Zimbabwe: A Zambian Perspective

“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

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

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

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

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:

1. Keep you up to date on what is happening with my project and life while I’m in Zambia
2. 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
3. Give you a bit of insight into the complexity of “development”, and to share some of my successes and frustrations
4. Put a “face” on all of the statistics about poverty and Africa, and hopefully debunk a few myths as well
5. 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

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

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