Exciting find today--there is now a PC Wiki site where any volunteers can register and share their knowledge of the programs they were involved in when they served.  

ANY RPCVs READING THIS SHOULD CHECK IT OUT AND ADD TO IT!

http://www.peacecorpswiki.com/Main_Page(Think I'll add it to my sidebar links too...)

Hey there any of my faithful bloggies still checking this site!

Imagestation (site hosting my pictures) shut down so I migrated everything to Shutterfly.  The links are updated so if you still want to go check out pictures you can.  Unfortunately Shutterfly doesn't let you download them--you can only order prints.  Grrr.  But if anyone (especially my fellow RPCVs) really want the digital files I'll just burn 'em to kaCDs and assist you with amacopies.  Let me know!

Also I have like a dozen entries that I had jotted down in Zambia and then never published after giving up on the whole 'slow-internet-and-frequent-power-outages' routine.  So I'm gonna finally type all those up and post them if anyone cares to read.

Finally, next week (Feb 25 - March 2) is National Peace Corps Week where Returned Peace Corps Volunteers like me are giving talks and slideshows to bring the experience back home.  I encourage everyone to keep an eye on your local papers and consider catching one of these presentations, if for no other reason than to make us RPCVs feel special again ;-)

I forgot to supply you all with my itinerary. So here it is, updated but a bit late:

16 Nov - 18 Nov: Ferry on Lake Tanganyika to Kigoma, Tanzania

19 Nov - 21 Nov: Burundi

22 Nov - 25 Nov: Rwanda

26 Nov - 28 Nov: Uganda

29 Nov - 1 Dec: Kenya

2 Dec - 14 Dec: Tanzania

...then Amsterdam and London and I'll be back, oh, just before Christmas.

"And to think I wasn't going to come here" I thought as the taxi swerved slowly, scaling the muddy road and revealing a picture-perfect vista from the passenger side. The Burundian mountains jut out proudly from the roadside foliage, their slopes covered in green vegetation with small brown patches of terraced farmland and quiet, rising mist from beyond the jagged horizon, shrouding the distant peaks in a mysterious white light...

* * * * * * * * *

I'm breathing an inner sigh of relief that our driver has grown cautious. No more up-and-down pitching of the car through the precarious mountain passes. No more blasting of the horn as the car blows full speed around a blind turn. No, we're going slowly now; even on the Tanzanian border good roads turn bad with a little rain. My right pant leg is splattered with mud from pushing the car from a ditch, but it's a fair trade when the taxi driver slows, especially in a taxi without a single usable seatbelt on some of the steepest, windiest roads I've ever seen...

* * * * * * * * *

The customs official tosses my passport across the table at me with a mixed aire of superiority and disgust. Apparently my 10 words of french are not enough to impress him. Ignace, my new friend and indispensable guide, is called into the customs room to 'discuss' the small speaker system he's brought through the border. I'm clipping my nails outside, waiting for him to return and silently communing with the rains in the hope they'll stay off long enough for us to reach Bujumbura. Schoolchildren are giggling as they pass, staring. I'm smiling and waving and they're doing the same. Ignace finally returns with a sour expression. "That guard, he told me to pay 200,000 francs for those speakers. [Roughly the same price he paid for them in Zambia] Can you imagine?! And I'm Burundian! We should have said it was yours. They wouldn't try to rob a m'zungu."

* * * * * * * * *

"Some things you never get used to," I'm thinking. Ignace has gone to look for a taxi and I'm staying behind so as not to allow my skin color to inflate the price. I'm guarding the luggage and attracting a large crowd of people by the streetside. This is a populous place, so I'm surprised how many there are. In some ways this is worse than it was in Zambia--at least there the people are more used to seeing white men. Such moments are less common there. But here, some kilometers from the capital, I have not just children, but fully grown men and women, STARING. Apparently years of travel warnings and updated conflict reports have scared everyone like me away from here; I'm a rare sight. I'm spinning in slow circles, greeting people and scouting for a novice anglophone. With every revolution I swear they're closing in, and multiplying. The iwes in Zambia practiced this juju, but here even the adults have managed to remaster the art...

* * * * * * * * *

Our last taxi of the evening is descending the slopes and following the snaking, winding tarmac around the cones of the mountains. It feels like we're flying and the beauty of the place is spellbinding. Each turn brings on a new height of visual stimuli. I can hardly believe that such beauty can remain hidden. The road along the lakeside should be considered one of the most beautiful drives in the world. But I suppose it's not because it's Burundi. The immense mountaintops trace the most artful, jagged lines. I'm thinking of the scottish highlands, thinking this land certainly rivals the beauty of that place. But this is Burundi, and it is at war. Or so the reports contend; Ignace and his friends tell me they have listened to radio reports on renewed fighting in the capital--while they themselves are sitting in the capital and hearing/seeing nothing. Rumors, they say, are the only fuel to these factual reports. I'm not sure what to believe, really. But what I see is peace and people free from fear, so it's foolish for me to act nervously. We're rounding a bend now and I'm trying to count the peaks, the peaks behind the peaks, and the peaks behind the furthest peaks. I can't manage it. I'm just transfixed by the green. The lush, tropical, indescribable green that Eden in deepest envy couldn't hope to compete with. We're climbing that large mountain now, and far out on the distance is the shining, shimmering surface of Lake Tanganyika, the ripples of its waves spreading out in countless succession in the fading sunlight far, far, far below these heavenly summits. And to think I was almost too afraid to come here...

FYI: The site that holds all my pictures, Sony's Imagestation.com, is closing down soon so I'm transferring my pictures to Shutterfly.com

The downside to Shutterfly is that it doesn't let you download the original images, but they should all be there for viewing in the same form (I hope) that I left them in on Imagestation.

I'll update the links on the sideboard when I someday soon make the time to post again (which hasn't been for a while, I know).

PART ONE: The Minibus

A passing glance at one of these vehicles can leave an image of quaintness, almost cuteness, to the unseasoned passenger--painted in bright splashes of blue and white and often with an official number painted (or riveted) onto the body, they carry a beguiling aire of authenticity. Perhaps safety would be the next reasonable expectation?! Not a chance; these things crash all over the place, and most have the dents to prove that it's really only a matter of time before they crunch up like tin foil. But, ahem, let's move on:

Most buses carry the blue/white colorscheme, but what really sets them apart are their words of wisdom decals affixed to the back window. "Patience is a Fruit, Not a Gift" is one. "Shakira" is another. "Mr. Shaft in Africa," another memorable one. They impart a level of wisdom (though sometimes misspelled) that touches the heart. Which one supposes is the least that should be offered, for putting ones life at risk. The dashboard usually has a throw of some sort of shaglike-fur which fails in its intent--whether that be for fashion or for dust management--to serve some purpose that could override it's ugliness. The windscreen--often decorated with plastic flowers strung around the border, and sometimes a painting of the messiah, or a biblical verse taped up nearby--tends to bear at least one unsightly spiderweb of fractured glass (which, one worries, might dislodge itself at any moment mid-travel, decapitating the driver and sending the bus careening into oncoming traffic or some other, more frightening end). But the flowers do tend to suppress that fear. A bit.

The seats are uncomfortable and much resemble a rundown version of that which probably existed on your childhood school bus (usually sans grafitti and lighter burns). The difference here is that many, many more people are scrunched onto each seat. Those without seats get a thin cushion (if lucky) atop the wheel hub or engine well. Really there's no limit; as many as the conductor desires. A vehicle the size of a small western-family minivan (but without any of the finer accoutrements) can fit 20, even 30 people.

And that level of compaction brings a host of other issues. Breathing really isn't all that important, as is evidenced by the lack of openable windows, so the cab fills up with a sordid potpouri of stink that can only be experienced to be fully appreciated. We're talking dried fish, cassava, human sweat and general funk, not to mention the occasional baby doo-doo. If you're lucky you get to sit in the seat with the live chicken underneath that pecks at your feet, or beside the mother with the child who screams like he's being boiled alive (which may not be that far off, given the lack of ventilation) for the duration of the haul.

The trip, one hopes, would be short. But the conductors are relentless in their search for the one extra passenger, and you are doomed to sit in uncomfortable silence--though sometimes one may be treated to the occasional blast of the radio--until they meet a satisfactory quota to move ahead. The bus will constantly honk its horn to attract passengers, conductors will fight with each other over these potential clients, even trying to 'trick' them by revving their engines and lurching forward to give the impression of just taking off (when in reality they have no intent of leaving until they are packed to the gills.)

They are cheap, these minibuses (though prices vary, annoyingly, depending on whatever the bus wants to charge; there is no 'standard fare'), and this may be the one thing they have going for them.

(stay tuned for Part Two: The Luxury Coach)

Did I say one week? I meant like two or three... heh heh heh.

Lots more to come when I ever get the chance to type it all up. Sorry sorry. Thanks for your patience.

First Lady Laura Bush came to visit us here in Zambia (so did Jenna, apparently, but we're guessing she was sleeping at the time). Laura came as part of a 5-day, 5-country tour of Africa to review the progress of our development tax dollars at work...with the price tag of about a million tax dollars for her visit. Cheers to that.

Her codename was the FLOTUS. (Peace Corps loves its acronymns.) She looked the same as always--perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved, gracious and genial as ever. Like one of the Stepford wives...

She was nice. Maybe too nice...?

Is this a coincidence? A veritable trait of good character and proper upbringing? Hmm...maybe. Though, for the sake of argument, let's entertain another explanation... that Laura Bush is perhaps exactly as she seems...

That is to say she is a robot.

Is it possible that the First Lady (hereafter referred to by her factory name, the FLOTUS2000), a former librarian, could possibly undertake the monumental task of understanding and computing the necessary data to make such a trip worthwhile, simultaneously maintaining a grueling schedule, all-the-while managing the stressful task of public relations work that is required of so high-profile a personality?!

Certainly not. But a robot could.

Let's just sit back and think about that.

Either way, FLOTUS2000, we salute you.

Thanks for giving Zambia your attention.

(I'll post a picture later, if I ever find one, for your examination.)

-Yet another example of zamgenuity (junior edition): kids clump plastic bags together and tie them tightly with string to make a durable soccer ball. They even make [working!] kites with plastic bags and sticks. Old plastic bottles are transformed into toy cars that they can drag around the streets, complete with recycled rubber wheels (cut from old sandals).

-"Sorrysorry!" = apologetic words that spill out automatically in any unintended accident, regardless of whether it was anyone's fault or any harm was done. Commonly occurs when you drop or spill something, and can even include a third 'sorry' tagged on for added effect.

-TOYOTA. So revered is this brand name that it has saturated the consumer culture of Zambia. Walk into any curio shop or happen upon a streetseller and you'll likely see this word emblazed on anything from necklaces to bottleopeners. Note to future tourists: owning one of these objects would make a good conversation piece.

-I don't think the Zambian mind translates the word "or" in quite the same way that the American mind does, I'll try to explain it in logical terms: when an American hears "or" he/she realizes instinctively that there is a disjunctive statement, and that a choice needs to be made. In the Zambian mind it is more like a conjunctive statement and the answer "yes" is the only one you ever get. Which, as we know, is utterly useless.

-

How long has it been since I last updated this blog?!?! Geesh! Sorry everybody!

(Is there anybody still out there?)

I have managed to update some of the photos but keep leaving the blog for last... Bwafya. Nabapata sana.

I'll try to get back to the computer and post some schtuff before the month is out.

I hope you all had a nice Easter... :-D

Ba Yehwa (Mr. Yelling): one of my farmers got stuck with this one because he has a tendency to yell at people when conversing with them.

Ba Mwanyengulela (Mr. You-Take-From-Me): one of my neighbors got this one after someone stole one of his belongings and denied it to his face. The bitterness is gone, apparently, as it is now everyone laughs when reminded of this nickname.

Ba Ndeke (Mr. Airplane): one of my neighbors got this one for his drunken antics. Apparently he flaps his arms and pretends he's an airplane.

Ba Cipaba (Mr. Mushroom): another one of my farmers used to live in a house, the grounds of which were infested with a certain type of fungi. Hence this name. (They were the edible kind.)

Ba Musonkole (Mr. Pointer): a guy in one of the villages adjacent to mine was awarded with this endearing name because he always points at people when addressing them.

Bashimpundu Tukuta (Father of twins who struggles): an interesting though involved story; this man's father died and the man suspected witchcraft, so he fought fire with fire--he visited a witchdoctor and obtained some 'juju' (a cursed artifact) to leave in the suspect's field. When the suspect saw the supposed debris he picked it up to remove it from his field. His arm suddenly went paralyzed, allegedly resulting several months later in his eventual death. So the son (who unrelatedly was a father of twins) that struggled managed to avenge his father's death.

(Hope this picture comes out. These are some of my neighbors kids holding those pretty 'Christmas flowers' that spring up around this time of year. Look how bored they all are. I love it though; little kids will do anything for the chance to be in a photo.)

p.s. icaka = christmas (or merry christmas) in icibemba. Kikaunde has a much cooler word: icimishimishi, but I have to be loyal to my tribe, so icaka it is...

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

HAVE A SAFE AND JOYFUL HOLIDAY SEASON.

Umwepu - This natural fruit grows on a vine. When ripe the juice can be applied to the skin for cosmetic purposes. Once it dries out, the outer shell peels/flakes off, revealing an inner material that is best described as a cross between a loofah and brillo pad. Zambians use this for bathing or for scrubbing dishes.

Musuku fruits - the ones pictured are full-sized. These are delicious. However, before they ripen the tiny fruits contain a sticky, weak glue-like substance. Children will collect these, extract the glue and apply it to the branches of bushes. Birds landing on these branches get stuck. Child clubs bird on head, then plucks and gives to BaMayo to prepare for dinner. Voila! Free meat!

Ulupeta - a black seed that spins like a top. Kids can play head-to-head with these seeds, spinning them both on a surface and waiting until they collide. The first seed to get knocked out of the ring is the loser.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

and ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

FYI: My birthday is on the 7th this month.

Yeah, that's right...just try to play it off like you actually remembered.

So what do I need? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have too much as it is.

Instead of giving me something, please make a contribution to Wyatt's Scholarship Fund. Just follow the link to his memorial page and make a donation from there (it uses Paypal, so if you have played around on eBay before then it should be a snap).

Thanks.

Veering ambush-style around the corner and through the throng of followers, the white Toyota twincab disturbs with patent premeditation the usual quiet noontime procession from the Mission's Sunday mass. Loudspeakers lashed fore and aft on the luggage rack blast a buzzing, indecipherable message--in English or Bemba, I really can't tell--refusing to give pause in its endorsement, but allowing for a rude halt directly in the middle of the flowing crowd. An arm appears from out the rear window, tossing flyers which flutter and fall to the ground while children scurry to gather them, perhaps confusing them for sweets, but only to be rewarded with a small cloud of dust as the campaign wagon peels out enroute to its next driveby engagement.

I bribe a kid for his flyer in return for a lift up the hill, and attempt to decipher its half-truncated Bemba phrase as my bike makes the steady ascent: "Fish follow the water. An MP follows the people." There is even a fish graphic on there. Wondering if there is some coincidence between my work and his, I shake my head and write it off as more PC-induced political paranoia.

Just ahead, another campaign vehicle is cruising up by the market, tracing wild circles around the intersection and laying on its horn before tearing down the street--still with horn blaring--to herald the virtues of their candidate with all the antics of a high school pep rally...

It's crunch time. Elections are on the 28th, and that "door-to-door" business is so overrated. You never can tell what people will do to get elected, and though I doubt it could get worse than it does in the States, here are some examples I have gathered from a few casual conversations:

-The cell tower in Malole was halted from being activated, according to rumors, because various politicians were trying to take credit for its presence here.

-Clinic fees (equivalent to $.30 per visit) were popularly dropped by the ruling party, but generated longer queues while decreasing revenue for local health operations.

-Giveaways are huge. Everyone loves free t-shirts. But as one villager told me, people will vote for whoever gives them stuff--not because they actually believe that candidate with serve their interests, but because they feel guilty afterwards if they don't.

-Street signs have magically popped up in the last few months, announcing when you are within 10km of a district or provincial capitol. A couple have already been defaced. Whenever I see one while on transport I point to it, lean to my neighbor and say, "Look! Development!" That usually gets a laugh out of them.

-Incuments love to stage photo shoots. One MP restocked an overexploited lake with new fish, but didn't push for any protection measures. Sustainable? Not in the least. But it sure makes a great cover story.

Click, Flash, Chapwa.

If for whatever reason you would like to re-enact the horrors of my travels, just follow the steps below:

1.) Book flight with South African Airways.

2.) Repack all expensive electronics in checked luggage because the idiots at check-in say you have to.

3.) Arrive in States only to discover it all got stolen.

4.) Worry constantly about lost articles while home and try to get unconcerned SAA staff to give a damn.

5.) File a claim in Johannesburg airport because the devil-woman you've been emailing for the last three weeks didn't bother to.

You can also add the following steps after step #4 if you're particularly masochistic:

4.1) Book a direct, one-way Southwest Airlines domestic flight, thinking that you'll save time and money.

4.2) Arrive to discover that the checked bag with all your clothes (along with the books and movies you were donating to your community) has been lost and will need to be shipped to Zambia at a later date.

4.3) Act surprised when Southwest tells you the bag has disappeared and that you have to file a claim for lost property.

So if anyone knows a good South African lawyer, or has a private jet I can use from now on, or maybe knows the number for a good hit squad, please don't hesitate to email me...

Congratulations Eric & Jeanne!

I love my new sister-in-law!

P.S. Matt (my twin) is now engaged. Way to go Bruvva!

Hey folks, my apologies for totally neglecting the blog this past month...too many things to do in preparation for my brief return to the states.

Here is a rough itinerary:

AUG 14th - AUG 20th: NYC area for my brother's wedding

AUG 21st - AUG 30th: Upstate NY

AUG 31st - SEPT 5th: Return to the 'Burgh

SEPT 6th & 7th: NYC again for fly-out

I will very likely be requisitioning my mother's cell phone during this time so shoot me an email and I'll send you the number.

Want to help me out? Start collecting all those old VHS tapes you stopped watching years ago when DVDs arrived. The Malole Clinic is eagerly awaiting these to launch a series of movie nights to kickoff its HIV/AIDS Youth activities for the hot season. I'm looking to bring back a suitcase full of them. So please gather those up; the wider the audience the better so all genres are acceptable (except for those, ahem, private tapes...BETH) ;-)

-Us cool volunteers in Bembaland (Northern, Luapula, Central and Copperbelt) and a few others from various provinces convened in Serenje to celebrate the advent of U.S. Independence. Or at least that was our excuse for having a campout, pig roast, and beer-cricket tournament. Hats off to Montana and Darron who represented Northern in the final round.

-Okay, so I broke down and bought a cell phone because the tower in Malole turned on and all the other PCVs have them and I'm weak like that. So now I can send SMS messages around Zambia and even to you kids in the States. I apparently cannot, however, receive txts from the States (except, oddly, from Cindy--who gets a cookie for being so special). So if you want my digits email me; I am once again a slave to the cellphone. Though I think by divine-will coverage does not reach my hut, so it stays off in the village.

-Returned to Mwekera for a spell to train the new RAP-ers about pond management. I was sick the whole week but still had fun; they're a great group of kids. Super-stoked for my new neighbor Elise who is finally joining me in lonely Mungwi district.

-Goats. If I loathe anything in near-intensity to my neighbor's rooster, it would be his goats. I had a beautiful flowerbed. And then the goats came and destroyed it.

-Spent a good portion of these last few weeks organizing a fish transport and preparing my farmers for the incoming new species (oreochromis macrochir, if you must know). I could not have done it with ease if not for SMS; technology indeed does have its purpose.

-Killed two mice this month: first one with a hammer, second one with a flyswatter. (But I did scream like a little girl when I saw them, so hold your applause...)

-World Cup dominates in Africa, though sadly the continent is underrepresented in the games (and North African teams "don't count" because "they're not African"). I'm surprised to find myself really getting into it.

-Ba Mulenga--this nice villager I can speak English with--walked me home from his place a few weeks back but then got sideswiped by a drunk cyclist on the way back. He was fine and we had a good laugh over it, but now he's deathly afraid to walk me anywhere.

-Had a fish transport meeting in my village for my local fish farmers. Out of 13 possible members only 4 showed up on time, and 2 more showed 90 minutes late. The rest never showed and didn't have an excuse when I followed up. Hmmm... Good news is I more-or-less expected that same result(!).

-My drinking water became extremely rancid in the last week of this month. I think the furrow is dirty or something. I didn't get very sick, but the funny part was I only noticed once my Soya Tea (my latest obsession) started tasting strange; apparently strange-tasting food and water no longer fazes me.

Mucibemba:

Mwebatemwa ukulya osamwina mumataveni,

umbi akalyapo imbwa yakwe Poppy.

Ale mwe bantu.

Mucisungu:

You like to eat bbq at the tavern,

but one day you will eat your dog, Poppy.

So people, beware.

The moral:

My interpretation - don't go drinking.

Moses' interpretation - don't eat tavern meat.

There are several varieties of traditional beer out here, but most are composed of essentially the same ingredients: maize meal, fingermillet, water, and yeast. I generally try to steer clear of this scene, though on certain occasions it's just expected...and I'm not so difficult to convince. Let's review our options...

Involo - the poor man's beer, as it can be made in one day. Usually lacks sugar so it is bitter in taste. Cost: 500zkw (about 20 cents) per liter.

Katata - the most common traditional drink. It does not contain yeast; instead there is some traditional millet mixture that has the same chemical effect, but takes longer to finish reacting. Total process time: about 2 weeks. Cost: around 2pin (about 80 cents) per liter. Sugar is added to taste. There is also a commercial version called "Chibuku Shake Shake" [Note to Krystal: wouldn't that be a perfect name for a second pup?!].

Chipumu - Hot traditional beer. This one offers an experience like no other; the party sits around a calabash (large, hollowed out gourd) and drinks the mixture out of it with a metal straw [this can be tricky for neophytes like me because the millet tends to get stuck in the straw]. Hot water is regularly poured in to keep the session going. Also known as 'Senior Beer' due to its strength (you will feel it after 4 pulls). Cost: no clue. Availability is usually limited to certain social occasions.

Soya Wine - My personal favorite and probably the smoothest of the bunch. This is made with soya flour, water, sugar, and yeast. Takes about 3-4 days to complete fermentation. Cost: 1pin (about 35 cents) per liter.

Honey Wine - Just discovered this one in Kasama yesterday. The taste could be sweeter but the smell is, dare I say it: 'intoxicating'? Oh yeah, I dared. Could be a good income-generating activity for my one farmer starting beekeeping, though I worry about promoting alcohol... Cost: 5pin (about $1.50) per liter.