moment. It is such a contrast to my normal pace of life these last few months. Any chance to stand still, to let the wheels in my head slow down to a normal speed, and to just think, is worth a parched mouth. The past few months have gone by in a blur. I’m hardly in the same spot for more than a moment it seems, and that’s not far from the truth. As I write this I’ve been in Milenge for two weeks, and this is the first time since June that I’ve been in one spot for more than a week at a time. Thousands of kilometres spent on the bus, workshops and meetings all over Zambia, and one guest house after another has not left much time for contemplation on the lessons I’ve learned, and the experiences I’ve had. So I soak up this brief respite from the normal hectic pace, and let my mind wander.

As is often the case, my thoughts focus on water. I imagine how good a cold glass of water would taste right now, and I envision myself diving into a clear, sparkling pool. Not all of my thoughts are rooted in fantasy though; I realize that I do need to drink some more water soon to keep from being dehydrated (I seem to have this thought almost everyday now), and I start to figure out how to refill my Nalgene. This is a problem that I’d never really faced before coming to Zambia. If you think back I’m sure there aren’t too many times in your life either where clean water hasn’t been readily available. In Canada we are rarely far from a tap which will give us water safe for. That is not the case here. Getting a glass of water sometimes means a walk of a kilometre or more, and there is certainly no guarantee of it being clean. On the contrary, less than 10% of people living in Milenge have access to clean water. For the rest, every sip could result in diarrhoea, dysentery, intestinal worms, and a wide variety of other water born diseases. Even on a hot day like today, it’s hard to enjoy gulping down water to quench your thirst with these thoughts in your mind.

Yet you can’t avoid water, no matter how hard you try. Almost every aspect of life revolves around water, from the obvious examples of drinking, cooking, and cleaning, to a wide range of other activities essential to peoples’ livelihoods: gardening, animal rearing, construction, and numerous other income generating activities. There is a common saying that is often used in our meetings: “Water is life!”. This is becoming more and more evident to me with every passing day. The work that WaterAid does to provide safe water to communities goes far beyond health, although that is obviously of paramount importance. With better access to water, people are given opportunities for additional food and income generating activities. Sometimes this is the small boost that is needed to allow the people we work with to grasp that bottom rung of the development ladder, and begin the climb up.

With some effort I bring myself back to the present. It’s time to move on to the next site. We have 3 more wells to inspect today. Climbing back onto the motorbike brings relief from the heat, as moving fast is the only way to generate a breeze! The rest of the day we spend moving from site to site, talking to the water technicians, offering some technical advice on the work, and taking some notes for our reports back to the country office. Along the way I refill my Nalgene a few times. Some of the water points I use are considered “safe”, meaning they are covered, and equipped with a pump. Some are not, so I must make the same decision that the people of Milenge make every day – the choice between dehydration or the risk of water-borne illness.

Life in Milenge, as I mentioned, is flying by at blinding speed. A few things have changed since I last posted, so I’ll give you a quick situation update. First, the family I was living with, the Lwando’s, have moved to Mansa. You may remember that Mr. Lwando was a driver for the District Commissioner’s office. As a driver in Milenge, he wasn’t getting much opportunity for travel. In addition to the boredom associated with sitting idle, day after day, he was also missing out on the travel allowances that are vital for bolstering his salary. A driver’s position opened up at a government office in Mansa, so he applied for a transfer and was successful. While I’m thrilled for the Lwando’s, I was obviously very sad to see them go. I miss having them around, laughing with them, learning from them, and getting to know them. They have indeed become my family here in Milenge.

However I have managed to find another place to live. I moved in with two of my friends, Andy and Evans (sorry, no picture of Evans yet!). Both are drivers for the Ministry of Education.

The house is just down the road from my previous house, and sits on a piece of land with 5 other houses (our house is the one off to the left of the picture, hidden behind the mango trees).

The other houses are all occupied by the members of an extended family - the Mwapes. The head of the family is Mary; a lovely woman who I would estimate is in her 60s. She will often come over just to say hi, and give me a handful of groundnuts, or a piece of cassava. I’m not sure where all of her children are, but the rest of the family members living with us are her grandchildren and their families. In all, there are probably about 30 people living within 50m of my house. Mary lives in the house directly next to mine, along with three of her grandchildren, Agatha (22), Memory (19), and Eric (15), and Agatha’s little 6 month old baby, Petronella. As Andy, Evans, and I are at work all day, Memory and Agatha help us out with cooking and cleaning, and as such I spend a lot of time with them in the evenings. Agatha has graduated from high school and is very fluent at English. Memory has finished up to grade 8, and is in a government sponsored program that is helping her finish high school. She only speaks a little bit of English, so I’m getting lots of practice with my Bemba. Eric is in grade 9, and also comes and hangs out with me most evenings. He helps me with my Bemba, and I help him with his math homework.

I’m still getting to know the rest of my neighbours. There are a number of small kids who are still fairly shy around me, but they usual line up along the path in the evening and wait for me to come home from work, smiling and greeting me with “Chungulo M-kwai”, which roughly translated means “Good evening” (this is definitely not a literal translation though). So far I am very happy with my new living arrangement. Everything from the friendly smiles and waves of my neighbours, to the beautiful sunrises through the large trees in our front yard (mango trees…I can’t wait for December when they’re ripe!), to the stunning sun sets behind our house (yes, that’s my latrine in the picture of the sunset). I’m not finding it very hard to have a smile on my face when I come home from work these days.

I have unintentionally started a running club in the mornings. I have been pretty good lately with my morning runs, and after a few weeks of seeing me run by at 5:30am, the three teenage girls that live across from me asked if they could join me. I of course said OK, and told them to be read the next day at 5:30am. I was awoken the next morning at 4:30am to whispers at my window – “Ba Freeman…..Ba Freeman….we run?” After a few confused moments, I look at the time, and tell them to wait an hour. When I eventually got up and came outside an hour later, they were still waiting for me, eager as ever. We had a nice short run that morning and they giggled almost the entire way. I was sure that the novelty would wear off, and they wouldn’t be back the next day, but it has been two weeks now and they’ve been waiting outside my door every morning since then. I’m thinking of having some t-shirts made. A running club should have uniforms, right?

I have also started taking Bemba lessons. My instructor is Mr. Nyamba, a teacher at Milenge Basic School. I have only been to one lesson so far, but I’ve arranged to show up near the end of the day a few times a week, and sit in with his grade 5 class for their Bemba lesson. After school lets out I stay a little while after and he works just with me. The kids are thrilled to have a Mazungu sitting in with them, and I for one am actually pretty excited to be back in school. I’ve already been scolded for throwing a paper ball at another child, and teaching a group of boys how to make paper airplanes. Things don’t change much!!

Lastly, I’ve been given a new name. I realized early on that Zambians have a hard time saying “Trevor”. I usually have to repeat my name 4 or 5 times before they get it, and I am still often called “Clever”, “Travel”, and “Treasure”. Additionally, first and last names are often randomly interchanged, so I get called “Freeman” as often as my various first names, and even sometimes introduce myself as “Freeman”. In light of this, the Lwando’s told me shortly after I moved in that I needed a Bemba name. I told them to wait until they knew me better, then pick something that had meaning. Names in many Zambian cultures usually have lots of meaning, and refer to a trait of the person, or refer to the circumstances surrounding that person.
The Lwando’s finally decided upon a name, after much deliberation. I am now known as Mapalo Chilufya Lwando. Mapalo means “Blessings” or “Blessed”. This is because the Lwando’s consider themselves blessed to be able to live with me, and I of course am blessed to be living with them. Chilufya refers to when you want something very bad, but can’t have it, so are left wanting. This is in reference to the Lwando’s moving to Mansa. They want to live with me, and I with them, but we are unable to, and are thus left wanting. Lwando of course is because I’m now a member of the family.

I’m thrilled with this new name, and all of my friends and coworkers here are as well. When meeting new people I often introduce myself as Mapalo, and this of course generates huge amounts of laughter. I am now greeted everywhere I go with shouts of “Mapalo!” or “Chilufya!”. I am hardly ever called “Mazungu” in Milenge anymore.

With one final round of handshakes with the community members digging the well, Eddy and I hop back on the bike and start off for home. The sun is getting low and the sky seems on fire above us. Even this late in the day, the heat is still oppressive. I glance at the parched, brown fields around us, thinking that soon the sights before me will be transformed. The rains are only a month away, and when they come a literal rebirth will occur in Milenge. The dry earth around us will drink in the water and new life will emerge. Brown will turn into green, dull into vibrant, parched into lush. That is not the only changes that will come however. Roads become impassable, entire villages are cut off, people move to temporary homes so they can work in the fields all day, poorly built structures (houses and latrines) will collapse, and construction work on our project stops. We have until the first rains to finish all of our construction. This means a busy few weeks for everyone involved. I’m looking forward to the rains, but am also a little bit apprehensive. For me, the rains will bring insight, and learning of the major role they play, but for the people around me they may bring either opportunity or disaster.

Water is, indeed, life.

Everybody do the Mutomboko!!!!

2007-08-24T04:51:00.000-05:00

A large part of our work at WaterAid involves promoting hygiene, safe water, and sanitation. We use any opportunities we can to talk to the public, set up displays, hand out information, and just generally educate people. One such opportunity that recently arose was the Mutomboko Ceremony which takes place every year in Luapula, Zambia.

Mutomboko is a ceremony of the Lunda people, which is one of the tribes in Zambia that populates much of the Northern part of the country, especially in Luapula, my province. As with most of the other Zambia tribes, they can trace their roots back to the Bantus, which originated from present day Cameroon and slowly migrated through central and south Africa over a period of a few thousand years. During this slow migration they broke into almost 400 different ethnic groups (usually referred to as tribes). As such, the Lundas are “cousins” of the Bembas.

The Lundas migrated from present day Democratic Republic of Congo to present day Zambia in the early 1700s, conquering and assimilating many smaller tribes as they came. They established their capital in what is now northern Luapula province. The head of the Lunda people is the Mwata (High Chief, or King), which is a hereditary title. As such, all Mwata’s bear the official title of Mwata Kazembe, which is the family name. The current Mwata is Mwata Kazembe XIX. The Mutomboko Ceremony is a celebration of these victories over other tribes, and victories over the many attacks they resisted throughout Zambia’s formative years. The Mwata leads the ceremony, performing various traditional tasks to pay homage to the ancestors and to celebrate victory.

The ceremony starts on Friday, but when we arrive in town on Wednesday it is already bustling with people. Officially, Kazembe (obviously named after the Mwata) is a village, but it is bigger and more developed than many “towns” I’ve seen in Zambia. I guess that’s one of the perks of having the king live there. We meet with a member of the organizing committee who instruct us that we must ask the Mwata for permission to participate in the event, even though we’ve already arranged everything with the committee. The Mwata has the final say however, and can tell us to go home if he doesn’t want us participating. The organizer takes us to the palace (the residence of any king or chief in Zambia is usually called a palace. The name can be slightly deceiving however. This “palace” is not what you might expect. By Canadian standards it would be an average size house on a walled property. The Mwata’s wealth is evident however in the numerous cars and trucks that he owns that are parked randomly around the house), and as we are passing through the gates, gives us some quick instructions on the proper protocol for meeting the King of the Lundas. We are taken to a large pavilion within the palace grounds and sit on straw mats to wait for the Mwata. He arrives, and must stand as he enters, and wait until he is seated on his throne, which is a large ornately carved wooden chair. We then kneel, and clap together in unison three times. This is a sign of great respect. We sit again, and the introductions begin. They are all in Bemba, so I only catch a few words here and there, and as such, have time to careful examine the man in front of me. This king is young, likely in his mid to late thirties, and speaks very softly. I have to lean forward to hear him, and I’m only a few feet away. He is dressed in jeans and a casual sweater, and is sporting a nice analog wrist watch. You could easily drop him into any North American setting and he’d fit right in, as an average working man enjoying a day off. He smiles occasionally, but has the air of someone who is used to being listened to and speaks with authority. He is amused at my last name, and instructs us in English to feel at home in Kazembe and to “act like we are free men, like our Muzungu friend”. The Mwata is quite interested in our work, and gives a long speech about the importance of helping the most vulnerable have access to clean water and sanitation. He even requests that we build a latrine just outside the palace gates for the public to use so that they can see he supports our work. We agree, and are thus given permission to set up our stand.

We leave the palace and drive to where the ceremony will be held. Celtel, the huge cell phone company that seems to own half of the country, has constructed an open air auditorium/arena specifically for this event. We chose the spot we want, but as it’s getting too late to start construction we just drop off our material and head back to Mwense, a town about 45 min back down the road which is where we will be spending our nights.

The next day we are up early and on the road to reach Kazembe and start work. There is much to do so we waste no time. We split into two groups; one to start constructing the latrine just outside of the auditorium that will actually be used by the public, and the rest of us to construct the stand and the demonstrations. We will be displaying our two types of sanplats (the slab used in our latrines), a handwashing facility, and a dishrack. The first step though, is the stand. There are no metal poles to fit together, no tents to put up - everything is “au natural” here. We have brought a bunch of 10 foot branches that were cut back in Mwense, and set about digging holes to place them in. In no time we’ve got a basic structure set up, made of tree branches tied together with Zambian rope, which is just really tough strips of tree bark, that when soaked in water work great for tying things. I love the ingenuity of Zambians! The stand is lined with tall grass and a roof of bamboo mats is put up. We then set about constructing the demos, which takes the rest of that day, and the morning of the next, but by mid-day on Friday we are finished. We also construct a full size working latrine outside the arena for the public to use.

We have finished just in time because as we’re cleaning up we receive word that the Mwata has set out for a nearby village to perform the opening ritual to start off the ceremony. We quickly pile in our truck and race down the highway to catch up. We reach the convoy in no time and fall into place. This trip was originally done on foot, a huge crowd of people taking most of the day to make the trip out to the village that was the original home of the Lunda King. Today however, it is done in a convoy of cars and trucks down the highway. The sides of the road are lined with hundreds of people, all screaming and cheering as we pass. As we pass around a curve I see that the convoy is at least a few kilometres long and made up of all different kinds of vehicles, from small cars to huge trucks packed with people.

We finally reach our destination, and quickly rush to join the crowd surrounding the Mwata who has already begun the ceremony. This particular ritual does not take place in one spot, but moves all around the village. A few quick questions to those around me lets me know what is going on. The Mwata is here to pay homage to the Lunda ancestors who have died in battle throughout the years. This village was the site of many battles, and there are some key spots throughout. The Mwata, dressed all in white and wearing a ceremonial sword in a sheath of otter skin, moves to each site, spreading an offering of each type of crop that the Lundas harvest. An attendant follows him with a basket full of beans, maize, rice, and various other crops that the Mwata takes by the handful and throws in offering to the ancestors. One particular site is a large trench that looks like a dried up river. I am told that this was a key defensive position for the Lundas, and during a battle those who weren’t fighting would hide deep in this trench.

There are literally thousands of people following the Mwata and his attendants moving from site to site. I used to take pride in my ability to navigate a crowd of people (those of you from Windsor know how crazy the riverfront is during the fireworks every year. My family had a tradition of staying until the very last firework faded and then sprinting the multiple kilometres to the car through crowds of people so that we could be the first on the road and beat the heavy traffic), but now I am tossed along like a stick in rapids. Sometimes I am able to see what is going on, sometimes I can’t. At one point, I find myself halfway up the side of the trench, about 10 feet from the Mwata. When he is finished at each site however, and it comes time for him to leave, his attendants are less than gentle clearing a path for him, and I am literally picked up by a very stern looking man and moved out of the way. He somehow manages to be quite polite about it however, and gives me a quick smile and a handshake as he rushes past to move more wide-eyed spectators out of the way.

This part of the ritual concludes in a small pavilion, with the Mwata giving a short speech, and some traditional dancers performing, accompanied by traditional drums made from snake and crocodile skin, and a large xylophone-like instrument called an ainadimba, made from dried gourds and pieces of wood. We all gather as the Mwata gets back in his brand new Subaru (can’t help but think that maybe just a little of the tradition has been lost!), then pile back into our vehicles for the convoy back to Kazembe.

The next day, Saturday, is when the big events take place. The morning is actually somewhat similar to the previous day, with the Mwata walking around Kazembe and some immediately surrounding villages to pay homage to the ancestors. One of the sites is two large trees with a large pile of hippo bones at the base. At all of these sites the Mwata throws handfuls of ochra dust (called impemba) and moves only on his knees to show respect. The Mwata is followed by all his assistants and of course the huge crowd of people, even bigger today than yesterday. The entire procession moves from site to site, accompanied by drums and singing. The final site is about a 20 minute walk from the palace at the Ng’ona River. We have managed to sneak ahead of the crowd, hoping to find a good spot along the bank so as to see what will take place, but arrive to find about 1000 people already lining the river on both sides. We work our way close to the front just as the Mwata arrives with probably close to 2000 people behind him.

This site is especially important because some time in the early 1700s, shortly after the Lundas came to Zambia, two Lunda brothers, one who was the father of the first Mwata Kazembe, were captured by a rival tribe and executed by being tied into large baskets filled with rocks and drowned in the river at this spot. Every year as part of the Mutomboko ceremony the Mwata comes and pays homage to these brothers, asks for good rains and healthy crops, then offers sacrifices of traditional beer, maize, rice and chicken by throwing them in the river. He then proceeds back to the palace to prepare for the rest of the day’s events.

Around 2:00pm the crowd makes its way to the arena to wait for the Mwata’s arrival and the main event. There is entertainment of local music groups and traditional dancers while they wait. At around 3:00pm the gates of the palace open and the Mwata’s entourage prepares to leave (there aren’t many spectators at this point, because everyone is at the arena waiting, including me, but someone told me what happens at the palace). First to emerge are his bearers carrying the royal carriage, called the Umuselo, which is a large chair made of Zebra skin carried on long poles. There are 8 bearers, all dressed in red, and they carry the Umuselo out to the front of the palace grounds, just inside the gates. The Mwata then emerges and climbs onto the Umuselo which is picked up. The bearers carry the Mwata, but don’t just walk - it’s more of a dance. A few steps forward, a few steps back, a few steps to the side, then forward again, all while lifting the Umuselo up and down in time with the beating drums. As they approach the gates another attendant is waiting at the threshold with a goat, just before they arrive he kills the goat as a sacrifice, and the Umuselo is carried over the carcass. I am told that this was originally a human sacrifice, and it was considered to be a great honour to be chosen as the sacrifice.

The Mwata is carried approximately 2km to the arena by his bearers who dance the entire way. He is followed by members of his family, by the various Lunda sub-chiefs, and his army of attendants. His arrival at the arena causes wild celebrations in the crowd, which at this point numbers many thousands. Most are kept out of the main arena grounds by a fence, and use any possible means to see, including climbing on vehicles and climbing trees. We are lucky since we have a stand set up in the arena, and are allowed to sit in our stand and thus have an unobstructed view of the events. After the Mwata arrives and gets settled the speeches begin. Chiefs from other tribes all over Zambia have come to pay respects, and a few of the key ones give speeches. The Vice President of Zambia is also in attendance, and gives a speech as well. By the time everyone is finished talking the crowd is growing restless, anxiously awaiting the main event, which is the Mutomboko dance. This dance is performed once a year to celebrate the Lundas’ victories over other tribes. It is performed first by the Mwata’s sister, then the 4 princes (one of the Mwata’s sons and three nephews), and then of course by the Mwata. This is what everyone has been waiting to see, and as the Mwata dances his way up to the raised dirt platform in the middle of the arena the roar from the crowd is deafening. The dance, accompanied by the traditional drums and the ainadimba (the xylophone-like instrument), starts with the Mwata unarmed. One of his attendants dances around him, holding a traditional sword (mpok) and an axe (mbafi). During the dance the Mwata forcefully disarms the attendant, taking both weapons, and finishes the dance with them in hand. This is to symbolize triumph over his enemies.

The dance lasts about 10 minutes, after which the Mwata retires immediately to his Umuselo to be carried (danced) back to his palace by his bearers. This marks the end of the ceremony, and as soon as the Mwata is gone from sight the crowd begins to disperse. A few hundred of the special guests (visiting chiefs, family members, etc.) are invited back to the palace for a party that apparently lasts through the night, ending around noon of the following day. We aren’t invited so we take down our demonstrations, pack the truck and start off for home. The sheer number of people in Kazembe is unbelievable, and it takes us a few hours just to get through the town and to the highway.

It was pretty amazing to witness this event, and learn about the history of the Lunda people in Zambia. There is so much tradition, and it was awesome to be able to turn to the person next to me in the crowd and get an explanation of what was happening around me. There are people from all over Zambia in attendance, so I not only learn about the history of the Lundas, but have long conversations about the Lozi, the Tongas, the Bembas, and a few of the minor tribes as well.Our stand, and our presence at the ceremony was a big success. We were able to talk to hundreds, if not thousands of people about our projects, and the Mwata promised to talk to all of the sub-chiefs in his kingdom and urge them to participate. As we drive home we are already planning our participation next year. The unanimous decision from my colleagues is that I need to return from Canada and be a guest performer of the Mutomboko dance! We’ll see about that....

Tour de Milenge

2007-07-23T06:27:00.000-05:00

“Awe [no], I will leave the Honda here, Ndefwya [I want] to borrow a bicycle. Naissa maillo [I’m coming tomorrow]” In a mix of Bemba and English, I try to hammer out the details of my trade with Mr. Mwape. I’m in the village of Changwe-Lungo, and I’m in the process of trading my motorcycle for a bicycle. Confused? Let’s rewind a little bit….tib elttil a dniwer s’teL (if you have a better way to indicate rewinding text, I’d love to hear it!)

I’ve spent three weeks away from Milenge, attending the EWB quarterly meeting, and helping WaterAid facilitate a training workshop for sanitation technicians in one of the other districts in Luapula. I finally arrive back home late on a Friday night, and am thrilled to be here. I spend most of Saturday and Sunday with the family. They too are thrilled that I’m home. After being away for so long, I am curious as to how our project is progressing, specifically the construction around the district. I decide that on Monday I will spend all day in the field, visiting every site. It’s an ambitious goal to say the least. My plan is only to see each site, ask a few questions, talk to a few people, but only spend a short amount of time at each.

Monday morning comes and I’m up early, determined to revive my morning running routine, which has been suffering lately. I arrive at the office, greet everyone (which takes quite a while because I’ve been gone for so long), gas up the bike and manage to hit the road (dirt path) by 9:30. Not too bad. If I can keep a steady pace I should be able to make it back home by 4:00 or 5:00.

I have decided to start with Mumbotuta ward, the furthest of the four wards we have projects in, and work my way back. It takes about an hour and a quarter to get there, but it’s an enjoyable trip. The Mumbotuta road is my favourite to drive the bike on, because it is a mix of flat straight sections where you can let loose on the throttle, and tight curves over uneven ground, that require lots of manoeuvring. In short, it’s fun to drive!

I am nearing Changwe-Lungo village, fighting to keep the bike from sliding off of this particularly sandy stretch of the road (sand is the enemy of the motorbike, I use it to explain to people here what driving a car in the snow is like… similar, except there is no danger of tipping your car!) when I hear and feel a sharp snap on the bike, and then loose power. The engine is still running and responds to the throttle, but I am just coasting now. I know it has something to do with the chain, and a moving bike and engine will only cause more troubles so I shut off the bike while still moving and jam the breaks, skidding and fishtailing to a stop. I hop off and bend down to find the problem – the chain has come off. I examine it carefully, going over each link to make sure it isn’t broken, and it looks fine. Not that big of a deal. I’m a little curious as to why the chain came off, but am confident that I can put it back on and be on my way.

I manage to replace the chain, hop back on the bike and am off again…for about 5 feet when that same snap comes again. Now I’m worried. I’m off the bike again and sure enough, the chain is hanging, not broken, but off the sprocket. The problem is a little more serious than I had originally thought, but still manageable. Likely the chain is coming off because the back wheel isn’t properly aligned. I check, and sure enough one of the bolts holding the wheel hub in place has come loose, and needs attention. Not an easy fix, but with the help of the little tool kit on the bike I should be up and running again within the hour. I reach up to the container that houses the kit and my heart sinks. It is empty. I remember now that cover has broken on the carrying case and Eddy, my co-worker, has removed the kit. Now I’m in trouble.

I take a minute to sum up the situation in my mind: I’m about 100m from the absolute furthest village that we work in (Changwe-Lungo), approximately 60km from home and at least 45km from any cell phone coverage, my motorbike has a problem that is fixable, but requires tools which I don’t have, and it is hot. July may be part of the cold season in Zambia, but it’s only cold at night. It is nearing midday and temperature is probably in the mid 30s.

I spend the next 30 minutes working on the bike in vain. It’s frustrating knowing how to solve the problem but not being able to, for lack of tools. I try using my hands, sticks, rocks, the carabiner that is on my nalgene, but to no avail. Finally I give up, and start pushing the bike the rest of the way to Changwe-Lungo, conscious of the fact that I’m getting further away from home as I do it. I approach the village, nothing more than a cluster of houses, some made from bricks, most from wood and mud, all with thatch roofs. There is a group of men sitting in the shade of one of the houses, waiting out the hottest part of the day. They jump up when they see me approach and rush out to help me push. We get the bike to the house and park it in the shade, and I begin trying to explain. Again, with the mix of Bemba and English:

“My Honda is broken” – Around here “Honda” refers to any kind of motorbike, and they can plainly see that mine isn’t working

“Ndefwaya tool” – Nothing

“Ndefwaya wrench” – Blank faces

“Ndefwaya spanner” – I am greeting with smiles and nods and they begin discussing amongst themselves in a flurry of Bemba that I can’t even begin to follow. I remember that Zambia was a British colony, and many items and sayings in any of the 72 languages spoken here still attest to that.

My hopes are lifted when one of them rushes off, presumably to get the much needed tools. He returns with a universal bicycle wrench that just might do the trick. I bend down, along with the crowd of villagers who is now surrounding me and my bike, and am dismayed to find that the wrench is the wrong size, and won’t fit. That of course doesn’t deter my new found friends, who each need to take a turn trying. 15 minutes later and the wrench still doesn’t fit. I have decided that the only option is to leave the bike here, and make it back to the BOMA another way.

I use my freakish mix of language to explain that I want to borrow a bicycle from someone, but will return it the following day. My plan is to leave the motorbike, ride back to the BOMA on the bicycle, and return the following day with a truck to return the bicycle and take the motorbike home. It doesn’t take took long to get my point across, and the villagers are happy to comply. I move the bike to the side of a house, lock the front wheel in place, thank the crowd that has gathered to help, and follow one of the men, Mr. Mwape, to his house just outside the village. He disappears behind his house for a moment, and then returns and hand hands me his bicycle. So concludes the most unusual trade I’ve ever had to make: A Honda XL 125cc motorbike for an no-name one speed bicycle with a rusted chain, teeth missing from both sprockets, no pedals, no brakes and a seat that is merely a piece of hard plastic sitting on a coil of wire. Upon seeing the bike I am beginning to rethink my plan, but the only other option is to spend the night here, and that would do nothing to solve the problem of getting home. I’d have to get back to the BOMA eventually, so it might as well be now. I shake Mr. Mwape’s hand, and say “Natotella, tukomwonana maillo”, Thank you, we will meet tomorrow. With that, I hop on the bike and am off. It is now 12:00pm.

I have not gone ten feet before I realize what a difficult task this is going to be. All thoughts of the countless kilometres of bike riding I did as a kid leave my mind. Riding a 21 speed mountain bike on paved roads doesn’t quite compare to this! I stop for a minute to slop a fresh layer of sunscreen on, which makes my face almost black because of all the grease on my hands from working on the bike, and then start off again.

Kilometre after kilometre of uneven, sometimes sandy sometimes rocky path slowly drags by. Up and down hills, past fields and villages. The sun is directly overhead and in no time I’m drenched in sweat and my breathing is laboured. Normally when I pace this way it’s on the motorbike and the fields and villages are flying by. Today, they pass by at an agonizingly slow pace. The only thing flying now are various calculations flying through my head. It’s just taken me an hour to do what I normally do in 15 minutes on the bike. That means I’m going four times slower than normal. If the trip out takes an hour and a quarter, four times that is about 5 hours.

I shake my head to get those thoughts out, but they are instead replaced by biology lessons of days gone by. “The human body loses approximately 2.5L of water per day, but in times of heavy exercise in hot conditions it can lose up to 2.5L an hour”. Again the calculations… At 2L an hour (I’m trying hard to be optimistic at this point) over 5 hours I’ll lose 10L of water. All I have with me is my 1L nalgene full of water, which means I’ll have to stop and refill often. The nature of my work here means that I’m acutely aware of every clean water point in the area, so I make a mental note of where I have to stop. I’ve got a long way to go before I reach the first one, so I push on.

Slowly but surely I am covering ground. Village after village approaches then disappears behind me. When I pass people on the roads, or in their fields I still manage a weak smile and sometimes a wave, if the ground is smooth enough to allow me to take one hand off the handle bars for a brief second. People mostly just stand and stare however. A muzungu flying by on a motorbike draws curious looks to be sure, but they are used to it by now and most people wave vigorously and shout greetings as I pass. That same muzungu crawling by on a rickety bicycle, however, is almost incomprehensible. It just doesn’t make sense. With the exception of a few, everyone is too stunned to do anything but follow my slow progress with their eyes until I am lost from sight in the tall grasses that constantly encroach upon the road. Even the children, who usually come running when they hear my motorbike approach, and chase me for the few brief seconds I’m in sight, simply stare.

Time passes, and after two brief stops to greet people I know and fill my nalgene at their wells, I am finally approaching the 30km mark, roughly the halfway point of my trek. It has been two and a half hours since I started out, and I manage a small satisfied smile that so far my calculations of how long it would take me are holding true.

As I pass the house of one of the sanitation technicians we have just trained I turn my head and give a small wave at his family sitting outside, next to a white pickup truck. I turn back to the road and ride another 50m before I realize what I have just seen – a white pickup truck! This certainly doesn’t belong to him. I stop as quickly as I can (which means that I drag my feet for another 20m because there are no brakes on this bike remember) and ride back to the house. I see the markings on the truck as I approach, and realise it belongs to a friend of mine who works in the forestry department. He is here running a workshop on bee-keeping, a common alternative source of income for many of the farmers in the area (Milenge is known for its honey, and I can’t wait for the end of August, which is reportedly when “honey season” starts).
I drop my bike, and collapse in the shade next to the house waiting for his meeting to finish. When he is done, we load my bike in the back of the truck and drive back to the BOMA, while I savour the cool wind coming through the open windows!

Epilogue:

The next day, after a little negotiation, I manage to procure a truck and make my way back to Changwe-Lungo to pick up the bike. It is a frustratingly short trip, as I retrace my agonizing route from the previous day. Upon reaching the village I return Mr. Mwape’s bicycle, along with a bag of oranges and many “Natotella Sana”s [Thank you very much] to accompany it, and start to load the motorbike onto the truck. This of course prompts the men standing around, and half of the children from the nearby school to help. Once the bike is secured in place, I gather everyone together for a picture (nothing says “Thank-you” like taking someone’s picture) and start off for home, at a much quicker pace than the day before!

Faces...

2007-07-07T10:04:00.000-05:00

The night is still and quiet around me as I walk. The only sound is the soft crunch of gravel under my shoes. It is June, the beginning of the cold season in Zambia, so the air is brisk and chill. The moon is just a sliver tonight, which makes the stars seem even more stunning. I stop walking for a moment, just to stare. Like a small child I crane my neck trying to take it all in, briefly entertaining thoughts of counting the endless millions of pinpricks above me. I am getting used to the stars now, but not so much that the sight doesn’t leave me breathless still. I pause a moment longer, than continue my walk.

As I near home a familiar sound rises up to greet me – singing. Warm harmonies mixing, words not yet distinguishable. I smile and quicken my pace. It is my family signing. Supper is likely almost ready, and as they sit and wait, both for supper and for me, they are singing. All of them join in, even little Ruth, although admittedly she needs a few more years of practice before she could perform. They don’t sing every night, so I am anxious to get home and listen. They know how much I enjoy it, even though I don’t actually understand much of the words, and they love it when I try to join in, even just by humming. They are determined that I will learn the words and we’ll perform somewhere. We’ll see about that.

I walk up to the house, and around back where everyone is sitting in the kitchen and am greeted warmly. I say my hellos quickly, and ask them to start singing again. It will be another evening like that, sitting around by lantern light, listening to the family sing. I love these evenings.

Life has become a series of stark contrasts. It is not hard to find beauty everywhere I look. I constantly find myself stopping whatever I’m doing to stare across a field of sorghum ready to be harvested, to watch a fisherman guide his home-made canoe down the river, to observe a group of children playing with a home-made football. Yet I don’t have to look much further than these sights to see a household that gets their drinking water from the river, just downstream of someone bathing, to talk to an old women so stricken by polio that her legs are useless, and she must be carried everywhere, to see small children who are sick so often from unclean water that they have missed too much school to be able to catch up, such that it’s almost not worth going. It is a constant battle between images such as these for my attention.

However even with the harshness of these situations, one can find cause to smile. That father of that household who gets their water from the river is extremely hard working, and has already dug the pit for the latrine we will help him construct, has gathered the required materials, and is just waiting for us to deliver cement. He has already announced that he will help with the nearby well when construction begins. Whatever else he is lacking, hard work isn’t one of them. That woman who has to be carried around is rarely seen without a smile on her face, and she particularly beams whenever I drive up on my motorbike. No matter that I can’t understand her yet, and she can’t understand me, we never fail to have a lengthy conversation every time I’m there. She says what she wants to, I say what I want, neither understands the other, but we both laugh anyway. Whatever ailment is ravaging her body, her heart is not affected. Those small children, despite missing so much school, still love going, and still run with excitement to the school every day they can. In one area, where there are no teachers, the first time I drove up the kids all came running to greet me. This is not anything new, it happens everywhere, but here I am told that they think I’m the new teacher, and are thrilled to see me. I’m almost sad to let them down and tell them why I’m really there. Whatever sickness the unclean water causes, it does nothing to affect their enthusiasm.

I’ve been asked before how I keep from getting discouraged. The natural beauty of this place is certainly one of the things that keeps a smile on my face. Every evening I watch the sunset behind our house. The sight of the sky, seemingly on fire above green tree tops and the thatch roofs of our neighbours’ houses is beyond beautiful. In the mornings, as I run through dirt paths, I watch the sun rise from the opposite direction. My days are often spent riding through the picturesque country-side on my motorbike, passing through green fields, riding next to the Luapula River. One does not have to look hard to find the beauty of God’s creation in Milenge.

However even this natural beauty would not be enough on its own. Sunsets become common place, fields begin to look the same, and there are days when I don’t even glance at the ever present river and the Congo beyond. What really puts a smile on my face is the people I interact with. Whether it’s my family at home, my co-workers, or the people I meet in the villages, I am constantly being inspired and challenged. I still marvel at the enthusiasm I see, the smiles, the hospitality, and the warmth. There are times when I get frustrated over the difficulties I have communicating, frustrated over difficulties associate with work, and frustrated for many other reasons. There are times when I have had to deliver bad news to a community, when I have come without answers to their questions, when I have had to smile sadly and inform people they must wait until next year to be included in our WatSan program. Yet I have never entered a community and not been greeted warmly, with smiles, laughter at my poor attempts at Bemba, and the ever present crowd of kids that can’t believe their good fortune to be interacting with a Muzungu (in this instance “interacting” typically means standing as close as possible, such that the entire group of twenty – thirty kids is somehow touching me, and either staring in awe or giggling madly).

I would love to share their stories with you. I could easily fill pages and pages, blog entry after blog entry with the stories of the people I meet. However I worry about the accuracy of my retelling, I worry about doing justice to these people. I have started writing down the stories of people I meet and talk to. Throughout the rest of my placement I hope to share these stories with you, but in order to do it properly, I need time. For now, I want to put up some pictures of people I have met during my travels in Zambia and Malawi. You may see a few Muzungus in these pictures. Those are some of my fellow EWB OVs. I’ve included some pictures of them for two reasons: First because sometimes they’re in really good pictures with Zambians/Malawians, and second, because my fellow OVs are also a huge inspiration to me. I just returned from an amazing week long retreat with all of them and was reminded again of the dedication and heart that my friends have, and the passion for their work.

For me, these are the faces of my time so far in Africa. These are the faces that bring a smile to mine. I am smiling again in anticipation of seeing these people again, and of the many more people I will meet in the coming months.

As usual there are a few housekeeping issues. First, just want to give some credit where it is due. Not all of the above pictures were taken by me, a few are from my fellow OVs. Second, I was hoping to included lots more pictures of my family in Milenge, and of some of the sights I described above, but my camera has been acting up lately. Hopefully I’ll have it back up and running next time! Thanks again for everyone who is reading, and for all the comments and emails.

50 Ways to kill a chicken...but I only needed one

2007-06-06T06:53:00.000-05:00

Back in Mansa for two days to attend a workshop. I'm taking advantage of my time here to get on the net and post an update. Sorry it's so big, but that's what happens when you only get online once a month! Thanks for all the emails etc. over the last while.

I pass quickly down the dirt road on my motorbike, the tall white pines flying by on either side. I am in the middle small forest of these giant trees, and the sunlight just barely filters down. For a second it seems as though I’m back in Ontario, in the middle of the white pine forests of the Muskokas; but I’m not, I’m in Milenge, my new home.

I was quite surprised to find this forest, as I have not seen trees such as these since coming to Africa. There are certainly an abundance of trees, especially in rural Zambia, just not this type. I ask about them and learn that Milenge was once the site of a tree plantation, started by some British colonists at the beginning of the last century. They left shortly after Zambia gained independence in 1964 and the government took over control of the plantation. I am told that I am the first white person to live in the Milenge BOMA (British Overseas Management Authority – a term left over from the colonial days that refers to the center of government for rural areas.) since they left, and only a handful of others (missionaries, peace corps volunteers, etc.) have lived elsewhere in the district. I am indeed in rural Zambia!

I arrived in Milenge at night, so I didn’t see any of the drive in. All I know was that after almost two hours on the highway from Mansa, there is a 74km stretch of dirt road that takes you to the BOMA, right in the heart of Milenge district. When speaking of dirt roads I am not referring to what we know as dirt roads in Canada, which are smooth gravel roads where you can still maintain a relatively decent speed. Dirt roads here are little more than paths, full of pot holes that can be one or two feet deep and several wide. You can barely manage to travel at more than a crawl. As such, it takes almost 3 hours to travel the 74km from the road to the BOMA. It is late so we unload our stuff at the guesthouse, eat a quick meal by candlelight (there is no power in the Milenge, save for some solar panels) and then immediately head to bed.

The sight awaiting me when I open the door to my room the next morning is absolutely breathtaking, and I simply stand speechless for many minutes, drinking it all in. Directly in front of me is the Luapula, a wide meandering river. On the opposite bank is the heavily forested Democratic Republic of Congo. A handful of small home-made canoes and other boats slip silently by, fisherman up early to begin their work.

The BOMA, as I mentioned, is the political centre of Milenge district. It is here that the District Council meets, and here that the council executive has its offices, as well as the offices of the various national governmental bodies, from health to education to the office of the president’s representative. Most of the offices are clustered within sight of each other, in a number of buildings. Some solar panels can be seen, offering power to the three or four computers that can be found within the district, not counting my laptop of course. Yet one would never guess that this is the hub of the district. It is quiet here, startlingly quiet. The sounds that reach one’s ears are not those of a city or small town, but of nature, of being in the wilderness. The one striking contrast to this calm is the ugly red and white cell phone tower that rises above all else only a few hundred yards from my office window. When the wind dies, or is coming from the right direction you can hear the throb of the generators that run constantly to provide phone service to the area. I shouldn’t be so quite to judge this steel abomination however, as it provides me with my only link to the outside world. At times a blessing, at times a curse, this tower is the first step along the road to development for the people of Milenge district, and they welcome it with open arms.

As I’ve mentioned before, Milenge is a new district, formed only in 1997, and as such is quite underdeveloped. However I am fast realizing that it is an untapped treasure. Water for irrigation is abundant, the soil is good in most places, crops yields are usually high, and there is talk of a wealth of minerals and precious stones that have as yet gone un-mined. In addition to this, the landscape is breathtaking. The Luapula River is spectacular, made even more so by its almost untainted shoreline. At one point, in one of the wards we work in, the entire river churns through a series of rapids and small waterfall. It’s only a 10 foot drop, but still pretty impressive. I can already envision a nice guest house situated on the hill next to the falls. Given a nice road to access it from the highway Milenge could easily become a tourist attraction, a worthwhile destination for those already in the northern part of the country for the various game reserves and parks that can be found in the area. Like I said, an untapped treasure.

After spending my first days in Milenge living in the guesthouse, I have arranged to live with the Lwando family. Mr. Lwando is a driver for the District Commissioner, although the fuel situation in Milenge means that he does little driving, and spends his time sitting about hoping for a driving assignment and the allotted allowance that comes with it to bolster his salary. The fuel situation in Milenge is something that many have to deal with, my motorbike and I included. There is no gas station within 200km, and fuel is obtained from a rather entrepreneurial farmer nearby who buys it in bulk, has it brought by truck in large drums, the sells it for a profit by using a rubber hose and the tried and tested “suck and siphon” method. Lack of mobility not withstanding, Mr. Lwando is an easygoing friendly man. He and his wife are both very patient with me as I learn the culture and some of the language and Mr. Lwando regularly gets out the families large chalk board and sits me down for Bemba lessons. The have four children, although the oldest, an 11 year old boy, is living in another city going to school and I’ve never met him. The three girls are at various points in getting over their shyness towards me, but are all extremely curious and I think very excited to have a muzungu living with them.

Chishala is 9 and is quite shy, although I can talk with her the easiest because her English is the best of the three.

Chola is 5 and only occasionally remembers to be shy. Her excitement usually gets the best of her and she follows me around trying to understand what I ask her and giggling at my poor attempts at Bemba. I’ve noticed that her English is getting better even since I moved in two weeks ago, and her mother insists that it’s because she tries hard to talk to me. It doesn’t take much persuading to get her to sing a song for me, say a poem or rhyme she learned in school, or even dance. When she’s not doing that she’s hanging off one of my arms or trying to climb onto my back. I think Chola and I will get along very well.

Ruth is the youngest at 3 and a half and her mood is entirely unpredictable. She is normally the least shy of the bunch, often coming to sit in my lap (usually to fall asleep) as we sit around and talk after dinner. There are times however when she has trouble looking at me, and will hide behind her mothers skirt when I greet her. These times are happening less and less frequently however, and I think she is getting used to having me around.

The final member of the family is Mpundu. I don’t know too much about her, other than that she is an orphan and Mr. and Mrs. Lwando have taken her in. She is around 20 I think, and does most of the household chores around the house while everyone else is out at school and work. Mrs. Lwando told me once that she tried to get Mpundu to go back to school but she didn’t want to. I am working hard to build a friendship with Mpundu, which is both easy and hard at the same time. Easy because simply showing interest and giving a kind word to her seems enough to bring a smile to her face, but hard because she doesn’t speak any English and seems embarrassed by this fact and very rarely will approach me, even when I insist that she speak to me in Bemba so I’ll learn.

Life at the Lwando house is a constant opportunity for learning. I am up early in the morning before the rest of the family to go for a run, and despite my constant urging to the contrary, most of the house is up by the time I get back to help me prepare for work. As much as I insist they stay in bed, I am grateful for the help. The few mornings they have slept in I have been scrambling to draw water from the well, light the fire to warm the water, bathe, light the charcoal stove, cook something for breakfast (breakfast is typically rice, sweet potato, fritters, or something similar), dress and still leave early enough to make the 1.5km walk to be at work in time! I have started getting up a little earlier so as to at least have some of these things started by the time everyone else emerges. As such, my run usually coincides with the sunrise, which although early, is not a bad way to start the day!

On days when I’m not in the field I’m home for lunch, but on most days I just bring some food and don’t return until after 5:00. As with the morning, there is too much work to do to simply sit and relax. So, ignoring the urging of the family to sit down and let them do the work, I help draw water again, relight the fire if it’s not lit, heat the water to bathe again (flying down dirt/dust roads on a motorbike makes you pretty dirty!), or help with preparing dinner. I am slowly perfecting my Nshima cooking skills, although I have a long way to go before I can feel pride in my Nshima. I use these opportunities, sitting with Mrs. Lwando, to learn about life in Milenge, Bemba culture, her past, and also to share stories and information about Canada.
Our house is small by Canadian standards, but among the larger houses in the area. The Lwandos take pride in their home and ensure that is well kept. My room is tiny, literally the size of a twin bed with about three feet of extra space next to it. It is big enough however, and after having a set of shelves made it is just want I need. All of our meals are cooked and eaten outside in the “kitchen”, an open thatch roofed pavilion. Behind the kitchen is the well, and off to the side is the bathroom. This of course is used only for bathing. The latrine, used for other things, is on the other side of the house. It is beginning to feel like home, and I enjoying coming home at the end of the day.

There are countless stories that I could tell, but in the interest of space and time I’ll share just one, the story of my birthday. A few days before the date Mrs. Lwando asks me how old I am, which of course brings out the fact that my birthday is fast approaching. She insists that we celebrate. As my boss from EWB, David, is coming to visit on the weekend it is decided that we will celebrate on Saturday rather than Thursday, my actual birthday. On Friday David and I help Mrs. Lwando prepare Mkoyu, a traditional Zambian drink. It is made by soaking Mkoyu root in maize porridge for a few hours, then straining the entire mixture and allowing it to ferment overnight in giant gourds. It is a tangy drink with a bit of a kick to it, but it is good, especially when a generous amount of sugar is added to sweeten it.

On Saturday, while David and I are out, we buy two chickens. This in itself is an adventure, as we decide simply to stop at a group of houses in the middle of nowhere to buy our chicken. We are far from the BOMA, in one of the villages where nobody speaks English. With my very limited Bemba (I know how to say “We want a chicken”, “How much?”, and “That’s too expensive”) we succeed in obtaining two chickens for only a little bit more than a Zambian would have paid. After agreeing on the price the entire group of people (by now numbering over 30 people who have gathered to see what the two Muzungus on a motorbike are doing) sets out to catch the chickens. After a number of minutes diving and crawling about in the dirt, two small boys emerge from a bush holding some very irate chickens. We gingerly place them in the backpack, which doesn’t seem to improve their mood at all, and then we’re off.

Arriving home we insist that David and I will prepare dinner. So begins my first experience killing a chicken. David has lived in Zambia for over two years now, and is no stranger to killing dinner, so he coaches me through it. He holds the body, I grasp the head, stretch the neck, and then witness first hand the meaning of “running around like a chicken with its head cut off”. The commotion doesn’t last too long and the next step (after removing the feet) is to clean the bird. We place the chicken in near boiling water which helps the feathers come out easier. After plucking the chicken is finally starting to look like something I am used to eating. At this point we enlist the help of Mrs. Lwando to remove the innards of the bird. This takes some skill and steady hand because you don’t want to burst the stomach, intestines, or anything that comes after. I’m sure you can imagine why. This being done, we cut it into pieces and cook it.

Such is my birthday meal; home made Mkoyu, Nshima prepared by me, boiled canola leaves, and fried chicken. Upon purchasing our chickens David and I decided to name then, according to their efforts to evade capture. We name one “Fast” and the other “Slow”. Of course we’re in Luapula, so we translate their names to Bemba and they are now known as Lubilo and Panono. Tonight we are eating Panono. Lubilo sits by and looks on quietly, realizing that he is seeing a few days into his future.

I enjoy my birthday, sitting around with only a small lantern for light, laughing and telling stories, drinking Mkoyu, eating something that was alive only hours before. Of course this is a typical evening at the Lwando house. Dinner is a time for talking, teaching me Bemba, learning about Canada, telling stories and laughing. I have exhausted my repertoire of campfire and children’s songs, and the kids are dying for more. Old Macdonald is a particular hit.

While not without challenges, Milenge seems to be a good fit for me. It is peaceful and calm, and easy to fall in love with. At the same time, those challenges are always there to push me, to make sure that I keep learning, to always keep me just a shade outside my comfort zone.

Sorry about the lack of pictures of the rest of the family (Mr. and Mrs. Lwando and Mpundu) they were all out when I was taking pictures.

Where I am, What I'm doing, and Why I'm doing it

2007-05-16T01:39:00.000-05:00

Every year the United Nations Development Program (UNDP), which is the branch of the UN specifically focused on development in the world’s poorest countries, produces the Human Development Report, which highlights the current state of the world’s people, specifically by using the Human Development Index (HDI), an annual ranking of the world’s countries using indicators such as life expectancy, adult literacy rate, and GDP per capita. Canada has consistently ranked in the top 10 since the HDI’s first use in the early 1990’s, even holding the number one spot for most of the ‘90s (Norway is currently ranked number one, and has held that spot since 2001). In the 2006 HDI Canada is ranked number 6 out of 177 countries, behind Norway, Iceland, Australia, Ireland, and Sweden. Zambia, on the other hand, is ranked 165 out of 177. The following comparison of HDI indicators between Zambia and Canada clearly shows the disparities between these two countries in which I have lived:

Life Expectancy at Birth (years)

Canada 80.2
Zambia 37.7

Adult Literacy Rate (% age 15 and older)

Canada >99
Zambia 68

Combined Gross Enrolment Ratio for primary, secondary and tertiary schools (%)

Canada 93
Zambia 54

GDP per Capita (Purchasing Power Parity in US$)

Canada 31,263
Zambia 943

Life Expectancy is fairly self explanatory, as is Adult Literacy Rate. Combined Gross Enrolment Ratio is found by dividing the total number of students enrolled in various levels of school (excluding adult education) by the total number of the population falling in the appropriate age categories. GDP per Capita (GDP = Gross Domestic Product = the total value of the goods and services produced within a countries borders during a period of one year) is found by dividing the GDP by the total population, and adjusting it according to the value of the national currency and the relative price of goods and services in the country. The value is given in US dollars.

The theme of the 2006 Human Development Report is water and sanitation, and carries the slogan “Beyond Scarcity: Power, poverty, and the global water crisis”. The need for water for basic functions of life has long been recognized and accepted worldwide, and has been labelled a basic human right. Yet still today much of the world is in desperate crisis regarding both water and sanitation. In our modern world more than 1 billion people lack access to clean water, and 2.6 billion lack access to basic sanitation. In Canada we hardly give water a second thought, but for those included in the previous statistics, lack of access to this simple liquid has far reaching consequences. Every year approximately 1.8 million children die of diarrhoea and other water or sanitation related diseases. In fact, unclean water is now the second leading killer of children worldwide. In many developing communities gathering water is the responsibility of the girls and women, requiring extensive time, involving many kilometres of walking and carrying heavy loads. This keeps mothers from properly caring for their children, and promotes gender inequalities in education and employment by keeping these women from attending school or getting jobs. As well, the physical ramifications of carrying such large burdens over extended distances are visible in the countless women who suffer from back and neck problems. Furthermore, the general ill health resulting from poor water and sanitary conditions that so many suffer from undermines economic productivity and makes it almost impossible to break the cycle of poverty that so many find themselves in. As you can see, water and sanitation goes much further than the luxury of an aesthetically pleasing glass of water, which is pretty much the only thing that most Canadians need to worry about.

To fight this crisis, and others associated with wide spread extreme poverty, the United Nations came up with a set of eight goals, signed by all 191 UN member countries in September 2000. These goals, known as the Millennium Development Goals (MDGs), are aimed at reducing the number of people in the world suffering from the effects of extreme poverty, and reducing the extreme inequalities faced by millions of people around the world. Specific to our current topic, the seventh goal is:

“To Ensure Environmental Sustainability” with the sub-goal of “reducing by half the proportion of people without access to safe drinking water”. It is toward this goal that WaterAid, a UK based NGO (non-governmental organisation) strives.

The crisis of water and sanitation is dramatically apparent in the Luapula province of Zambia. It is both the most remote, and the most underdeveloped of Zambia’s nine provinces. Compared to the other provinces, Luapula has the highest percentage of people lacking access to safe water (approx. 81%), the highest percentage of people lacking access to adequate sanitation (approx. 98%), and the highest infant mortality rate (almost 140 deaths/1000 births). As such, WaterAid Zambia, who has been working in Zambia since 1994, has chosen to begin a new program in Luapula.

WaterAid Zambia does not actually implement on the ground projects, but rather partners with local NGOs and governments to fund and support them in implementing water and sanitation related projects. In Luapula, WaterAid has three implementing partners. The one I will be working with is the Milenge District Council. Provinces in Zambia are divided into Districts, which are further divided into wards. The Milenge District is located approximately 260 kms south and slightly east of the province’s capital city, Mansa. Milenge is a new district, only separating from Mansa district in 1997 This, along with it being so remote and rural mean that it is operating with many council positions vacant. My role with the council will be to aid them in implementing the WaterAid directed water and sanitation program, including the construction of new boreholes and hand-dug wells, the installation of hand pumps on these wells, the construction of household latrines, and the implementation of a hygiene education program. I will work closely with the council members in charge of the project, as well as working with the WaterAid Senior Program Officer. Last year was a pilot year in the district, and this year is the scale up year.

In addition to simply increasing access to water and sanitation, one of WaterAid’s goals is to build the capacity of its partner organisations, and the communities in which they work, to better enable them to implement projects after WaterAid is gone. The goal is sustainable change in behaviour and attitudes, not simply handouts of free pumps and materials to build latrines. In fact WaterAid requires beneficiaries to contribute substantially to projects where they can. This includes performing labour such as digging out a latrine pit, gathering local materials such as sand and crushed stone, and paying the latrine builders or well diggers, either in cash or in kind (payments of chickens or bags of maize are acceptable). This not only seeks to avoid the culture of dependency that is so often produced from aid work, but also gives beneficiaries a degree of ownership over the projects, which results in a much more sustainable outcome, more likely to be repeated in the future without outside help.

I am writing this from Mansa, at the WaterAid field office, where I have been working for the past two days. Tomorrow I will head to Milenge to meet the council and begin my work. I have much to learn yet, and the task of having impact seems more than just a little daunting. I am both excited and apprehensive as I am finally only a day away from beginning the work that I came here over two months ago for.

For more information on many of the topics in this post, please visit some of the links to the right of the page, or the following websites:

WaterAid International
www.wateraid.org.uk

Universal Declaration of Human Rights
http://www.un.org/Overview/rights.html

United Nations Human Development Report
http://hdr.undp.org

Millennium Development Goals
http://www.un.org/millenniumgoals/

I hope that gives you a bit of context for my work here, and will set the tone for many of the posts to come. There is obviously no internet access in Milenge and I am not due back in Mansa for at least a few weeks, so no posts for a while. Keep posting your comments and I’ll give an update when I get back online next!! Also, I finally have an address that things can be mailed it. It's the WaterAid office in Mansa, so I'll get things when I'm back in town. The address is:

WaterAid Zambia

Mansa Office

Room 2410, 1st floor

NAPSA Building

Chitimukulu Road

PO Box 710618

Mansa, Luapula

Zambia

Back in Zam!!!

2007-04-29T06:17:00.000-05:00

Note: You’ll see that I’ve added a few more links to the right side of the page. These are the blog sites of some other EWB volunteers who are currently overseas. If you’ve got some time, check them out, there are some amazing stories to be read!! A particular recommendation for Chad’s blog (not to take away from anyone else’s blog, but I made Chad a promise for special mention!!). Also, sorry for the lack of pictures in this post, I was busy all week and my camera never made it out of my bag!! I’ll be more diligent with pictures from now on, I promise!

Well I figure it’s about time I give everyone an update on what I’ve been doing over the past little while. I left Malawi a little over a week ago. You may remember from my journey to Malawi that the trip between Lusaka to Lilongwe is a long one. Due to the bus schedules, it’s even longer going the other way!! I was up before 5am the day I left, in order to pack and make it to the bus station on time. Normally getting up so early would be awful, and while I still wasn’t thrilled to be rolling out of bed at such an hour, it is extremely peaceful at that time. 5:00am is when the first call to prayer is played from the local mosque. This is something that I had never heard before coming to Africa. The call to prayer is broadcast 5 times a day, everyday, over loudspeakers from the mosque, and can generally be heard anywhere in the city. Most of the time I don’t really even notice it, but certain times, especially early in the morning and late at night, when all else is quiet, it is very relaxing to sit and just listen to the imam’s voice over the speaker. It is a mournful tune. Especially this morning, as I am gathering my things, I enjoy the call to prayer.

I walk to the bus station and make it a few minutes early to get on the first mini-bus to the border, which begins filling at 6:00am. The bus will leave as soon as it’s full. My goal is to cross the border and make it to Chipata, the border town in Zambia, by 10:00am in order to catch the early bus to Lusaka. For this to happen the mini-bus needs to leave Lilongwe no later than 7:30am, and even that is pushing it. Today however the bus takes a long time to fill – a very long time! I sit on the bus with about 8 other people from just after 6 until after 8:00am. When we finally pull out of the chaos that is the bus yard, I have given up hope of making the 10:00 bus. The drive to the border is about 2 hours, and can be longer, depending on how many stops the driver makes, and how friendly the police/soldiers are at the check points.

The roads in Malawi are dotted with police checkpoints, manned by armed soldiers. Often vehicles are just waved through, especially private cars or NGO trucks. However mini-buses are often stopped and searched. I’m not exactly sure what they are looking for, and they won’t tell you, but they know and that’s all that matters. On this trip we are only searched at one of the checkpoints. The entire bus must empty and wait while the soldier goes through the bus and looks in some of the luggage. I use the opportunity to stretch my legs (mini-busses are extremely cramped!!) and buy some food from a small boy selling boiled eggs and buns. When the soldier is satisfied that we aren’t smuggling any contraband, we load back up and are on the road.

We reach Mchingi, the Malawian border town, and the taxi drivers mob the bus. They see a Muzungu with a backpack and they know I am headed for the border. I make sure I keep my hand on my bag, as 5 drivers instantly fight over who will carry it to their cab. I pick the closest one, which already has some passengers in it. Cabs to the border are shared, so unless you want to buy the whole thing, it won’t leave until it is full. I am lucky to find one that is only waiting for two more people, and I climb in along with another woman. With 8 of us crammed in a small Toyota passenger car, we set out.

All of the other passengers are deposited along the 15 minute drive to the border, and by the time we arrive I am the only one left in the cab. I get out and go through two sets of customs. First is the Malawi exit customs. It is a small building with 5 or 6 armed soldiers lounging outside. There is nobody else waiting to cross, so as soon as I fill out the necessary forms, answer a few questions from the customs officer about my time in Malawi, and get my passport stamped, I am free to go. I walk 100m to the actual border, and enter the Zambian customs building. It is similar to the Malawian one, and also empty. Again there are forms to fill out, questions to answer, and the entry fee to pay, but without too much hassle, I am free to go. I step through the rusted gate on the chain link fence and I’m back in Zambia. I walk another 100m and am again swarmed by both taxi drivers and money changers, asking me to convert my Malawian Kwacha to Zambian Kwacha. Luckily I still have enough Zambian Kwacha on me from my first week to get me to Lusaka. The exchange rates from the border money changers are terrible, and they are known to use some interesting math to convert your money as well. I use my Chichewa/Chinyanja (we’re back in Zambia now, so the language is Chinyanja again. It is almost identical to Chichewa though, so I can still use what I’ve learned) to decline their requests and search for a cab that is close to full. All of the cabs are empty and there is nobody behind me going through customs, so I know it will be a long wait. It is already 10:30am, so I have no hope of catching the early bus anyway, so I sit down and wait, chatting with the taxi driver.

It takes about 45 minutes to fill and we are off to Chipata, about a 10 minute drive from the border. The taxi driver has told me that there is another bus company with a bus leaving at 11:30am, so I tell him to take me directly to the bus station, hoping to catch this bus. I am in luck, and we arrive while they are still loading. I hop out of the taxi and rush to the bus, throw my bag underneath, pay the conductor and climb aboard. The bus is brand new and extremely nice. The little TV’s even work. Unfortunately the bus is only a quarter full, and I know, like every other bus, it won’t leave until it is full. So I sit down to wait. Finally, at 1:30pm, the bus is full and we hit the road.

I spend the trip alternately reading, sleeping, watching the gospel music videos or Nigerian movies on the TVs, or just staring out the window at the beautiful scenery. We stop at small towns along the way to let people off or pick new people up. I buy some fruit from a woman at one stop. An entire bunch of bananas for only 5000 K, which is about $1.50 CND. I chat for a while with the people next to me, two men who are brothers, and the granddaughter of one of them. They are returning from a funeral in Chipata. The sun goes down and we continue driving in the dark. We finally reach the outskirts of Lusaka at about 9:00pm. It has been a very long day. I call my friends who meet me at the bus station, and we grab some supper before heading back to their apartment where I crash for some much needed sleep!
In Lusaka I spend two days at WaterAid head office, doing lots of reading, talking to some of the other workers, and then I’m on a bus bound for Monze. Monze is about 3 hours south west of Lusaka, and is where Jenn Dysart lives and works. Jenn is another EWB volunteer who has been in Zambia with WaterAid for the past two years. Jenn was in the same position two years ago that I’m in now: a brand new volunteer starting with WaterAid. I will spend the week with Jenn, shadowing her as she works, so as to learn a little bit about WaterAid, about the wat-san sector, and about life as a volunteer in Zambia.

It is a great week that flies by. I really enjoyed being able to work and do something after so much time being idle in Malawi. Jenn’s role with WaterAid is to manage one of WaterAid’s partner organisations who implement the wat-san projects. I won’t go into too much detail right now about how WaterAid works, I’ll save that for another post. While working with Jenn I spent two days in the field. One day was spent in the peri-urban areas of Monze where WaterAid has one partner working. There we looked at latrine construction and talked to some of the beneficiaries. It was a great learning experience for me. The people we talked to told us about some of the concerns they had about the latrines, and the amount of materials they received to build them. I learned about some of the challenges with latrine construction and maintenance, and was able to get an idea of what the users of these latrines felt about working with WaterAid. The next day we spent in the rural areas, which is the kind of work I’ll be doing. We inspected two borehole sites, checking that the hand pumps were working and checking for proper construction. We also talked to some of the users of the borehole. For each water point there is a committee who is in charge of maintaining the water point. This includes determining a method of keeping the water point and surrounding area clean, collecting money from the users to create a maintenance fund, and proper upkeep of the pump, including greasing the necessary parts. Again, this was a great opportunity to learn about some of the technical issues involving boreholes, as well as some of the social aspects to a water point. I think I am really going to enjoy the field aspect of my job. Partly because I’ll get to drive a motorcycle around some beautiful country, but mostly because I really enjoy talking to the beneficiaries, learning a little more about some of the challenges they face on a daily basis, and learning about how they deal with those challenges. The determination and ingenuity of people continues to amaze me. The users of one borehole that we inspected had organised a cleaning schedule, a maintenance schedule, and had begun collecting money for maintenance and training community members to care for the pump.

After a great week full of learning and fun, I traveled back to Lusaka on Saturday. I’m here until Monday morning when I’ll head up to Mansa, in the Luapula province where my placement will be. I’m extremely excited to finally be starting. I can’t wait to meet my coworkers, to find a place to live, and to get settled. I can’t wait to actually unpack my bag finally, and stop living out of a backpack!! (Life has been a little wrinkly for the last two months!) I have no doubt that the next number of months will be full of both incredible experiences and tough challenges, but I’m up for both. It will be a period of intense learning and I’m excited for that. I will be sure to keep everyone updated as much as I can, but my internet situation is pretty up in the air right now. Thanks in advance for your thoughts and prayers as I finally get down to business!!

Good News

2007-04-17T06:35:00.000-05:00

Quick update....not to take away from the news of Natalie, which is awesome and better than this news, but I just found out that I can head back to Zambia. I'm obviously very excited about this. I'm planning on hitting the road tomorrow (Wednesday) morning, and I'll likely be out of contact for a while. I'll post again when I can.

Natalie Katharine Anne Freeman

2007-04-15T08:48:00.000-05:00

Many of you may know that my brother and sister-in-law have been expecting their first child. Well I’m really excited to tell you that on Thursday, April 12, just before 3:00pm (9:00pm where I am) Natalie Katharine Anne Freeman was born. She was 7 lbs, 10 oz. and very healthy. She doesn’t seem to share her father’s sense of extreme punctuality as she was born a week after her due date! I’ve got a few pictures to put up, and will hopefully have more later. I’ve been bugging Chris to get some with him in them, and more with Kathy, but I’m still waiting. I guess they're a little busy! For now, here is a picture of Natalie, one with Kathy and Natalie, and then some with my parents.

I can’t even begin to describe how excited I am about this. It’s pretty awesome being an uncle, even though I’m halfway around the world. Even though I’m not around, I’m still praying for you Natalie, and can’t wait to meet you in a year!! Enjoy the pictures, I’ll put more up as they come in.

- Uncle T-bone

Village Stay - Part 4: The Final Day

2007-03-31T06:51:00.000-05:00

Note: See below for the first three parts of this post if you haven't read them already. This is the fourth and final part of this post.

On Thursday while we are sitting around I remind my friends that I will be leaving the next day. They ask what time and I tell them that I have no real plan, but probably in the morning. Mr. Chalema tells me that I can’t leave in the morning. He says “No Trevor, you cannot leave until the afternoon. Tomorrow morning we will climb Mpudzu. We will climb the mountain.” I had first seen Mpudzu on Tuesday when we walked to the surrounding villages. It is a mountain (more of a big hill, but we’ll call it a mountain) near the village. They tell me that it is about 2 km away. The idea of climbing a mountain sounds awesome to me, and I have no problem delaying my departure by a few hours to accomplish this task. We decide that we will get up at 5:00am and set out for the mountain by 5:30 at the latest. Mr. Chalema has even decided that we will take the morning off from working in his garden. As the plan forms everyone, myself included, is getting more and more excited. We are planning a great expedition.

We arise just as the sky begins to lighten and quickly get dressed and wash the sleep away. The team assembles in front of the Chalema’s house. There is Seveliano, Mr. Chalema, Mr. Sitolo (another man from the village), Mr. Milazi (also a villager) and myself. We set out. Mr. Milazi takes the lead. Now for the entire week as we have been walking all over the area my friends repeatedly have to tell me to slow down, that I walk too fast. The village walk is relaxed, more of a stroll. It is important to be able to take in the sights, and to greet people you come across as you walk. My expectations for this trip are that it will be an enjoyable walk, time for chatting and enjoying the beauty of Malawi. I am not sure whether it is because Mr. Milazi is from Mozambique and things are different there, or if mountain climbing expeditions are a different type of outing than any other walk, but Mr. Milazi sets a brutally fast pace. I cannot keep up in normal walking mode, I must take a “run-step” every few steps to ensure I don’t fall behind. Mr. Chalema and Mr. Sitolo, our oldest two team members, grab bicycles as we leave. They will ride them to the foot of the mountain and then proceed on foot. The three of us who are walking do not waste breath on talking, we only concentrate keep up the pace.

I find this situation very funny, and openly laugh as we walk. Seveliano asks me what I am laughing at but I don’t answer, I just keep on walking. We are on an epic mission. This morning, we will conquer Mpudzu. I had been a little worried about how long this would take us, and if I would be able to leave to catch the bus back to Lilongwe in decent time, but such worries fade away as the fields fly by us.

We are quite the sight, our band of five. Two Malawians and a Muzungu speed walking along dirt trails while two older Malawians follow along on bicycles. We pass through numerous villages on the way, greeting people with a quick “Mwadzuka Bwangi” (this means good morning, or literally “How have you risen?”) and answer their greetings with an equally quick “Nadzuka Bwino” (“I have risen well”).

We keep up this pace for almost 2 hours, before finally getting a very short break as we come to the last house before the mountain. Mr. Chalema and Mr. Sitolo will leave their bicycles here and continue the rest of the way on foot. The break is only for a minute as we chat with the man who lives in this house and explain what we are doing. I take this minute to reflect on how far we’ve come. I realize that the original estimate of 2 km from Chandiwe village to the mountain was way off. I would guess closer to 6 or 7 km. I chuckle again, and drink some of my water.

We hit the trails again, at the same speed. We are probably about a 10 minute walk from the mountain. Only a hundred meters down the road a yell brings us to a halt. It is Mr. Sitolo. He has already fallen behind. He catches up and scolds Mr. Milazi for walking so fast. Everyone has a good laugh over this. We continue, at a slower speed. There isn’t much of a path anymore, so we must cut across maize fields and the going isn’t easy. As we approach the mountain my excitement is building. Although it isn’t very big, it will still offer a great view.

We reach the bottom of the mountain at 7:30am, exactly 2 hours after setting out from Chandiwe. The climb up takes only 15 minutes, but involves a small degree of agility, as one must jump from bolder to bolder occasionally to proceed with the summit assault. It is at this point that I first take note of the footwear of our group. I am wearing my hiking boots (at this point I’m feeling none of the embarrassment over these boots that I felt on the first night, only thanks that I decided to bring them afterall!), and Seveliano is wearing running shoes. The rest of the group causes me to shake my head in wonder. Mr. Milazi is wearing dress shoes, Mr. Chalema is wearing rubber boots, and Mr. Sitolo is wearing flip-flop sandals. I chuckle to myself, but not too much, because I realize that my friends do not have the luxury of having different footwear for different occasions. A small amount of embarrassment over my boots returns, but not too much, as I know my friends don’t resent me, or my fancy boots.

The top of Mpudzu is fairly large and flat, with a large group of boulders marking the very centre. We take some pictures, and enjoy the view. It is truly breathtaking. The morning sun shines on endless fields of maize, groundnuts and tobacco. Other than the small paths and the buildings of the various villages in the area, there is almost no uncultivated land. From below I hear a man singing. I look down and a man is working in his field right at the foot of the mountain. He sings a song at the top of his lungs. I ask Seveliano what he is singing and he tells me that it is a song of thanks to God. I press him, asking “Thanks to God for what?” He gives a small smile, as if I’ve asked a very stupid question, and says “Whatever you want.” I stop asking, and just listen for a while.

I set up my camera on a rock and use the timer to take a picture of our group, the group that has conquered Mpudzu.

After sitting for a bit Mr. Milazi gets us all up and heads to the group of boulders in the centre of the mountain. As we walk there, Mr. Chalema points to a spot where the tall grass is all pressed and matted down. He tells me that this is where the hyenas play and where they sleep. He says that if we’re lucky we may even see one or two in their cave. Apparently there are a few hyenas that live on the mountain, and although they are normally deep in their holes sleeping during the day, they occasionally venture out in daylight. My common sense tells me that coming across a hyena would probably not be a great thing, but my excitement silences my common sense. Unfortunately we don’t see any hyenas.

We climb up on top of the boulders and I see that somebody has made a cement pad with a cement pillar about 4 feet high in the middle. It marks the highest point of the mountain. Seveliano tells me that the mountain is government land, and they put up the pillar. The name of the mountain and the date the pillar was made are etched into the base. 31 July 1970

We take some more pictures here, but I unfortunately did not consider the position of the sun and none of the pictures here really turned out. (Sorry Russ! I know we talked about this in the photography session!) I was able to salvage this one, even though the quality isn’t great.

After a short rest it is time to go. As we head to the edge of the mountain to start our descent we pass a group of unusual looking plants. I think they are aloe plants, but my horticultural taxonomy is a little rusty, so I’m not 100% sure. My friends all decide that they like this plant, and they each proceed to rip one from the ground to take home. This proves to be no small feat, as the root systems of these plants are quite extensive. After a close call with Mr. Sitolo (remember these plants are growing right at the edge of the summit) we head down.

We are down in no time, and after a brief chat with the man who was singing we begin our return trip. We collect the bikes and share some stories with the man at whose house we left them. He laughs over the plants and give us each a stick of sugar cane for the walk home. We are not in such a rush on the way back, and walk at a nice easy pace. We finally stroll into the village at about 10:00am. An entire mountain climbing expedition has been undertaken and we are back home by 10. Not too bad for a Friday morning if you ask me.

Gogo greets us and tells us to get washed up. When we are clean we sit down in the house for some breakfast. Breakfast in the village is usually some fresh guavas picked from the tree and eaten while you work, and then at about 11:00am you sit down for some tea, scones, and an assortment of fresh fruit. Today we also have maize porridge, which is made from the fermented water that the maize is soaked in after it is pounded. The water is boiled and stirred until it turns into a think porridge that is a little sour and tastes a bit like yogurt. It is very good.

After eating I tell my friends that I need to get going. I call Heatherwick, who says he’ll be there to pick me up in 45 minutes. I throw my stuff in my pack and begin saying goodbye to my friends. This part is, as expected, extremely hard. They want me to stay, they want me to come back and visit. I wish I could stay, but I can’t. I would love to come back and visit, but I know it is not likely to be possible. I can’t think of too many times that I have had to say goodbye to friends knowing that I won’t likely see them ever again. We exchange gifts. I have brought some cooking oil, some salt, and some tea for the Chalemas. I have a bag of hard candy that I pass out to the children. I have decided to give Seveliano my Make Poverty History white band. I have been thinking about this for the past two days, trying to decide whether it was a good idea. He has asked me about it many times, and has told me that he really likes it. I have tried to explain, as delicately as possible why I wear it, and what it means for me. I decide in the end to give it to him. I am still unsure of my decision. I wonder what he will say if someone asks him about it. Likely he will just tell them about me. I decide that this is OK, it doesn’t need to mean the same thing to him as it does to me.

From my friends I receive wonderful gifts. Too wonderful. I try to turn them down, conscious of what they are giving up, but I can see that I am starting to insult them, so I stop protesting and just accept them. I am giving a handmade clay pot, and a hollowed gourd, which I am told is a traditional drinking cup, although all week we have been drinking out of coffee mugs and plastic cups.

I think the gift giving is over, but Gogo leaves and comes back with a wicker dish full of maize flour. This is my flour she says, and she is not just being nice. I have made this flour. One of the other things I did while in the village was to follow the entire process of maize, from stalk to flour. I harvested maize, I picked it from the cob, I pounded it, I separated the undesirable parts from the desirable, I soaked the pounded maize over night, and then laid it out to dry the following day. The only thing I did not do was take it to the mill. Doreen and Memory did that for me, as I was helping the women build the stove. This flour will now be used to make Nsima.

I try again to tell Gogo that she should keep it, but she insists I take it. I help her put it into a plastic bag and she is not satisfied until every last bit is in and the bag is tied. She tells me that I must use this flour to make my own Nsima and remember her as I do it.

How could I forget the wonderful woman who showed me how to stir Nsima, who was patient with me when I was clearly doing it wrong? How could I forget how she slowly repeated everything she said so I could learn Chichewa? How could I forget how comfortable I was around this family, even though communicating was hard, even though we were from completely different worlds? I assure her that I couldn’t possibly forget her. We finish packing the flour and then Gogo motions for me to come outside. There is one more thing I must do before I go.

Outside Gogo hands me a small tree sapling. They want me to plant a tree in their yard before I leave. She shows me where to plant it then bends down to help me. With the help of Gogo, and Lozi, the neighbour, I plant the tree and water it. They tell me that it is my tree, and that I have to come back someday to see it when it is full grown. I just smile.

As we head back inside Heatherwick drives up. Gogo insists that he stay for lunch before we leave, so we take one last meal of Nsima. Conversation is easy as everyone wants to fill Heatherwick in on what has happened this week. Heatherwick can’t believe all that has happened while I was here. He is amazed at all the work I was able to do, and roars with laughter at each new story. As with before, he talks way too fast for me to understand him, and I think even the villagers have trouble sometimes. It is a good meal.

When we are finished it is time to go. Heatherwick straps my pack to his bike as I say my goodbyes. I use what little Chichewa I know to thank my friends and tell them I will miss them, but I want to make sure they understand fully, so I ask Heatherwick to translate for me. I tell them what meeting them has meant to me, and how wonderful the week has been. I speak to each individually. By the time I am done, half of the village has gathered to say goodbye to me. After making the rounds I head back to Seveliano and Gogo for one last goodbye. Seveliano promises to walk to town and call me every Sunday at 3:00pm (so far one Sunday has passed and he’s kept his promise!). Gogo says something to me that I don’t understand, and then gives me a hug.

Heatherwick starts up the bike, and I hop on. With one final wave we drive off, leaving my friends behind. As we fly down the dirt paths, passing the fields that I walked through, passing the other villagers I met, I reflect on the past 5 days. That was a week ago now, and I have not stopped reflecting, and don’t anticipate that I will anytime soon.

That’s the last of the posts on my village stay. Thanks to everyone who is reading. I hope I was able to communicate what a great time I had, but also how much I learned. The village stay was not without its challenges, even after that first night. I will try to use the lessons I learned in that week and put them to use when I start my placement. I don’t pretend to understand what village life is like, but I have had a glimpse into what it means to live in rural Malawi. Hopefully this is the first step toward better understanding the lives of the people I am here to work with. Thanks again for reading and for all of your wonderful comments.

Village Stay - Part 3: The Work

2007-03-29T03:33:00.000-05:00

Note: See below for parts one and two of this post if you haven't read them yet.

On the first day I stress repeatedly that I want to work with the villagers on whatever they normally do each day. I learn through conversation that in the village, work starts early in the morning, at about 5:00 or 6:00am, and continues only until about 12:00pm. At this point most work stops, as it is too hot to be working. The afternoon is spent relaxing and chatting, playing games, or doing small chores around the house. At least this is true for the men. The women are working constantly, whether making food, cleaning, or any of a hundred small tasks that must be done around the house each day.

I ask if there is a person or group of people responsible for digging and maintaining the wells and latrines. I would love to help out with this, as it is what I will be doing in Zambia. I am in luck because Frank, the headman’s son who I am staying with the first night, is the one responsible for this and he is starting a well the next morning.

We wake up on Tuesday morning at 5:30am and after a quick wash and brushing our teeth we head to the household who will be getting the well. Frank will dig the well, with the help of some of the teenage boys in the village, and the family who is getting the well will pay him 5000 MK (Malawian Kwacha) which is approximately $45.

The first step is to decide where the well will go. It appears as though this has already been decided because there is no discussion, we just head to a spot near the house and use a hoe to clear it of grass and plants. Frank then makes the outline of the well in the dirt and uses the hoe to dig about a foot down. The well is a little over one meter in diameter. The method of digging now becomes a matter of using a spade to chisel the dirt loose and using a bucket to remove it from the hole. We slowly get deeper and deeper, and in only 5 hours we are about 7 feet down. They want me just to watch, but I insist that I help them. It is hard work to say the least, but it feels good to help, and I think I have taken the first steps to gaining trust. We stop at about 11:00 to clean up and eat.

On the second day we are up early and attack the well again (after I spend an hour in Mr. Chalema’s garden. More on that later). After only a few minutes of digging we reach rock. We have had it easy until now. We switch from the large flat spade to a chisel and hammer. I again have to insist that I be allowed to get down into the hole and help. Frank spends an hour at a time in the hole without a break, chiseling. I can only last 15 or 20 minutes before my arms are aching. At about 9:00am Frank and the group insist that I leave and get washed up and rest. I want to agree. My arms are dead, and my hands are ripped and hurting. However I stubbornly refuse and jump down into the hole for one more round of chiseling. It is exhausting work, but it feels great. I think, or at least hope, that I have gained some respect. Not long after someone calls for me from elsewhere in the village and I have no choice to but to go. I am glad for the break, but would like to stay and see the well to completion. This will be the last day I work on the well, as my other mornings in the village were taken up by other tasks. When I left the village they had still not finished.

The main food eaten in Malawi and Zambia is Nsima (although it is called Nshima in Zambia). It is made from Maize flour, and is a doughy substance that you roll into a ball with your hands and dip it into some other dish, called a relish. The relish can be anything from chicken or beef stew, beans, or a wide variety of vegetable dishes. Nsima is eaten for both lunch and supper. Most Malawians will tell you that unless they have had their Nsima, they haven’t really eaten that day. When I tell them that we don’t eat Nsima in Canada, they are amazed and ask how we have energy for the day.

While eating lunch on Tuesday I tell Seveliano that want to learn how to make Nsima. So later that afternoon, when it becomes time to make supper, Seveliano brings me to the Chalema’s house, and this is how I meet Gogo. We first prepare the relish. Tonight it will be Okra, or in Chichewa “Ndelele”. She sits with me and shows me how to cut the okra, and then we head to the kitchen. The kitchen is a small mud brick hut with a thatch roof. Inside the kitchen is a small mud stove that we cook on. We boil up the Okra and then place it aside. It is time to make Nsima.

The first step of making Nsima is sifting the maize flour to ensure there are no lumps (lumps in your Nsima is equal to a cardinal sin in southern Africa). Gogo shows me how to sift and then gets me to do it. I think I am doing the exact same thing that she showed me, but of course I am doing it wrong. I think it is something in the angle at which I’m shaking the sifter, but I can’t figure it out. Eventually Gogo laughs and just lets me do it. The next step is to add two handfuls of maize flour to a pot of almost boiling water (if the water is boiling it is too hot and some cold water must be added). The pot is now covered and cooks for 15 minutes. During this time I sift more maize flour, still not doing it properly. Now comes the fast paced Nsima action, and if you’re not on top of your game it will end in disaster. Maize flour must be added by the handful, all while constantly stirring the pot. It’s not just normal stirring, it is again all about the angles. You must lift and turn the Nsima. As more and more flour gets added the Nsima gets thicker and thicker, making stirring increasingly difficult.

Gogo can eventually tell that we are done, and it is thankfully right before I am about to tell her I can’t stir anymore. We carry the pot inside the house and prepare to dish up. The entire time I was cooking there were about 50 people surrounding me, watching, laughing, offering suggestions on how I should be doing things better (all in Chichewa of course). They don’t follow us into the house however, it is only the Chalema family, myself, Seveliano, and the Chalema’s neighbour, Lozi. I now must learn how to dish up the Nsima. There is a special spoon for this, and I used it to make small mounds of Nsima on the plate. When Gogo does it they are perfectly shaped and smooth. Mine are pitiful piles of Nsima in comparison, but Gogo is patient with me.

When all is dished out, bowls of water are laid out so we can wash our hands and it is time to eat. I am beaming. This is a wonderful evening. We chat over our Nsima, laughing over my cooking, while Gogo continues to teach me new words in Chichewa. It has been a great day!

For the next two days I get up at 5:00 in the morning and head to the garden with Mr. Chalema. The first day we start by ploughing three new rows in his garden, and then planting some sweet potato. Mr. Chalema lets me do most of the work. He is very patient and shows me the proper way to cut the sweet potato shoots and then place them in the ground. He tells me that these are my sweet potato plants, and that they will think of me when they eat them. When we are finished with this we walk the short distance to the river (it’s more of a big stream than a river) to see if there are any fish to be caught. It is about 6:30 at this point, and the sun is still low in the sky. The view is breathtaking. I stop for a minute just to stare, and take a few pictures.

We get to a spot in the river where Mr. Chalema has built a dam out of mud, and left a small spill way for the river to go through. In the spill way he has placed some traps made out of bamboo. We pick up one and it is full of small cat fish (they howl when I tell them the name for these fish in Canada). This will be supper tonight. We head back to the village stopping along the way to pick some fresh guavas and bananas from the garden for breakfast. I change clothes and head to the well to work.

On Tuesday afternoon Seveliano and the headman had taken me to the neighbouring village to meet a women’s group who were planting Irish potatoes and making mud cooking stoves. They are excited to meet me, and ask me to return on Thursday morning so I can see them make one of the stoves. So on Thursday, after working in the garden Seveliano, myself, and Mr. Robson (another man in the village who has been spending time with me) head to the neighbouring village, Kalimbila. The women are just beginning their work, and they insist that I join them.

We mix the mud, a combination of dirt, cow manure and water, and then head into the small kitchen hut to begin construction. A layer of bricks if placed down first, as the base. The mud is then placed on in layers, using a flat wooden mallet to pack each layer down tightly. Two pots are used as molds to create holes for the fire, and the mud is packed around them. When we are finished packing the mud, we create a small stand on the edge of the holes to rest the pots on, and then cut out an access hole in the side of the stove leading to the cooking hole, in order to put fire wood in and provide air flow. The final step is to coat the entire thing in a thick black muddy substance that is simply described as mortar. I’m not sure how they make it. The entire process takes about an hour an a half.

I ask my Gogo later what the purpose of the stove is, as she’s had one for a year now. I know the answer, but I also know that often times villagers will do things because an NGO comes and tells them to, but they don’t really understand why. These are the projects that fail after a short time and are ineffective. She tells me that you can cook faster, with less wood than just on an open fire. She understands completely. When we finish the stove the women insist that I learn how to cook pumpkin leaves, another relish, and that I join them for some Nsima. It is again a wonderful meal, full of chatting and laughter. I return to Chandiwe very happy.

It is amazing how much work I was able to do in the village. As I mentioned before Gogo fully understood that I wanted to learn and let me help with everything. There were countless other tasks that I helped with, that I left out due to space constraints. There is one more that I would like to talk about, but I’ll include that in my next post. I think and hope that I was able to gain a bit of trust by working alongside the villagers. Their expectations of me before I came were that I would need to be taken care of, and would not want to get my hands dirty. Maybe this is because of past interactions with muzungus, or maybe it is an unfounded stereotype. Hopefully I have been able to break down the stereotype, at least for some people.

As usual, a big thanks to everyone that has been posting comments, I enjoy reading your thoughts and am glad to share mine with you. Some of you have been asking for updates on my Visa/work permit situation. Still no word yet. More waiting. It’s frustrating, but I’m trying to make the most out of my time here. The village stay was really good for me. I was going a little crazy being in the capital so getting out into the rural areas was great and I have renewed energy and enthusiasm! Hopefully it won’t be long before my permit comes through and I can head to Zambia to start work. As for an address, I still don’t have one, sorry. It will likely be a while before I have a reliable address that you can mail things to. If there is anything that urgently needs to be gotten to me (I can’t fathom what that would be!) send me an email, there are other options besides mail for getting things to me for the time being.

One more village post to go. The next will be about my last day in Chandiwe village.

Village Stay - Part 2: The People

2007-03-26T11:50:00.000-05:00

Note: See below for part one of this post if you have not read it yet.

Before getting to the village I was told that I would be staying with the Village Headman’s son. He speaks a little bit of English I am told, so I will be able to communicate. His name is Frank, and I find out that he is 28. He is not married, and lives in a tiny hut by himself, although his younger brother and some of the village teenage boys sometimes stay in his hut as well. Frank is quiet and not extremely friendly. It turns out that his English is quite limited, and communicating is very difficult. Luckily another villager, Seveliano spends most of the day hanging out with me, and his English is much better. Seveliano is 23, and lives with his brother’s family. He used to live in Lilongwe where he worked as a bricklayer, but returned to the village last year after his father died. His mother had died the year before. Seveliano is also quiet, but very friendly and we connect quickly. Seveliano will spend the entire week with me, and we become good friends.

I don’t sleep much the first night. I am feeling very overwhelmed by everything. For the first time since arriving in Africa, I am experiencing culture shock. I am aware that I am very ignorant of everything around me. Communicating is difficult, I don’t know what is appropriate and what isn’t. How can I possibly understand what it is like to live in the village? I have so much that these people do not have, I have endless opportunity. It seems ridiculously foolish that I would come here hoping to understand what it is like to be poor when these people cannot even fathom the wealth that I have waiting for me back home in Canada. I sense tension between Frank and I. I think maybe he is thinking the same that I am thinking. I lay there feeling embarrassed about my fancy MEC backpack that I brought my clothes in, embarrassed about my mosquito net, about my expensive hiking boots that I wear. It is a long night.

The morning brings with it better spirits. I have renewed enthusiasm and determination to make the most out of my village stay, to learn as much as I can. That afternoon I am taken to another family to learn how to make Nsima (more on cooking later). The Chalema family is absolutely wonderful, and is exactly what I need. There are 6 of them living in the house: Mr. and Mrs. Chalema, two of their daughters, Doreen and Memory, and Doreen’s two small boys, Precious and Trevor (that’s right, crazy coincidence!) Here is a picture of Precious (on the left) and Trevor sleeping with Seveliano on the right. How could I post about staying in a rural African village without the token cute kid picture!

Mrs. Chalema speaks no English and insists that I call her Gogo, which means grandmother (it also means grandfather which got very confusing!) She is a wonderful woman and is very kind to me. She understands that I want to learn and so every time she is doing something she calls me over and gets me to help her. She is also constantly teaching me how to say things in Chichewa (the local language) and by the end of the week my Chichewa has improved considerably, and I can usually understand the basic idea of what people are saying to me, as long as they speak slowly. After I have made dinner (don’t worry, I’ll go into detail on this in the next post) and we have eaten, Gogo tells me that I will be staying at their house tonight. I am thrilled. Seveliano and I head to Frank’s house to get my things. Frank does not seem to mind. I end up staying with the Chalemas for the rest of the week and every day I have an amazing time eating with them, talking to them, working with them and getting to know them better.

Mr. Chalema takes me out each morning to his garden where we spend our time working and talking about Canada and Malawi. Mr. Chalema speaks a little bit of English, and my Chichewa is continuing to improve, so conversation is surprisingly easy. He is fascinated by my stories of Canada, and is eager to teach me about Malawi and the local culture. We talk about poverty, and as with many Malawians he repeatedly tells me that Malawi is a very poor country. It makes me wonder how much of that view is caused by the international community telling Malawians that they are poor. If Malawians had not been told by the world that they were poor, and that they need our help to develop, would they still think that? When I tell Mr. Chalema that we have poor people in Canada as well, he can’t believe it. I tell him that we even have homeless people living on the streets and he says something that is so incredibly profound, yet simple at the same time. He says “I guess people are just people all over the world. It doesn’t matter where you are, in Canada or Malawi, there are poor people everywhere.”

Doreen is 23, the same age as me. She has two children, but there is no father around. I obviously don’t ask. Doreen goes to school everyday. She is in Form 4, which is the same as grade 12. In just a few months she will graduate high school. She says that she would like to go to University someday, but doesn’t think she will be able to. After graduating she will stay home to raise her two boys and work around the house with her mother. Doreen’s English is pretty good, and we are able to talk easily. This is Doreen sitting in front of the Chalema’s house, where I stayed.

Her sister Memory is probably around 16, although I did not ask. She is also going to school, but doesn’t speak English. Memory is very quiet and very shy. The only interaction I have with her is practicing my greetings in Chichewa. She gets a kick out of this, and it’s hard to tell if I’m saying them right because she usually just giggles. Doreen’s two boys, Precious and Trevor are extremely cute and full of energy. Precious is 2 and Trevor is 1. Whenever I am sitting in the house, they run back and forth between sitting next to me and hiding behind the cloth that hangs in the doorway. They love this game, and it amuses them the whole week. One evening I put my headlamp on Precious and he loves it. Every evening after that he asks to wear it before he goes to bed. The family gets quite a kick out of this. The name of the woman in the background of the next picture, holding a sleeping Trevor, is Lozi. She is the Chalema’s neighbour and is also extremely nice to me.

Each night after dinner as we sit and chat before going to bed, I bring out my camera and show the Chalemas the pictures and videos that I have taken that day. They absolutely love this. Whenever a pictures comes up that they are in they howl with laughter. I have promised them that I will try to develop some of the pictures and send them to the family in the mail. Mr. Chalema shows me the picture frame hanging on the wall that holds pictures of the family, his mother, and one of his son’s weddings. He tells me that he will put the picture of himself, Gogo and I in the frame along with it and show it to everyone who comes to visit.

On my last evening there we are sitting in the house with only a tiny oil lamp to light the room. My phone beeps as someone sends me a text message. We had been talking about Mr. Chalema’s other children, who are all spread out around Malawi. He and Gogo had 11 children in total, but three died, I don’t know when. Doreen and Memory still live at home and the other 5 are all over the country. Mr. Chalema timidly asks me if my phone can call any phone in Malawi and I answer yes. He then, very quietly and very sheepishly asks if he would be able to pay me to use the phone to call his son in Mzuzu, a city in the north part of Malawi. I say yes and assure him that he doesn’t need to pay me. He calls his son and talks only for 2 minutes, then hands the phone to Gogo, who also only talks for a minute or two, and then they hang up. They are beaming. I ask him how long it has been since they talked to their son. They tell me that he left the village 4 years ago, and the last time they talked was 3 years ago. Two days later, back in Lilongwe my phone rings. It is Mr. Chalema’s son, calling to thank me for letting his parents call him.

Meeting Seveliano and the Chalemas was one of the most wonderful experiences of my village stay. I am still in awe at how welcoming and helpful they were to me. My Gogo and I were able to really connect, even though she did not speak any English, and my Chichewa was extremely limited. I think if Seveliano had lived in Canada we would have been good friends. Both he and the Chalemas seemed to fully understand why I was there, and were more than happy to help me learn. I am quite sad knowing that I may not ever see these people again. I promised that I would try to return at some point to visit, but I know that will be difficult. I tried to explain to them how grateful I was to have met them and spent time with them. I hope they understood.

Note: Still more to come. The next post will be about the work I did while in the village. Everything from digging wells to cooking dinner!

Village Stay - Part 1: Chandiwe Village

2007-03-25T07:11:00.000-05:00

Last week, from Monday to Friday, I stayed in a small village in central Malawi. I learned and experienced and incredible amount, so much that I don’t think I can fit it all into one post. As such, I will be posting my account of the village stay in multiple posts. I’m not sure how many yet, the plan is to type it all up and then see where it makes sense to break it up.

Chandiwe Village is located in the Dowa district, about a 45 minute walk from Madisi, a tiny little town on the main road heading north from Lilongwe. The bus from Lilongwe to Madisi takes about 45 minutes, passing through some beautiful country. Upon arriving in Madisi I call Heatherwick, a field worker from Total Land Care, one of EWB’s partner organisations. Heatherwick has set up my village stay. He picked the village, explained why I wanted to stay there, and set the expectations for the village stay. I have never met him, and don’t know what he told the village, so I am a little nervous.

The idea behind a village stay is to learn what life is like in rural Africa. Typically the people that EWB works with are rural farmers. EWB volunteers coming from Canada have little to no idea what life is like for a rural African farmer, and so a village stay is a great way to get a glimpse as to what this life is like. We can never fully understand, because no matter how long we stay in the village, we always have opportunity waiting for us. There is always a plane ticket home when we need/want it. The people in these villages don’t have that. With this in mind, I have set out from Lilongwe to get my first glimpse into rural life.

I am both excited and nervous. I stand by the road waiting for Heatherwick, knowing that the eyes of the entire town are on me. In Lilongwe a Muzungu is a common sight. That is not the case in Madisi. I am a rarity, and people are staring. After only a few minutes Heatherwick drives up on his motorbike. He is a warm nice man, who talks extremely fast. I have trouble understanding even his English. He straps my pack to his bike, I hop on, and we are off. We drive down the main road for about 10 minutes and then he pulls off and heads toward the maize fields. I can’t see the path until we are only a few feet from it, but Heatherwick knows where we are going.

The drive from the main road to the village takes about 10 minutes. Along the way we meet the Group Headman. This man is the chief of the 6 villages in the area, including the one I am staying at. I thank him for letting me stay, and we talk briefly, but he speaks very little English so Heatherwick does most of the talking.

As we pull into the village everyone comes to greet me. They are hesitant and shy. I find out afterward from Heatherwick that the village was very worried about me coming to stay. When he asked if I could come, they told him that they had no bed for me, they didn’t know what I would eat, and they didn’t know what I would do all day. When he told them that I would sleep on the floor like they do, that I would eat what they eat, and that I wanted to work all day, they were incredulous. I don’t know it at the time, but I will have to prove myself.

Chandiwe village is quite spread out. I don’t know the exact population, but Heatherwick thinks that there are 58 households in the village. Maize is grown throughout the entire area, in large fields and in small patches. The maize crop belongs to the village, not to anyone in particular. It appears as though everyone helps with planting, tending to and harvesting the maize, and I think the harvest and associated profits are distributed evenly throughout the village. Each household however has its own garden, which they tend to themselves. In the gardens they grow a variety of crops, including groundnuts (peanuts), cassava, sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes pumpkins, rice, tobacco (this is a big cash crop in Malawi), and various other plants, depending on the season. Right now the maize is nearing harvest, and sometime in the next few weeks everyone will be out in the fields working.

It is Monday. My goal for the next 5 days is to work alongside the villagers, to do what they do, to eat what they eat. I know that communicating will be difficult, I know that the work will not be easy, but I am excited none-the-less. I hope to work on my Chichewa, the local language. This will not be the language that I will speak when I reach my placement in Zambia, but it is commonly used around Malawi and parts of Central Zambia, so it is still very useful.

After making sure I am settled Heatherwick hops on his motorbike and drives away. As the sound of his bikes fades I look around me. The scenery here is beautiful. From where I am standing I can only see a few buildings and the rest is trees and fields. In front of me there are about 20 children just sitting and staring at me. They are waiting for the muzungu to say something, to do something. I am both excited and uncomfortable. Two thoughts race through my head at the same time: “I am finally in a village, this is awesome!” and “What have I done, how will I last a week here, I don't know anything!”

Update coming soon.....

2007-03-24T03:21:00.000-05:00

Just wanted to quickly let you know that I'm still doing well. I spent this last week living in a village here in Malawi. I'm in the process of putting together a post (or multiple posts!) about this, so I'll be putting them up shortly. Thanks for all of your comments and for being patient!!

Rhythm...

2007-03-08T04:18:00.000-05:00

I can feel the rhythm. The beat is steady, pulsing. It reaches deep within my body, beating even in my mind. My thoughts have drifted and all that I think about is Africa. I stare into the deep green, seeing endless trees, rolling hills, distant mountains. It is breathtaking. All the while, the rhythm beats. It is the pulse of Zambia.

A crying child disturbs my thoughts. I am back in reality now. The rhythm I felt was the pulse of the engines. I am on a bus, from Lusaka to Chipata, a town on the border of Zambia and Malawi. Our ultimate destination is Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. I am traveling with Paul Slomp, the EWB Junior Fellow Support Staff for Southern Africa. It is a long trip. The bus ride from Lusaka to Chipata is anywhere from 6 to 12 hours long, depending on the condition of the roads, and the reliability of the bus. A break down is not uncommon. Neither are potholes. The ride is bumpy, hot, and cramped. Under normal circumstances I would dread such a trip. This one is different however. What makes it different is what is passing by the window as we travel.

I have been told by Paul, who has lived in Zambia for the past three years that this drive will take us through some of the most beautiful parts of Zambia. He speaks the truth. I gaze in awe at a sea of endless green, rolling, climbing and falling into the distance. Occasional thatch huts dot the sea, along with small pieces of farmed land. Lush crops that are nearing the harvest stand by the side of the road as we speed by. I long to stop, to get out and walk. Yet we keep driving. I must settle for the view for now. Soon enough I will be in this element. My desire to begin work intensifies.

This is not the image of Africa that you see on TV. There are no starving children sitting around, while phone numbers and pleas for help scroll across the bottom of the screen. There are no corrupt governments visible. There is no civil war being fought by child soldiers passing by my view, nor genocidaiers carrying out their deadly work. I cannot see the HIV/AIDS demon that has ravaged this continent and stolen life from so many. For me, in this moment, there is only beauty. Such beauty as I’ve never seen. In this moment, I feel compelled to thank God for allowing me to be here, and for creating such beauty. It is indeed a humbling moment. All this from a cramped, hot bus.

It is true that all the problems listed above exist, both in Africa and elsewhere in the world. Yet this is not all that Africa is. Those problems are not what define Africa. They are hindrances, barriers to development, but they are not Africa. It is too easy to dismiss Africa as a “backward” continent, doomed to constant suffering, either by its own doing or outside influence. Africa is a continent that needs help in many ways, but also a continent that has extraordinary life, beauty, intelligence, and resilience. In these moments, witnessing this beauty pass by me at 100km/h I feel exhilarated. I am thrilled to be here, thrilled to immerse myself in the culture, the pulse, the rhythm.

Upon reaching Chipata we will take a taxi to the border of Malawi, where we will clear customs and walk across. From there it is a short taxi ride and another mini-bus ride to Lilongwe. I will be spending a few weeks here in Malawi while I wait for my paper work to clear so that I can begin work in Zambia. I will spend my time studying, trying to learn as much as I can about water and sanitation so that I am prepared for when I do start work. I will be working on my Bemba as well, the language spoken where I am going.

For now, however, these logistics are a distant thought. My mind is wandering again. The pulse is returning, beating a steady beat. This is Africa’s beauty. This is what causes people to fall in love with her. I can feel it happening…..

Note: Thank you to everyone who has been posting comments. I love hearing your thoughts and I’m thrilled to be able to share my experiences with you. Enjoy the frequency of the posts while they last, I’m being spoiled as far as internet access goes. Things will change when I get to my village!! Also a big thanks to Danny, a fellow EWB volunteer. Some of the above photos are his, as I didn't get very many good shots (next time I'm getting a window seat for sure!!)

I Have Arrived

2007-03-05T07:26:00.000-05:00

There’s something pretty special about the first time you see Africa. For me it was just as the sun was rising over Kenya. We were approaching Nairobi, and could see Mount Kenya in the distance. I could only catch brief glimpses of the ground whenever the couple beside me would lean back. Yet I will remember that feeling forever. I have arrived in Africa.

This week we are in Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. The area around the capital has gotten lots of rain this year so everything is very green. Flying into Lusaka I had a window seat and so was able to get a much better view of the country that I’ll be living in for the next year.

We are doing some final training as a group before we split up and head to our placements. The week has been full of learning experiences. Trips to the market to buy some essentials, riding on mini-buses, getting used to the various modes of transport around the city. We also spent two days doing motorcycle training. Many of us, myself included, will need to ride motorcycles in order to travel between the various communities in which we will be working. This is exciting to say the least!

As you can imagine, my first week here has been full of experiences that stay with me for years to come. From various interactions with local Zambians, learning some of the local language, and navigating the organised chaos that is the market, to more thought provoking sessions and conversations with the training group, capped off last night by each of us sharing our motivations for coming overseas. Such moments are inspirational and memorable.

Yet I’d like to share just one specific encounter that I’ve had here. On the first day Dave and Paul, the two EWB Southern Africa Directors split us into two groups and sent us on a bit of a scavenger hunt so that we could get used to the city and start meeting people. Armed with a list of questions to find answers to and items to buy or take pictures of, Ka-Hay and I were put on a minibus for Mtendere, a neighbourhood on the outskirts of Lusaka.

On the way there I was sitting next to a man named Dominic. We started chatting and I found out that he is staying with his sister in Mtendere, and was just coming back from town. We told him a bit about ourselves and what we were doing and he was quite amused by it. He took our list of questions and started giving us a few answers. When we reached our stop, we started to say goodbye, expecting him to leave. He would have none of it though, and proceeded to show us around Mtendere for the next hour, walking through the small local markets, talking to people, introducing us to people he knew. We learned a lot about Dominic. He has traveled all over Zambia, and speaks all 7 of the major languages (there are a total of 73 languages in Zambia, but 7 major ones). He is currently working as a construction worker, but has had a number of various jobs around the country. Dominic seems very quiet, but super friendly. He was more than accommodating of our questions, and seemed amused that we wanted to know so much. He also got quite a kick out of us trying to speak the local language, but I think he appreciate our efforts.

It was getting late and we indicated that we needed to be heading back to town. Dominic said that he would walk us back to the bus stop and make sure we got on the right bus. On the way we stopped by his sister’s house, and he invited us in for some food and something to drink. It was the perfect way to spend my first day in Zambia. We sat in the tiny house drinking and eating while the little children peeked around the corner and giggled. I was amazed that a polite conversation on a bus with a few Muzungus (this is the word for foreigner or white person, it literally means “traveller”, I hear it everywhere I go) could turn into an evening strolling around a poor neighbourhood sharing some stories over food and drink.

As I write this I can see the rain clouds coming in the distance. It will not rain for some time yet, but later this evening I think it will. We are at the tail end of the rainy season. Here in the city the rain is mostly just that – rain. It makes things wet, it cleans things up a little, and it is refreshing. Yet life in the city is tied to the success of the rural areas. So many businesses here depend on good crops. I know that in the rural areas rain means life. A year of good rain means a good harvest. Too much or too little can have disastrous results. I am anxious to leave the city and start learning about life in the village. To learn what it means to watch the skies hoping for rain. To learn what it’s like to work in the fields all day long. I want to experience the feeling of community. I have heard about it from other volunteers, and I am anxious to experience it myself.

It looks as though I will have to wait a little while longer though. I am still waiting on the proper permits and visas so that I can start working. For now, I am in the city. Yet the city is still Zambia, and I am happy to be here.

"Be The Change..."

2007-02-25T11:34:00.000-05:00

A few hours left.

A few hours until I leave Canada for 13 months. A grand adventure awaits, but it's so much more than just an adventure. It's a change. A change in perspective, a change in thinking, a change in values, a change in who I am.

Do I feel ready? Well that depends on what you mean by ready. I most certainly do not have the level of technical and practical knowledge that I will need to do my job. I do not have the cultural knowledge that I will need to understand the livelihoods of the local people. These will come with time and hard work.

What I do have are tools to find out what I don't know, tools to find out how to learn it, and the attitude to learn. I recognize that I cannot have impact without understanding the local context. I will need to learn how people live, what they value, what they fear. I am excited about this. Even now as I sit here and write this in Toronto, I can't wait to get started. I can't wait to see Zambia, to breathe her air, to meet her people, to hear her music.

Change starts with me. It starts with you. These are not self-centered statements. They do not mean that we alone hold the power to initiate change. Change must first happen within us, our attitudes, our actions, before external change can be brought about. If I hope to create change while I'm in Zambia, I must first change myself. This past month has been an incredible learning experience. I have been pushed to expand my comfort zone, to look at things from a new perspective, with an open mind. I have taken the first steps of a long journey toward change.

"Be the change you want to see in the world." - Mahatma Gandhi

Our Humble Abode...

2007-02-17T12:09:00.000-05:00

Well I thought it would be a good idea to give everyone an idea about where I'm living here in Toronto. The living arraignments really add to the atmosphere of pre-departure training, so I feel as though this is an important post.

First, a little bit of history. When EWB first realized that overseas volunteers (OVs) could use a little bit of training (I'll post more on the history of training next post), the group was put up in travellers hostels around the city. While this may have added to the spirit of adventure, and even helped prepare the OVs for the at times sketchy living conditions in Africa, EWB found that it wasn't the most ideal of situations. Not only did it cost EWB a fair amount of money, the volunteers were also increasingly less effective in training as time in the hostel progressed (I've heard some interesting stories of crazy roommates and biting bedbugs).

So a little over a year ago, EWB decided to invest in more permanent accommodations for its OV groups. The National Office searched around and finally rented a small house between College and Dundas, just west of Bathurst. It's a really cool area, surrounded by Little Italy, Portugal Village, and a short walk from Kensignton Market and from China Town. There is an endless supply of small restaurants and coffee shops, and all of downtown is accessible via a nice walk, or the street car system, which is a 2 minute walk from our door.

Our house is the one on the left, not the pink one! I thought this picture was cool because of the snow.

So as you can see, the house is rather small, which is pretty typical of Toronto. At the moment there are only 10 of us living here, but at one point in the last few weeks we were up to 16 or 17 (it's pretty hard to keep track) It may sound really crowded, but we seem to have worked out a pretty good system and it's actually a lot of fun living with this many super cool people. There's always someone around to have a good conversation with. I'll throw up a few various pictures of the house, everything from the kitchen to the common room and one of the bedrooms.

It may be small, and crowded, and at times a little messy, but it's home, at least here in Toronto. The house serves as a home base for any EWBers while they're in Toronto. We've had lots of returned OVs stopping by for a night or two, OVs that are headed back to Africa for a second placement have crashed here while waiting for their flights, and for the first half of our stay here we had the 5 directors of overseas programs living here, which was pretty cool.

So hopefully that gives you an idea of where I'm living here in Toronto. We were talking as a group yesterday and remarked about how we unconsciously have been referring to the house as "home" the last little while. I'd wager a guess that for most, if not all of us, it's more the people than the actual building.

Next time I'll actually talk about what I've been learning up here this past month.

Until then....

Still Alive...

2007-02-15T08:06:00.000-05:00

Hey All,

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Training has been really busy. I'll post again soon, I promise!! Sometime in the next few days!!! In the meantime, just wanted to let you know that I'm alive and well.

Conference Update

2007-01-31T23:45:00.000-05:00

I'm back in Toronto now, and settled in enough to finally post an update. I'll save the details about Toronto, the training house where I'm living, and all that fun stuff for another post. For now....Calgary and the EWB National Conference.

So first, some perspective. Every year EWB holds a national conference where chapter members from all over Canada get together with the national office staff, past and current overseas volunteers (OVs), and a whole bunch of great speakers, some famous, from all over Canada and sometimes the world. It's an intense 3 days of workshops, debates, discussions, keynote speakers, and of course some fun thrown in there when there is time.

This year the conference was held in downtown Calgary. Although the conference didn't officially start until Wednesday evening, the Long Term Overseas Volunteer (from here on out this will be known as LTOV) group that I'm training with all arrived on Sunday. We wasted no time getting into it, as our training started on Monday morning. It's an awesome group, even though it is small. There are 8 of us, from varied backgrounds. A few, like me, have just graduated from university. Others have been out in the real world for a while. Some have done previous overseas placements with EWB, others have been overseas with other organisations, or for work. And then of course there is me, who has never been overseas yet! Guess my learning curve is just a little steeper! We also have a few people who are relatively new to EWB, which is pretty cool. It's always great to have a new perspective on things. All in all, the group is awesome, and the discussions are interesting and thought provoking.

Like I said, we didn't take too long to get into things. In the first day of training we were already discussing the definitions of poverty and development. No easy task to say the least, but it sure makes for great discussions. I'll post more on training later, after I've been through more than two days of it.

Conference was great, as I mentioned. Some highlights:

Going out for lunch with a wonderful Ghanaian women named Adisa Lansah Yakubu (or "Mama Adisa" as she insisted we call her) with the LTOVs and then hearing her moving speech to the entire conference later in which she urged us to be more than just people, to be human beings.

Attending the presentation by returned OV Jenn Dysart, who I will be working with for a few weeks when I get to Zambia. Jenn has spent the last year and a half working with WaterAid, the same partner organization I'll be with, and is doing something very similar to what I'll be doing. She left last night to return to Zambia to continue her work, and will be waiting for me when I arrive.

The speech by Canada's Governor General, Michaelle Jean. To be honest I was a little surprised that she wasn't more passionate in her address, as I've seen some of her speeches before, but it's still great to get recognition by such an important figure in the Canadian government, and Jean had some great things to say about EWB.

The passionate address by Robert Fox, the Executive Director of Oxfam Canada, who shared from his experiences working in Sudan, and commented on the difference it makes when someone who has been using only 2L of water a day gets access to 20L of water a day. (20L of water a day is pretty hard to imagine for those of us in the developed world who take 15 minute showers everyday. Do some research and estimate how much water you use each day. Then think about that joy of getting 20L)

The "Development Partnerships" workshop, led by Robin Farnworth, EWB's Director of West Africa Programs. This workshop was about the typical EWB approach in its overseas work, forming partnerships with existing organizations and working within those partnerships to have positive impact. Very applicable for me!!

Hanging out with the Western Chapter and part of the Windsor Chapter at "King Henry the 5th". Great time, plus I got a chance to practice my drumming! (See below)

The surprise going away party that the Windsor Chapter threw for me, complete with a DJ and lots of ridiculous pictures of me through the last year and a half. Thanks guys!! Thanks also to all the Western people and my other EWB friends from around the country that showed up!!

Hanging out with the Windsor chapter after, just some nice quite conversation in a hotel room. Always a great time!

Helping Melissa Lefas (returned OV) and Robin Farnworth facilitate the "Thinking About Becoming an LTOV" session. It was great to be able to share my experience of applying and what I know about training and prep with EWBers who are thinking about applying. It was also great hearing their questions. Some of them were questions I have too!!

And of course, the final Gala Banquet. Always a great time. Great food, engaging speaker, and a party after that lasts all night!!

So as I said, the conference was great. It was an awesome way to both kick off my training, and say goodbye to all of my EWB friends that I won't see for a while. It's also awesome to see the energy and passion of so many young people. Knowing the mass of the organization that is behind my time in Zambia is a comforting thought.

Enough for now. Next time I'll post on the setup here in Toronto, from the house to training, and all things in between!

Here we go......

2007-01-20T23:10:00.000-05:00

Well this is it. My last night at home. Tomorrow morning I'm off to Toronto and on a plane to Calgary. So begins the adventure. A week in Calgary for the EWB National Conference, then 4 weeks in Toronto for my pre-departure training, and then the big one.....13 months in Zambia!

So wait a minute....let's take a step back. EWB? Training? Zambia?!?!

That's right, I have been accepted to do a 13 month placement in Zambia with a Canadian organization called Engineers Without Borders (EWB). My work will involve the Water and Sanitation industry (colloquially known as WatSan), and I'll be partnered with an international organization called WaterAid. My specific duties are still a mystery to me, but the ultimate goal is long term impact. How that will come about and what it will look like.... well you'll just have to keep checking in over the next year and hopefully we'll find out together.

You'll be patient with me, as I don't know what my internet situation will be once I get to Zambia. I'm going to try to put up a few posts before I leave Toronto, giving a bit of background on EWB, my placement, Zambia, and anything else I think you might be interested in.

Feel free to leave comments, or drop me an email from time to time. I regret that I won't be able to answer all of your emails (again...the internet situation), but will try to use this blog to keep you up to date on what I'm up to. If there is anything specific you'd like me to post about, just let me know, via email or comment, and I'll do my best.

A big thanks to all of you who supported me in getting this far, and who will continue to do so while I'm gone. I appreciate your donations, your encouragement, and your prayers.

So that's that. Time to get what sleep I can before the next 14 months of my life begins!

First Post

2006-12-18T08:08:00.001-05:00

2006-02-08T15:14:00.000-05:00