Its as if she died. Absurd really, since Ive been receiving regular updates from her doctor. I cleaned out her house today. I explained the tragic accident to her neighbors. My promises that she will recover mean nothing as their eyes say "she's dead to us. we wont meet again." Have you ever packed up a person's home?The way they store things.The things they hoard.Her vocabulary cards for learning the local language were fabricated conversations. The volunteer that saved her life was humble in recording the event. When I took the job nobody told me what to do when a volunteer suddenly left. Theres plenty of advice of how to move someone in to their new house - but how do I destroy a home?Buckets. And tupperware. And a place for everything. Everything is labeled. And measured. She probably never got a Thing until she had a Place.A couple of project oriented men volunteered to hang a shelf and shower curtain in my bathroom. I awkwardly stood to oversee their work habits and in doing so looked around at my home as if I was seeing in through their eyes. I have a mirror in 3 broken pieces lying in different corners. I have 5 incorrectly balanced chairs in a pile against a wall. I have a single sized mattress on a double sized frame. More books on the floor than I've read all year.3 harmonicas.2 guitars.1 amp.2 mosquito nets stuffed on a shelf. 0 nets hung over my bed.1 safe that I really should drill into the wall otherwise its really just a heavy box.If someone had to pack up my home, I'd rather they just burned everything. My Things have no Place without me.

Its been 6 months. Halfway through a year of leading a group of people.

Ive never simultaneously worried about 28 people but now I cant stop thinking about each of them. How do parents do it?

Some of my friends want to know who I like the best. But they are each so hilariously unique that I have found small things I like in each person.

One guy can never sit still. He always wants to be tinkering on a project. Which is great since I "fix" everything with duct tape, Im learning to discuss construction methods and tools.

One guy loves 2 things. Bluegrass and Cooking. Im learning to love the mandolin twang.

One girl watches anime and enjoys scientific discussions about plants and photo something or other. Im learning to get into cartoons.

One girl constantly updates me on pop culture and whats in fashion. As if I was really sad to be missing the skinny jeans rage. Im learning the details of Lady Gaga.

Uniting a group of individuals is challenging. Each person with different talents and interests. Each person being selfish because they give so much of themselves in their village.

Learning when to say nothing has been harder than learning what to say.

Being the face of other peoples' incompetence has been humiliating. But nothing as close to learning to admit my own incompetence.

Watching people make the same mistakes I did but not intervening because maybe they need to learn the hard way.

Staying positive on the outside for them even though Im falling apart on the inside.

Saying sorry. Listening. Saying sorry again.

Not only saying no but giving a different option. Because sometimes I just dont care. Learning to care.

Becoming a Leader is Learning.

And I am still becoming.

A South African bar rant, "Those fuckin rich people that cut themselves are just doing it for attention. Because Daddy doesnt love them enough."

Why is that wrong?

The actions we take for attention. For control. Some people are workaholics. Some get tattoos. Some dress outlandlishly. Some drink and some fuck. But if thats not your vice and you dont "get it" then you shame the others.

The first time I hurt myself intentionally I was 14 and my family was going to move again. I didnt know how to express my disagreement for the proposed move while still supporting my family. As Ive matured Ive learned better communication skills and I dont internalize everything as I once did. But sometimes in extreme grief and confusion I am tempted and take the past actions of a scared and lonely girl.

When I visited the states I was amazed at the speed of life and the individual directions everyone moved in. We live in a time period and culture that demands movement and progress. To stop and feel and reflect is to stop production and spit in the face of the norm. Maybe in all this we are isolating the essential human cravings for love and community.

Sometimes I think of designs. Most days I think its ridiculous. Other days I can still see the faded scars on my skin. I go online and read blogs and articles aimed at helping those that self-injure. It always ends in frustration because the advice is for teenagers and that angst of youth. Which I feel far removed from. I may be merely 25 but are 30 or 40 or 50 year olds not haunted from their youth?

I have access to professional help and I have utilized that option. I just wish there were articles written by adults that struggled with self-injury. There are plenty of comments by loved ones of cutters that wonder why their child or sister or friend would do this. And to those loved ones, I say its ok. We all crave attention and search for a means to control our lives. Not everyone's scars are physical.

Sometimes if you cant receive the help you desire, you must first offer that to someone else.

Today I strive to reject the shame and love my scars. May you do the same.

Yesterday I brought women's skirts to a man named Seven on the docks of Alcatraz. Five minutes after meeting, all plans to seduce him were spoiled when he shoved a touch screen gadget slideshow of Milo in my face.

"So...you have a kid?"

"Yes, 5 months old. His name is Milo."

The pictures were cute, as most 5 month old baby pictures are. As he rambled on about Milo's gurgling and smiling skills, I remembered that Milo is a brand name of hot chocolate in Zambia.

Ahh, Zambia. Im 3 weeks into a month long holiday in the States. Peace Corps sends you home for this holiday if you extend your service for a 3rd year.

It has been a busy 3 weeks. It seems as if the efficiency of technological systems distracts everyone from interaction with others and, more frightening, with themselves. Everything is presented with flair and meant to provoke a certain something within me but Im not given the choice or time for the reaction. I thought this was a free country?

Its that feeling in a dream. When things are happening around you. Maybe everyone is running a race. And you want to run. And you remember how to run. But you look down and find your feet are cement blocks.

So i stood with Seven on the docks. His dad is a Peace Corps Volunteer and sent me with a present to bring to Seven. We walked up the gates and Seven flashed his employee badge, saying "This is my cousin Fresh. She is with me." The gate keeper let us through as I giggled because his dad had apparently passed along my nickname, not my given name, but unsurprisingly a man named Seven didnt ask questions.

I had many questions for him though. For instance, how does one become a spy on The Rock?

But of course you cant just come out and directly ask a spy this because they will no doubt deny it.

"So what is your job here on Alcatraz?"

"I maintain the electronics. Mostly the headphones used for the audio tour."

Sure you do. And I live in Timbuktu.

"Would you like to take the audio tour?"

"Uh, duh."

He brought me a set of nicely maintained electronics and disappeared to his lair while I was left to wander the cell blocks solo. Normally, if I had to suggest tips on how to best walk through a deserted prison alone, I would place an importance on opening all senses and walking in a Pink Panther meets Tai Chi crouch. Because you just never know.

But when one is strapped into headphones, sealing off a most useful sense when walking through a deserted prison alone, one should spin with the energy of a Tourettes ADHD teenager in ballet class. Because you just never know.

The tour was educational and not as boring as a PBS special because one of the narrators, a former inmate, was down on the lower level signing books for all the meaningless tourists.

I found Seven in his lair, a former guardsmen office, and we got to talking about his dad and the village experience.

Why does everyone want to talk about the same thing?

The physical challenges. No running water. No electricity. Poor transportation. The bugs! The illnesses!

Because these things are security. To try and survive in a place where they are not assured seems ludicrous, preposterous!

When I say that actually you get over these physical challenges within the first 6 months, people look at me as if Im lying or Im a hero.

During my 2nd week back in AmericaLand I was in the parking lot with my sister at the high school she works at. She pointed at a Hummer and said that a 16 year old was given the car for her birthday. Other people in the conversation talked about how that much money could have been used for "better" purposes. I was stuck trying to comprehend the fact that a person so young could be in charge of such a responsibility.

Your lying. Your a hero......

I've been back in Zambia for a week now. I met Seven's dad on the side of the road. He was sunburnt, lean and smilely. He dismounted his dusty bicycle and gave me a big hug.

Hi. Im the middle seat. And I will make you hate me. Im the one with the smallest bladder and the bad knees. The loud laugh and the disgusting table manners. Im fidgeting.

So go ahead and sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.

Hi. Im the introspective window seat. And I will make you jealous. My head blocks the whole brilliant view. I journal. I sigh.

Hi. Im the cocky aisle seat. I kick out my foot and I point out my elbow. Im relaxed because Im in control. Do not pass go.

Hi. Im the dumbass interior decorator of airplanes. I created a hierarchy within a confined space. The pilot may dictate your destination but my organization will dictate your mood. I got this job based on how many lego men I could fit in Barbie's playhouse.

We should wear stopwatches around our necks telling how long it has been since we left home. The person with the most time can choose their seat.

Because maybe today Im fidgeting.

Or maybe Im reflective. Or hell, I may even be cocky. People would cheat their stopwatches though. People would say...What does home really mean? My old man kicked me out when I was 16 and Ive been on the move since...

Hi. Im more special than you. I travel. I have those fancy neck roll pillows. Sure I look like a dandelion but I can sleep. I have the flight safety instructions memorized. I know the names of the airports not cities. Time zones dont apply to me. Im worldly.

Hi. Im the sweaty overweight mother with a crying baby. Its white noise to me so only all of you will suffer. You'd yell at me but my baby has the cutest little smile and when you stare in my desperate eyes you know my soul has already been sucked out to an island oasis living my other life.

Hi. Im the foreigner. I lean back my chair. I take dumps in the one tiny bathroom and its cool because you cant understand me and I cant understand you.

Hi. Im the sassy flight attendant. I dont breathe oxygen. I have perfect teeth and excellent hearing. I got this job because Ive always loved cheerleading and waitressing.

Hi. Im the pilot and I'll be your captain. Everyone knows computers really run this show. I got this job because I look good in a uniform and my voice sounds as reassuring as an ambulance siren to a victim.

So go ahead and sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.

So today I turned 25. Im in the big city Lusaka for medical tests since Im extending my Peace Corps service into a 3rd year...more on that later.

But I was walking with a friend to the grocery store. And she (being older than me) playfully asked if I felt older and more mature and wise and all that playful witicism jazz that people say on the official recognition day of aging. This birthday was the first time I said yes. Yes I do feel older and more accomplished and wiser and all that jazz.

Maybe its the monumental number 25. A quarter century. Probably its that.

Its that I no longer feel focused on fixing myself. I've always been concerned with bettering myself. With trying to change. My skills. My knowledge. My beliefs. My personality? Always advancing and pushing for the latest model of Brittany. But lately and especially on this official recognition I have a concrete idea of who I am and what Im great at and all those things I suck at and for the first time its all OK.

For my 3rd year Im moving provinces (states) in Zambia to be what is called Peace Corps Volunteer Leader (PCVL). Basically its the person that is the middleman between the volunteers in that province and the Peace Corps administration in Lusaka. The PCVL takes care of the office in the capital, which is really like a frat house for the volunteers in transit. The PCVL has to handle a lot of details and listen to a lot of complaints.

And for that reason a lot of people think Im nuts to do this job. Hell, I think Im nuts.

But its all OK. Because its an important job. Its important for the PCVL to listen to the volunteers bitch about things that are really just products of being culturally tired. Tired of changing. Tired of adapting. Tired of always trying.

And its really nice to do this when for the first I've stopped trying.

I just am.

New Address:

Brittany Freitas

P.O. Box 710150

Mansa, Luapula

Zambia

Loneliness has become my friend. No longer running. No longer denying. I’ve given it a name.

Charlie.

They told me to outline a plan. To construct a survival guide.

But what to outline? The spider web of emotions splattered against the walls of my heart like paintball explosions.

It is overwhelming to be surrounded by people. People that are ignorant of the noise within my mind. People that don’t understand the language of my mind.

The language of our minds describe concepts. Describe emotions. Describe ways of being that I once assumed were universal.

It is overwhelming to be bored every day. People that only know tired or lazy. I am not tired or lazy. I am bored.

The gap of concept. The gap of emotion. The gap between mind and heart.

Charlie.

I was sitting with a glass of wine enjoying the first day in weeks that the sun had decided to peek through the clouds. That morning I had spent fishing with my bamama. With two long sticks and a piece of twine knotted to the ends of our fishing poles. Dressed in my new rainboots “ma jumbo” I trudged behind my barefooted bamama as she squished through the tall grasses and moist soil to the bank of our dam. She put the worm on my hook and with a piece of a flip-flop acting as a bobber, I dropped the line from our perch a couple feet above the water’s edge. Quickly the minnow sized fish were biting and since Im not one to touch anything squirmy we developed a system whereby she did the dirty work of baiting the hook and putting the fish in our bucket, while I got to feel the anticipation when dropping the line and accomplishment when pulling out the line with a dangling fish. After a few hours we had enough for the children’s relish (the term for the meat or vegetables accompanying nshima) so we arrived back at home to sit and rest. I proudly showed my bataata our catch and he laughed as I told him that I feared to touch the fish, asking me “Why do you fear a relish? Its our way.”

I was sunburned and tired like every good fishing day, feeling that I conquered the depths, provided food and yada yada yada. The pop in the swelling of my ego occurred with the pitter patter of 4 yr old Castro’s feet and the slurring of children’s excited words. Kid Tonga takes me almost as long as Old Man’s Tonga to decipher. But eventually I realized Castro said my bamama was calling me because the baby is coming.

Baby is coming? I got up from my comfortable seat and walked to the house of my bamama’s married daughter, Felista, located on the edge of our family compound about 100 yards from my hut. Baby is coming? Lately we have had puppies and goats popping up so I figured it was some other creature pro-creating and my bamama wanted to order me around.

Upon reaching the home, it was eerily quiet. I thought I was in the wrong place. No movement in the cikuta (outdoor kitchen). No movement in the goat’s home. Even the chickens had taken off for the day. So I started shouting the usual “odi” acknowledging my presence and began wondering if either Castro was playing a joke or my Tonga was much worse than I thought. Then I heard my bamama beckoning me from inside the house. I walked in to the dark, mud smeared walls as my eyes adjusted I saw my bamama standing over Felista who was lying naked on the thin mattress and breathing heavily.

Baby Person is coming!

“Lweendo we need a torch. And gloves. Run fast fast!”

So I sprint out of the darkness into the bright day with my mind racing faster than my feet. Baby Person is coming. We need to call 911. Baby Person is coming!

Upon entering my own dark hut I stumble around blind finding the gloves in my PC med kit and grabbing the headlamp off my bed. Then when sprinting back to Felista’s hut I made a conscious effort to focus my mind. Thank God I already started drinking. Its game time. I am 911.

Entering the hut for the second time I took in the surroundings. The thin mattress, lacking sheets, was a foot above the dirt floor on top a crudely crafted frame. I put the headlamp on my bamama’s head and we both put on gloves. I spread a piece of plastic over the mattress and Felista lay atop it. I held her legs and my bamama pressed on her stomach. And what do you know you seriously just have to catch the baby. The eerie quiet I perceived earlier now felt mystical. The blue slimy head was followed by all the correct body parts while a puff of “wow” escaped my lips. I began wiping away the fluids that seemed to encase the baby like shrink wrapped goods at the supermarket. My bamama picked up the same spool of thread we had used for fishing line that morning and cut two pieces. I held the sprawling fingers and toes as my bamama tied the knots around the umbilical cord. She then used a razor blade to cut the cord and blood swirled on the plastic with the other fluids. My bamama utters the first words encouraging the small gurgles to become a loud cry. Then she rushed outside for water as I nervously held the baby adding my English encouragements for the baby to cry. I took those few seconds to tell Felista she now had a baby girl. Then my bamama rushed in and spit water on the baby’s back which immediately drew forth the beautiful wails of a baby person. I wrapped the baby girl in a citenge and another thicker blanket then placed her on the dirt floor. We turned our attention back to the new mother and the dangling cord attached to a placenta. My bamama again placed her hands on the belly while gently pulling on the cord but when only half of the placenta would come our strategy was for gravity to take over. So I grabbed Felista’s arms and she slid off the bed along with the plastic to squat on the ground. Quickly enough it was finished and again Felista lay on the bed as I placed the baby beside her. My bamama finally smiled and let loose the African woman praise yelp as I was half crying and half laughing.

“Ah, was this your first time Lweendo?”

Which made me only laugh louder. Yes, definitely yes.

My bamama went outside to dig a hole behind the house for the placenta and I walked back to my hut telling the men sitting so casually under a tree that we have been given a baby girl.

My bataata said we are lucky the baby is ok and the mother is ok. And after he laughed at my inquiry into his presence at any births he said, “no, no. I fear too much.”

But why do you fear? Its our way.

I weighed the baby 1 week later and she weighs a measly 4.4lbs. They asked me to fill out the birth form for the clinic and as they proudly watched my hand writing the name of the village and the necessary facts they officially announced the arrival of Baby Lweendo.

All you other people ignore this post. This is direct communication with a future visitor.

Yo Hceilerts. Email me at brittyokc@yahoo.com. I'll be more than happy to talk up my So Pro people.

-Lweendo

For a few years now I have fallen victim to the February Funk. It seems unfair to have an entire month of bad luck but with how well the other 11 months always go, I guess I deserve it. I know I certainly cant help it.

The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!

I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”

“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.

My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”

Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!

“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.

Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.

I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.

I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.

The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.

After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.

A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.

They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.

What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.

Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”

That’s not white medicine, right?

Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.

The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.

But now its March.

I got paid.

Im less crazy.

I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.

Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.

Heres to another 11 months of peace.

Avatar is Peace Corps of the future. Educate yourself on that.

He was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt over baggy jeans straight from my sister’s rave days and carrying a silver briefcase. Those are three things I wouldn’t trust when seen solo but when combined I knew I had to talk to that guy.

My chance came when I was enjoying an after dinner glass of wine with my friends Carroll-Anne and Shadow. (Shadow is a traveling name. Carroll-Anne hates her traveling name so I only use it when face to face to get a thrill from her death glare). This interesting adorned man, now wearing a Coat of Character, put said coat on a trembling Shadow in a gentlemanly gesture. As with most gentlemen and their gestures he failed to notice that Shadow was trembling from his creepiness and not her temperature. I took it upon myself to introduce myself and question the Coat of Character. A coat not unlike those adorning many homeless men walking the streets of a big city. A coat that says people have died while wearing me and their souls stitch my inseam. A coat when combined with Che Guevara t-shirt, rave jeans and non-descript briefcase alert ME that I will do everything to be That Guy’s friend so that when anthrax tainted ecstasy is released at the next labor union strike and He starts collecting body pieces (because what else would he put in a briefcase) then I would be safe and happy with own Coat of Character. And so, C.J. from Durban became a prominent figure in our Namibian vacation.

Up until this point vacation had been somewhat normal. I met up with 7 friends in Livingstone for Christmas. They all live in other parts of Zambia so it was fun for me to show them around TongaLand. We visited Victoria Falls and I can now say that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t. Because one by one they went bungee jumping and I cringed while videotaping. Of course this was partly because the day before I had assumed the Meryl Streep role in The River Wild and rafted the Zambezi River. Ive been rafting numerous times before and enjoyed the slight adrenaline rush coupled with laughing while bouncing along. This time there was no laughing. At my place in the front, alongside PCV Tim, we got a clear view of the rapids to come as the boat dipped down seconds before collision and I would inevitably utter a curse word. After a couple hours Tim couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at me over the crashing waves. “Seriously Britt, those could be the last words I hear!” So I switched to something more appropriate for his mid-western Catholic upbringing and started hailing Mary like baby Jesus at supper time. Our boat flipped twice. I was thrown out 2 more times. Once I slammed headfirst Crash Dummy style into the rocks on the river side when we were wildly spinning. And I took a paddle to the face. Now I know why they make you wear helmets. When we docked at the end I nearly kissed the shore and promised never to test fate again. Thus I was videotaping and feeling like an accomplice to more asinine actions.

Our one day stop in Windhoek was over the weekend when everyone was in transit to the beach town Swakopmund for New Years. It made the capital seem like a ghost town and mistakenly modern. For when Carroll-Anne and I sat down at a proper table with advertisements shouting off the wall we thought these were signs that we would actually get what we ordered. But when bowls of lettuce showed up and we were told that the ingredients were missing to make lettuce into the distinguishing salads we had ordered, I knew the amenities were a façade. “Can I say something? I want to say something.” No. You will sit there and eat your leaf and think menacing thoughts of this restaurant and this country and this continent. Just like me. “ok, Nana. You can say something.” Even though this is extremely crisp lettuce. And they even washed it!

Soon we were on our way to Swakopmund. The attractive, middle aged Afrikaner woman giving us a ride smiled as Gizmo commented on her music. “It’s my son’s cd.” As she slipped off her wedding ring. “Im going to meet my girlfriends for the holiday. What are your plans?” Gizmo’s WASP eyes lit up and I ordered 2012’s earth ending quakes and fires to ascend right now.

But then we found ourselves at the backpackers lodge and in company of permanent resident C.J. “Ive been here for 3 months but my country, they doesn’t know it. I have a doctor’s note.” Wink. A doctor’s note? What sickness keeps you out of your own country?

My friends and I breathed in the salt air and arrived at the open air club on the sand with the loudest music and 90% of Namibia’s high school student body. What? The place was swarming with acne, hair gel, neon sunglasses and Smirnoff Ice. Apparently we had stumbled on Southern Africa’s version of Spring Break Cancun. This scene would be repeated night after night until New Year’s Eve when it was crowned with sweaty bodies dancing around a bonfire. And this is where I blame the downfall of the rest of our trip.

Every year I have an anti-social tradition of staying in and reflecting on all the bad times of the year past while realizing Ive made it to another year with brand new horrors awaiting. Its not pessimistic. Its realistically slapping the world in the face before it pinches you back. But this year I get sucked into teenie bopper angst and what happens...

The Skeleton Coast Automobile Debacle. Why is it called the Skeleton Coast? Is it a graveyard? Of ships? Of animals? No. Of your pride? Of your checkbook? Of your bladder? Yes.

On New Years Day I walked all over the town with Carroll-Anne just to discover the rental car’s office was closed. Of course that turned out to be the wrong company and though we were a couple hours late to the proper company, our reservation and vehicle were gone due to a 10 minute wait policy. Apparently some things in Africa do operate within 10 mins. Things like greeting the woman selling bananas then buying bananas then thanking her and then sending greetings to her family. And things like American rental car companies.

Two days later we were on the road. But not in one large vehicle. The 8 of us were split into 2 tiny Nissans meant to be taxis. When me and the only other person knowledgeable and experienced with driving a standard realized we had left our licenses at PC HQ in Lusaka, the two with licenses started hyper-ventilating. We needed Carroll-Anne and Buck to drive us out of this teenaged hormone city and far away from C.J. with his suitcase and Coat of Character. I remembered how stressful it was for me to learn and how long it took to be comfortable. How I hated my mom for yelling “push in the clutch.” How I hated the car for having 3 pedals. How I hated every driver for honking when I stalled.

And now I and the other knowledgeable person were going to sit shotgun and teach and yell and be hated! So I looked at Carroll-Anne and did what any friend would “Im abandoning you. I’ll be in the other car coaching Buck. Your gonna do great.” Thumbs up!

What I forgot to factor in was the fact that my great state of California gives away licenses like Halloween candy. So most of my instructions weren’t “push in the clutch” but remember you have to steer and the brake is for stopping.

The worst place for car trouble is the desert. The majestic desolation steals hope of passer-bys due to the 360 degree view of the horizon which reminds you that urination will be in full view of God, the coastline and the other 7 people on this trip that you now hate because your teaching and ADD male how to drive and your best friend is mentally abusing herself while they all giggle and take pictures of NOTHING! Its sand. Get over it.

The Skeleton Coast was sand and water and a teeth stained dude wearing a Cowboy hat who sold us a tire for our FIRST flat. Lets just say Nissan taxis were not meant for canvassing the African bush.

Arriving back in Zambia has never felt so good. We don’t drive here. And when a vehicle we are in breaks, village ingenuity fixes it with spit and melted flip-flops. But now, due to the over charges with the vehicles, Im in debt to Carroll-Anne. Did I mention she is a great driver?!

Everyone has their theory of when the trip went wrong. Some don’t even think it went that wrong. I guess we all made it back safely so there is a surprise.

And of course, I can rest assure that I’ll have a heads up on the next house/trance dance Latin induced attack via briefcase so I can hide in my own Coat of Character. But if anyone wants my advice?

Stay the hell out of Nam.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Description of Pictures in last blog posted by PCV Christa

1. Signpost leading to my village; Dimbwe

2. Standing in front of my house with my Bataata, Fellow

3. Pretending to help fix my bike, PCV Tim is on the right

4. Moses - the 2 year old brat

5. Forgot the kids name, he is in charge of the goats

6. Clyde – he is in charge of the cows

7. Choolwe

8. Castro

9. Sitting with my boys at my house

10. My bathing shelter that is currently occupied by a dog and her brand new 6 puppies

11. My latrine – should have a roof but it’s a work in progress

12. Cikuta – the kitchen the family cooks in, the dish rack on the right, the structure on left is used to store maize

13. View from my house. Garden and fields.

14. The well

15-pictures of the inside of my house

The clock is tickin. Cliches. Those bothersome overused expressions that I suppose become clichés simply by the fact that they’ve been proven true for enough people. Like all humble writers I have thought myself to be far above any cliché factor.

I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.

And then it happened.

My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.

My YOUNGER sister.

My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”

One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.

Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”

This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.

1. Sailor

2. Bartender.

3. Taxi Driver

Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.

1. Marry a Sailor

2. Barista

3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver

Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.

Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”

The same year as my younger sister.

Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”

My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.

This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.

I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.

And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.

So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.

Tick tock.

Awe-inspirirng African moments are few and far between these days. That horrible “same ole thing” sinks in and I get writers block because nothing surprises or engages my creativity. How did I become used to Africa? Time. I don’t believe time heals. I believe time dulls. And I don’t like it.

Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.

I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.

Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.

It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.

While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”

And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”

After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.

At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.

And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.

My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”

Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.

I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.

So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.

But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.

I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.

And that’s what Im teaching.

Hitch-hiking to Malawi was rather uneventful this time around. For half the trip I took proper buses to meet up with my 3 pals and we were off to conquer the great depths.

The day before we started the scuba course we had to do a bunch of paperwork. Which always stresses me out. Especially these days when I don’t know which name to use and who in which country is my emergency contact (I still put you Mom). My favorite part was the huge checklist of medical issues to prohibit one from swimming with the fishes. The kind of list you finish reading and automatically flex like a bodybuilder because you figure if all these things haven’t killed my incredible self than this somewhat dangerous activity has no chance.

Then we briefly met the man who was to be our instructor for the next 4 days. And that’s when my confidence of kickin scuba divin’s ass depleted –he was British. As in English. The people who speak gibberish. I can understand Scottish folk thanks to my Dad’s obsession with Braveheart but Im completely lost with Londoners. Luckily there is a lot of hand signals in scuba diving which Im great at thanks to softball. In fact, we invented many of our over the next few days. Most were along the theme of what one would expect coming from a group of health volunteers that routinely teach sex education. Extra points for signing behind the instructor’s back while a person was performing skills such as removing the mask and putting it on again. Which I was a victim of as I started laughing and choking violently and thought ‘well this it it, Im going to drown because of an obscene hand gesture.’

But before we could dive we had to do classroom work. Which meant I had to decipher a British description of another foreign language – physics. As if I have to understand density and thermocline in order to swim. Fuckever. As soon as he diagrammed a balloon, substitute your lungs, as bursting during ascent I was with the program. Keep breathing to equalize – no problem Im a breathing machine.

And then came the construction of the gear. So that we all felt like superheroes. Eventually. The first day I ended up drenched in sweat and bleeding. Apparently wet suits aren’t supposed to feel as tight as they look. And once I figured out all of the snaps, dials and buttons – I was no longer intimidated by the tank but feeling confident to discover the world underwater. Of course there was always the getting back into the boat after a dive. Going into the water from the boat was fine. Flipping backwards is just like falling, which my clumsy self is great at. But pull this 200 pounds back into the boat was a cruel joke by our British gnome friend. I even tried waving them off, ‘its cool, Im just gonna swim it in.’ But they insisted on a group effort to pull me in so that I ended every dive face-down on the deck, fins in the air, hyperventilating and flippin off my “supportive” laughing friends.

I will say that even though they had their shit together on land, I was most comfortable down under. Sinking is no problem and I was often found, sitting on a rock or chillin upside down while my friends took their precious time over-equalizing and finding ‘neutral buoyancy.’ Another stupid theory to describe going with the flow of maintaining a swimming level.

We went on 5 dives and saw some cool fish and rock formations. At the end of the course nobody could really hear and it took nearly a week for our ears to fully equalize. A week that I spent kayaking, snorkeling and cliff jumping.

During my travels back I sat by a woman with a disproportionate baby. Bottle head baby rocked and jiggled with every bump and the curiosity drove me to poke him. Which made him giggle and jiggle. When we arrived at the station the mom handed me the baby then disappeared for a nerve-wracking 15 minutes that I spent singing my hopes of mommy’s return for the top-heavy iwe.

Now safely back in Choma, Im starting off for the village today to have an important meeting where I beg for another family to let me live with them. I don’t have a specific family in mind, Im just going to sell my skills. Which now include scuba diving! That’s bound to impress these landlocked peoples.

In-Country Stats

Books Read: 98

Books Written: ¼

Snakes In Hut: 3

Snakes Killed: 0

# of exotic diseases self-diagnosed: 3

# of exotic diseases professionally diagnosed: 0

Rules broken: 4

Sunglasses owned: 2

Sunglasses lost: 2

# of people punched: 3

# of times I’ve been punched: 0

Weight loss: 15 pounds

Animals owned: 2

Animals I still own: 0

# of bike crashes: 5

# of knives owned: 3

# of knives I still own: 1

Songs written: 4

Things I’ve Learned

1. Rookie mistake of washing reds with whites applies to every color of Chitenges and your favorite shorts

2. Either name the bugs or kill them because staring at them just makes them scarier

3. The grit of dirt shines pots and pans. Its nature’s elbow grease.

4. Never take your hands off the handlebars.

5. Never wear tropicals when gathering firewood. Potential for machete slashing toes of trip/faceplant to the amusement of locals.

6. Its better to be polite than to be honest.

7. When running, never put the house key in your bra or it could be added to the list of things lost in the bush.

8. Always dance with rastas.

9. I should never own another pet.

10. People die.

11. Kids will do anything for sweeties.

12. Lusaka Zambians have no concept of Village Zambians.

13. Netball has no net.

14. I can start a fire with 1 match.

15. Organizations don’t care about people. People care about people.

It was great to see all my friends again. Besides social time though, the conference was a waste of time for me. Most people have moved on from HIV/AIDS to more tangible work such as agriculture and building projects. And I don’t blame them. It is disheartening to constantly face the beliefs that keep people from making decisions to protect themselves from something they will rarely publicly acknowledge. And it was even more frustrating to listen to the reasons administration is shutting down my program and my province. Because I don’t feel they are giving up on me but instead giving up on people that really need help. And that’s how I learned my latest lesson.

16. I lack the ability to bullshit.

Diplomacy is not a career for me. Which is fine. Because as far as Im concerned, it is a profession of dog-shit motives slicked in cookie dough breath.

I protest their filthy ways.

I attempt to fail at my ideals.

Tomorrow Im headed back to Malawi. This time Im taking a proper bus and meeting some friends. Im going to get scuba certified which Ive wanted to do for awhile. And hopefully I will dance with some rastas. Because that is always some fun. When I come back to good ole Zambia, Im having a village meeting to move because my wives left me and Ive realized I cant take care of myself. And I really want to live with a family. I hope yall are living it up in AmericaLand. Peace!

A single knock on my door brought me out of an intense Janet Evanovich reading session. Quickly I threw on some more appropriate clothes since hot season has brought me dangerously close to being a nudist. Standing at my door was my good friend Norah. She was, as always, impeccably dressed in a citenge suit and with downcast eyes she seemed to be lost in inner turmoil. Eventually she said, “Ba Lweendo, sadly we have made another friend.”

Norah is the ChairPerson for a support group of HIV positive people in my village. Ever since the VCT last month we have been making a lot of friends. Mobile VCT is a voluntary, counseling and testing event where people can get tested by a visiting NGO. It is supposed to limit the stigma since the testers have no connection to the community and wont create rumors concerning people’s status. Unfortunately the ramification of this often cleverly marketed event is a happily distracted people during an intimidating testing process followed by abandonment after the sometimes surprising and fear inducing results. Which is where Norah comes in.

Norah’s own journey through contracting HIV to becoming an advocate is inspiring to say the least. Widowed by a husband who was often gone working at mines in disease ridden cities, she learned of her status with the loving support of a brother while on what many considered to be her deathbed. She now lives with a group of women in similar situations. Together they farm and build and survive. Together they conquer the stigma that is as prevalent as the disease.

Since the VCT I have been Norah’s humble sidekick. We cycle or walk up to 20 kilometers each day in order to meet our friends. Most are women. Most are widows. Since it is a polygamous culture based on Old Testament law many widows are married into brother-in-law’s families. Thus spreading the virus. But some refuse the assurance of food security in polygamy and stay by themselves. Working hard in fields from dawn to dusk unless they fall ill. Others are children. Or married men, ashamed to tell their wives to be tested. Others are those with a promiscuous past. Which was the situation of our new friend.

Belita is a distant cousin of Norah’s and had recently moved back to the village life after years of being a sex worker in Livingstone. Norah told me that with that look we all get when describing a wayward cousin; a look that says I don’t approve but somehow still find the blatant naughtiness quite fascinating.

On the way to Belita we stopped to see 9 year old Mudenda. The virus has made her young body particularly susceptible to malaria and once again she was staying home from school wherein, due to absenteeism, she has yet to pass grade 1. Her mother and grandmother, both widows, were trying their best to care for her but were forgetful about maintaining the strict antiretroviral medication regiment. We instructed them on the importance of adhering to doctor’s instructions and made a note to get them a clock so they could administer the ARVs as instructed. The mother, also positive, was currently suffering from ovarian cysts and the two women were having difficulty maintaining a steady food supply. Luckily, it’s the time of year when NGOs are preparing food relief programmes so we made a note to include them on our village’s most vulnerable list.

We mounted our bicycles and continued on to Belita’s house. When we arrived and sat under the shade trees to greet some women I did my routine mental exercises to prepare for the now familiar scene inside the house. I have to quiet the cynicism and righteous indignation that flare up during these visits. I have to baffle the tears. I have to make some lame excuse at humor in order to calm a racing heart, dry my sweaty palms and avoid hyperventilating.

Ive realized through my visits with Norah that it is important for me to project calm. Because really there is nothing extraordinary for me to do. Except exude confidence for Norah. To push her to ask those uncomfortable questions. To provide some extra advice. To be the “all-knowing white” which is an unfortunate left-over concept of colonialism.

We entered the house and sat on the dusty floor next to Belita. She had the sunken features that highlight swollen feet and hands and frightened eyes. Wearing many layers and wrapped in blankets, she shivered and moaned. I greeted the other women in the room as Norah pestered Belita into remembering their cousinship. And then it was my turn to greet our patient. For my own reasoning I have made it a habit to lean in close, face to face, while holding a hand and smiling the biggest and goofiest smile I can muster. There are two possible reactions. Belita’s reaction was dancing light in her eyes as a tear leaked out and cracked lips sputtered about awkwardly. That was a Beautiful Reaction.

Slowly the women told about Belita’s decline and it’s a fine line to discuss. They tell me Belita has reaped what she has sown. An acknowledgement that her former occupation was a risky lifestyle but also unnecessary judgement against a dying relative. We found some papers that indicated Belita was aware of her status for some time before her family. That she had purposely moved back to the village to hide herself and die alone. This is the worst kind of stigma. General HIV education can sometimes relieve family member’s stigma but when the person hates themselves, they wont often give themselves a chance.

Which is why Norah is so effective. When confident. She tells her story and encourages people to stop judging their own desires, their own emotions, their own actions. I asked the pertinent questions: is she eating? is she throwing up? does she have diarrhea?

At about this time some women brought us lunch. Nshima and kapenta. I don’t normally eat kapenta, the dreaded staring contest meal. They are tiny fish cooked with tomatoes and onions; effectively rendering what I can only describe as eyeball soup with scales.

But here I was eating and talking about the decline of a human body during the stages before death while sitting next to a dying woman and encouraging the family to take her to the hospital.

As we cycled home I soaked in the events of the day. The conversations of the day. The meal of the day. And I realized how far Ive come. There is no way I could have done this a few months ago. Its not often that Im impressed with myself.

But it had been a Beautiful Reaction day.

When I arrived home I took up my normal spot to sit and watch the sunset. A teacher dropped by for a quick chat and greeted me by asking, “Why is it you don’t look as miserable as the one before you?”

A strange question considering the day I had.

While I cant comment for the volunteer before me, I can say Ive learned to be humble in my perspective.

Because Ive been there on the days that offer no beautiful reaction. And there is nothing different, nothing more I can offer.

Because this time next year my contract will be finished and I will return to what selfish people describe as the “real world.”

Because for me, my day was a job. A vacation. A part of my 2 year African journey.

Because for Mudenda, for Belita, for Norah – it is everyday life.

Because it is the real world.

____________________________________________

Belita died 5 days after this visit.

In other news, my 4 wives left me. They moved and left piles of rubble where cute houses once stood. And my dog followed the 4th wife. Before this starts sounding like a bad country song, since Ive been in the village for 1 year now we all have to meet up in Lusaka to be poked and prodded and deemed strong enough to make it through another year. I hope you are all enjoying the beginnings of fall! Peace Out.

I sat by the window in the dimly lit room. It was a chilly Oklahoma winter morning and my hands shook as I shoved fundraising letters into envelopes. Sitting by the window was my attempt at warmth; mentally willing the sun’s energy to penetrate me like a ray burning ants through a magnifying glass.

I wasn’t in deep thought. Rather my mind was as numb as my fingers. Routinely performing my job at the homeless shelter. And when I stopped to stare out the window my eyes took in an event that at another point in time would have disturbed me.

Two men were walking the corners of the intersection. Both with steely stares focused like lasers out of their empty eyes. One dressed in an armor suit of denim. The other mirrored my own style of black peacoat over sweats.

I waited for the impending clash.

The denim man gripped the pipe with both hands. The other held up a baseball bat.

Do you know the sound of cracking bone?

I sighed and went back to stuffing envelopes. This time, oddly enough, with steady hands. Because sometimes images are filed away. Along with all the emotions. Everything is rushed to be stored in the dusty part of the brain. These moments are sleeping demons. Monsters that erupt into reality when the dusty files are accidentally accessed. This is the truth of the fact that you cant stop life from happening to you. The decisions and words and actions of another will always impact our lives; even if they’re only stored as sleeping demons.

To escape my demons I run to a special spot shaded by a circle of trees. Sometimes I bring a book. This was one of those times.

I was thankful for the cooling shade as the beginning of hot season had dawned that morning when my nightmares became day dreams. Everyone wonders how they’ll react when thrown into moments of injustice. But nobody knows because we are all slaves to our defenses. These days I live amongst peaceful people so my fantasies of tragedy have become schematics for conversations of ignorance.

And under the shade of trees I read to escape my mind. But soon a curious driver stopped his truck to talk to the lonely white woman.

After I gave the now scripted explanation of why I’m here; this obviously educated man spoke to me about what he called “myths of HIV” that I quickly deduced meant more to him than any “fact” he had heard. The term “myth” doesn’t scare Africans (an extremely spiritual people) like it does fact focused Americans.

He began, “you see, Americans have created AIDS to kill us Africans so that they can steal the natural resources from our beautiful land.” Mistakenly I argued from a practical point of view. Trying to show logically that all these American NGOs and government funds would not search to be a solution to the problem they created. He ended, “you are merely a blindfold. Sent here by your government to blind my people from the reality of that disease which kills them. You have the cure! You are a blindfold.”

Flashback to a week earlier when I ran into a group of girls that attended my same small college. They are here for a few months working at the clinic of the local mission. Their eyes betrayed their admiration of my work and they commented on my “fun” lifestyle. I’ve never felt so different than who I once was than at that moment.

I’ve talked a lot with PCVs about the people we’ve become because our time here. I’ve talked a little about the person I was before I came. I was a very spiritual person frustrated with the shortcomings of what I refer to as ‘Consumer Christianity’. So I made decisions that led me into a more ‘social gospel,’ a hands-on application of those values I claimed.

Talking with that man awakened sleeping demons. Because my reaction was to steady shaking hands and file it numbly into dusty envelopes.

Because while I may not be blindfolding others, I couldn’t deny that sometimes I wear the blindfold.

Living immersed in another culture I struggle with the Coldplay lyric: “Am I a part of the curse or a part of the disease”.

Some may say that the fact that I still recognize problems means I’m on track to my bigger purpose.

But the thing is, I was more disgusted with the cheerful girls than with the man in the truck.

The obvious support of each other’s relationships made my blood boil with jealousy. The ease with which they can connect with their love ones back home that saves them from missing life altering celebrations. The convenience of electricity that saves them from bruised egos attained while faceplanting under the weight of a large bundle of firewood. The honesty achieved through the ease of common language conversations that saves them from being the joke of every mis-translation. The assurance of future plans that mirror the people they were before.

I envy their remembrance of before.

Do you know the sound of cracking bone?

Because I run to escape my demons by blindfolding myself as I purposely pin the tail on an asinine life of altruistic consumption.

Walkie Talkie has officially been brainwashed. At first I thought it was an innocent babysitting – catsitting. Then it was an obvious catnapping. I tried enticing Dub-T to return. Romantic songs on the guitar. Humorous anecdotes in radio code. Fish in milk.

But nothing worked.

And then I was in town catching a ride with a friend when he pulled up to a house and said he was making a purchase. “ah man, is this illegal? I don’t really like cops.”

Not that there are actually honest cops here.

I walked into the house compound with the friend and we were greeted by a young girl. No greetings were exchanged. She simply led us through a muddy path overgrown with shrubs and random groups of men eating nshima until we reached a large wooden box.

As she pulled the cover off, I gathered my strength and peered in the see...

Puppies!

Now I have made my disdain for animals clear in the past. But everything is cuter when smaller. Trust me, I’ve seen my brother’s baby pictures.

In this black sea of puppy bodies, intertwined and yawning, lay one white puppy.

A mezungu puppy!

He looked up to meet my astonishment (and to show off his one black eye). And we had a moment. Because I too know how it is to be a white in a sea of black.

A few moments later, back in my friend’s car, I stroked Mezungu’s floppy ears and went through the self-bargaining thoughts we all must face directly after impulse shopping.

‘You like dogs better than cats.’

‘But both are animals and the other one practically ran away.’

‘But Mezungu is a boy and Walkie Talkie is a girl. And you do have bad luck with girls.’

This is thought that won. Because two nights earlier, I had accidentally found myself to be the 3rd wheel on a lesbian date.

Lets get homosexuality out of the way. I have lesbian friends. I have gay friends. Its all good. People have types. I get it. But both these chicks were bisexual.

And I do happen to be bi-phobic.

Because there are no rules. Halfway through the meal Girl #1 announced she had to go to the bathroom. I motioned to stand up and realized Girl #2 wasn’t moving.

‘Oh, do we not do that?’ I mean I know its cliché but I totally go to the bathroom with chicks. It’s a moral support thing. And a gossip thing. Thumbs-up to both from me.

It was about that time that I started throwing back Long Island Iced Teas. We were talking politics and international development theories – real Save The World shit that in my book is confined to 3rd date level. Everytime a waiter came by Girl #1 repeated her mantra ‘oh, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I repeated mine. ‘well I do boss. I’ll take her share.’

Yes, rules. Hetero-Rules. There are things you talk about on the 3rd date that you only laugh about on the 1st.

And I don’t care if guys are only after one thing. It doesn’t mean they are going to get it but at least I know the end goal.

To bring it back to 1st date humor I mentioned how the large amount of meat I ate in Costa Rica made me sick so Im currently embracing my inner vegetarian. Girl #2 asked of what I thought vegetarianism. Being a student of all “isms” I tried seriously to consider the views. I explained how I love talking to Rastas about the veggie lifestyle. Their zeal for all things living can be inspirational. Ultimately though, life is birth through death. It is a beautifully grotesque cycle.

And just like that we were back in 3rd date seriousness. Contemplation of death. Respect for life.

Apparently I was being insensitive.

So due to the fact that I make a bad lesbian, I bought a male dog.

When I arrived back at my house, I tried to take Mezungu around to greet people. But nobody knew the ‘mezungu’ term. Since Im not a fan of the Tonga equivalent, I began a search for a more appropriate name. The black eye led me to boxing terms. And the People’s Champ won out. So my neighbors and friends welcomed Champ.

And only one made a connection between Mezungu and Champ, ‘ah yes. The white one always wins.’

So now Im a bi-phobic insensitive skinhead sympathizer.

When you first arrive in country you are sent in smaller groups to stay with a volunteer for a few days to experience village life. I remembered this visit as my favorite part of training, even though you are belittled by the title “Peace Corps Trainee.” Everything is surreal and everybody is just as excited as you are.

Everybody except the host.

Which was me this time. It was interesting being on the other side. The trainees asked so many questions fast fast. I didn’t even have time to pretend I knew the answers. One topic addressed the amount of down time aka free time aka party time in the village. With cancelled meetings and seasonal fieldwork volunteers are forced to improve or invent skills. Mine aren’t really creative: guitar, reading, slingshot. Perhaps in an effort to compliment my time-consuming, mind-numbing, activities, these trainees assumed that my intelligence increased during this time of reading. Ive read 76 books so far! Alas, they didn’t know me before. I recall at one point feeling fairly intelligent. Somewhere between copying A-work algebra in high school and writing a college senior thesis on the misrepresentation of altruism in development organizations.

Sure, I read a lot. But with nobody around to discuss the issue, I typically agree with myself. Consequently my verbal communication has declined. Almost to the point of stuttering.

The trainees were still waiting for my reply on the quest to fill down time with enlightenment. So I told them a parable.

One day in Livingstone I had just finished a successful planning meeting with an NGO for mobile VCT. To celebrate I neglected the bars and ice cream, headed instead straight to the Livingstone Museum to further my intelligence high.

The first exhibit was a bit of a drag. Bones and Rocks. Tiny placards informed me how the variously pointed rocks were used for cutting skins. Im just not one to get excited about an old rock. Especially when I live in a village that isn’t very far removed from stone tools. And this theme, of exhibits mirroring current village life, continued. Because while my Tonga family may have adapted Western clothes, Western technology is (for the most part) an ocean away.

It was then that I reached a room with an entrance sign declaring “Welcome to Our Village.” A short description designated the room as an honest representation of a local village. I entered tentatively, ready to compare it to my beloved Dimbwe.

When I entered the room I was shocked. Its not everyday you see your house, your kitchen, your yard in a museum. The manikins performed average tasks such as fetching water, pounding ground nuts and sifting mealie meal. The entire room even had a dirt floor.

That’s when I noticed the woman in the corner aiding her small child in urination. This was no manikin. This was real life human relief on a dirt floor, inside a museum building, on the corner of a city street. Im not sure what the appropriate response shouldve been but I simply smiled and moved on. It was an authentic representation afterall.

The trainees stared, looking a bit perplexed.

And so I revealed the moral of the parable:

No matter how intelligent you are, you still have to drop trousers to take a piss.

Polygamy is starting to make sense. Since the husband died before I lived here, I don’t know what its like having a man around the houses. But without that drama its like a tamed version of Desperate Housewives. Similar to a sorority, they have a name that binds them and there are rumors of pregnancy for all those random children walking around. But instead of ‘baby daddy’ questions, everyone wonders ‘whose your mama.”

Wife #1 is Ruth. And this lady is old. I like her because we cant understand each other but we both respect each other by not trying. She isn’t one of those annoying people that blabbers on which is good because Im not one of those people-pleasers that pretends to listen. Ruth has gray chest hair. This means that she could kick my ass. And I would let her. When Agreenar dies, she hugged me as I cried. Ever since then, Im Ruth’s #1 fan.

Wife #2 is Jane. Agreenar’s mom. She is a little lady and she loves to smile. Which is great because her teeth don’t like to stay in her mouth. Jane does blabber on. But Ive learned tricks to dealing with this. Like pointing out a scary bug and slipping into the shadows as she kills it. Most recently (and more disagreeably) she has catnapped WalkieTalkie. Currently planning search and rescue by means of mouth-watering-whisker-twitching fish via direct route through musuku trees to my casa Hansel and Gretal style. Minus the oven, since thankfully, Jane doesn’t have one.

Wife #3 is Naomi. Whom I relate to wasabi. I thought we understood each other in the beginning. She smiled and I smiled and then BAM, inhaled instead of swallowed and tears form while Im choking on realizing there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Besides, she squints as she looks at me. And I have yet to figure out if its because she doesn’t trust me or because my skin is so pale she doesn’t know if I actually exist.

Wife #4 is Bedina. She is the one I spend most of my time with nowadays. Once when I was overwhelmed by a large group of visitors I hid in my hut. Worried that Bedina would have to justify my slightly offensive behavior, I tried to come up with an explanation. But she refused my words and said, “your same like me, same like my son.”

One day she came in my hut and asked about the box of wine. I told her what it was, “same like cibuku.”

“ah, yebo!”

“Do you want some?”

She nodded.

And took a gulp. And made the same face as a child swallowing cold medicine. The nasty red Robotussin kind not delicious purple Dimeatapp.

“ah, Lweendo. Its good for you but not good for me.”

Then she asked if she could have one of my bras.

“um sure. That’s kinda weird and it probably wont fit since you’ve had a lot of kids and everyone knows that jacks up your shit but if it will make you happy...”

It happened one day that Bedina was gone visiting a sick relative. Paying little attention to the question ‘but how will I eat’ lingering in my mind, I bravely decided to help the man demolishing Agreenar’s house (brick by brick) in order to build another structure somewhere else. It was strenuous with the blaring sun and soon my hands were blistering since we only had one tool that he was using to break up the clay mortar. Of course he took his cibuku breaks and seriously so I got to relax my dusty palms and cracked fingernails. (where was my brother and his Mary Poppins bag o’ tricks with gloves and tools).

All morning the children were bugging me. Asking to color or to play disckee (Frisbee) or football or dance or... As I yelled at them to “leave me alone, Im working” I saw the 2nd wife walking over, carrying my lunch.

And then it hit me.

I am the man of the houses.

"Stop judging yourself, Brittany." A friend looked at me from across the table at our favorite bar in Choma. That statement followed a lot of people's recent comments exploring how I live, how I think about living.

It reminded me of the week before I came to Zambia. When I sat inside Starbucks sitting across from my best friend and telling her that among the reasons I was leaving was because I felt Africa's suffering was my fault. I forgot her words in reaction because they didnt match the look on her face. You know how the stable person in the relationship always chooses words too carefully but its ok because you know them so well you often dont have to listen, just watch.

(if you dont, your probably the stable person)

Anyways, I wont forget the look on her face. The look of pity for the pressure I must be putting on myself.

And now I see how that pressure prohibits me from being productive. But I dont know how to change it. How to change the way I feel. How to channel feeling into action.

I remember the day my older sister had a revelation about me and my feelings. My family has always joked about my stoicism but missed the reality of the interior. It took my sister meeting her husband (who shares some of my same qualities) to understand how intensely I feel. To understand that growing up, the stoicism is protection for my role in society.

But what about now?

When I told my best friend that Africa's suffering was my fault, I meant responsibility. I meant that the knowledge I obtained concerning HIV/TB/malnutrition was knowledge I gained through the general American school system, not by unusual pursuits or circumstances. I believed that holding that knowledge for my own benefit and not dispersing it was allowing for HIV/TB/malnutrition...

I know Im not the cause for those things. Despite what my mother would have me believe about starving children and me not finishing all of my vegetables. I just dont see the difference of my response to the allowance of suffering and the cause of suffering.

Now I know not everyone feels like me, feels so intensely. I know Im not as productive, not as effective in my village because Im often paralyzed by my emotion. But there are those people, those driven "do'ers" that Ive seen work magnificently here.

And thats the only reason Im ok with the pressure of judging myself. Because my feelings cause me to write, to tell a story.

When I was involved with a homeless shelter awhile back I was hurting for the children. The children who were impacted by the cold of cement and infected by the smell of homelessness just because their parents were addicts. And on a random airplane I spilled the stories of those children to the wealthy oilman sitting next to me. A few weeks later a large check came for the children to get new shoes. Because that man "a do'er" remembered how it felt as a kid to have new shoes.

For all my time I spent downtown in that shelter, Im most proud and most grateful for his donation. Money worked in that situation but it doesnt always have a direct benefit in relief work in Africa. Life just isnt that organized here.

Proof of that came by the construction of the Simakutu clinic. A project I took on after the original volunteer had to go back to America. Some funds were raised and with the purchase of supplies, the builders dug in. I visited and supervised and was overwhelmed by the productivity of the construction crew and the dedication of the head nurse.

But all the plans to finish the much needed treatment facility for over 9,000 people were stalled when I was told no more money was allowed. So even though the community met that which was expected, I had to tell them red tape prohibited me from allocating more funds and more supplies. Thus ending their dream for a clean and safe environment to treat their loved ones.

Not my proudest moment.

Growing up, I was lucky to have those loving parents that told me I could be anything, I could do anything I wanted.

Now I know that really means they will always support my dreams.

My dreams now, after being in Zambia just a year: To tell a story of a need that a "do'er" will accomplish.

I know my emotions paralyze me. But the only way I know to channel all these feelings is to write, to tell stories. Because after a year here I still feel that allowing a problem is creating a problem.

One of the young Americans I met in Costa Rica was telling me his political views. His belief in individual rights. And how he doesnt feel the need to judge nor the right to condemn a person who kills, or rapes, or steals, or whatever offense. I suppose in his circle that view is admired. If we say nothing when a person settles into society than why say something when they cause waves. The academic world allows language to be true in logic while ignoring its truth in persecution. To be tolerant in America is appreciated, is respected.

In response to his politically correct rant I wanted to punch him in the face. I thought I was being mature by holding back but looking back I could have justified it by his own reasoning.

Because he was talking about respecting laws. About respecting people's reasoning. But laws are just words on a dusty page. And his 'respect' for those people portrays his ignorance of a person. Because we can all step back and think attacks in the Middle East are tragic but of course that affects those people. Or the abortion of millions is a fat regret for those people. Or the suffering of AIDS is a painful mistake for those people. Or the date rape of naive targets is horrific for those people.

But what happens when those people become a person.

Become my person.

Ive been there.

I am there.

You dont sit and practice tolerance when those become mine.

You ask 'how?'

You ask 'why?'

And then you act.

That is why tolerance and law perturb me with the ugly fascination of a car crash on the side of the road. People living under this code seem relaxed. Seem to enjoy a pleasant, plush life.

How?

Why?

Is it because as long as they werent the ones pulling the trigger than they werent involved?

All I see in the world is 'what?'

When the only answer is a fact - a horrific experience - then I forget my academic swaddling and I diminish the abyss between allowance and causation by belittling myself.

And then I act.

Even if its only with a pen.

So another volunteer is finishing up her service which means she is handing out remembrances. She is an animal lover and needed to distribute the pets she had collected over the two years.

I signed up for a cat.

Now I am not an animal lover. In fact, Im barely a people lover. And cats are moody so I was hesitant to accept such a gift. But I have a problem with the Sallys, Sammies, and Hip-Hoppers. (snakes, lizards, and frogs respectively).

We met in town for the exchange and my mind involuntarily re-played my history with cats. There was Sebastian; who was steamrolled in an open field. I was very young and remember staring at empty eye sockets and ribs clean of their fur. You dont recover from seeing that! But my family persisted and then there was Peter; who was stepped on by my Dad in the middle of the night. They fixed him at the vet but Peter ran away and I dont blame him. I too fear being smashed by giant feet. And finally, Beauty and Beast. Fortunately, I dont recall what happened to Beauty. But Beast; playfully jumped on top a familiar brick tower (that my brother had been stripping of mortar) so that he was pummeled to death by falling bricks.

I blame you Mini-Me.

Needless to say I was nervous about undertaking the role of caretaker for a feline.

When I met the volunteer at the rendezvous she warned me that the cat was a bit tipsy from the benadryll she administered in order to calm it for traveling.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, "I usually get drunk on transport day too!"

It was love at first sight.

She had been calling the cat E-Wok, because it resembled the Star Wars creatures. Im an even less fan of Star Wars than of cats. So I began brainstorming names as I stuffed it in my Parvan side-bag with the zipper open just enough for its scrawny neck to push its over-sized ears through. On the walk to my transport many people spotted the cat and laughed at the "mezungu's baby." It was good preparation for arrival at my truck. The conductor, Debi, greeted me and I proudly proclaimed the cat's name "This is Walkie Talkie." To which Debi replied, "in Tonga, we say kittie."

Well yea, I meant...

Then the other conductor, Charles, told me he found me a seat and led me to the side of the truck so I could stash my bags and climb in. Now usually go to the back and climb in off the bumper. I dont try to Deb it.

(sidenote: Southern Province volunteers, as is the case with most groups of people that spend way too much time together, have our own vernacular. The latest addition being "Deb." To "Deb" is to kick-ass completely, to go above and beyond, to create-begin-finish a project so perfectly as to necessitate higher technology, to make everyone else look like a one-legged red-headed stepchild beat by the ugly stick and instructed to ride the short bus.)

But this time I was excited by new pal and I did, in fact, attempt to Deb it.

And, 8 ft above the ground, with one leg inside the truck and other appendages flailing, I saw Walkie Talkie swinging like a pendulum inside my bag, now hooked on my neck as the zippier began opening with the force of its weight.

"Negative, Dub-T, do not abort."

Then Charles notices I have a "kittie." In hopes to aid my awkward boarding he announces the kittie and it spreads like the game Operator throughout the truck.

The women start to fan themselves and the children start to cry. They are afraid of my kittie. Are you kidding me? These people bring goats and chickens, dead or alive, on transport and they are afraid of my tiny Walkie Talkie hiding in my bag. But at least this time the kids werent technically crying at me...

Finally Im in my seat and I feel a tap on my shoulder from outside the truck. I turn to see a friend from my village. This friend had made a guest appearance in my inappropriate non-PG dream the night before, so my eyes bounced around self-consciously as he said, "How are you?"

"Im good. You were good...uh, i mean...you ARE good?"

Thankfully the conversation ended quickly, they jammed a few more people in the truck and we were on our way. In fact, we were so jammed that halfway through the trip I felt something poking my side and was surprised to find my own elbow attached to an arm long ago lost to feeling.

We were almost home and I was impressed at how calm Walkie Talkie had been along the bumps and swerves. But it seemed the sly cat was patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to grant escape. So when a lady dismounted and I was made to retrieve her belongings, WalkieTalkie made for an exit straight out of the bag! Women screamed and children cried. Luckily all those years at 3rd base in Little League paid off and I grabbed him mid-air, commenced lecturing him in Tonga to the amusement of my fellow passengers and then stared into the open sky while silently stroking him like Dr. Evil on Austin Powers.

Upon arrival to my hut I fed Walkie Talkie then acquainted him with my ever-present box of wine as celebration for his first night. Since he is a long hair and my own hair is now long, we bonded over matching hair cuts. Hopefully mine looks better than his tail. But it was necessary to remove the briars and thorns. From his tail, not my head.

And hopefully Walkie Talkie is a tough village cat and will therefore last longer than any of my past.

But there is a fine line of toughness Im trying to instill. Dub-T must fiercely destroy all Sallys, Sammies and Hip-Hoppers. And yet maintain a naive playfulness. Im shootin for Lion King's Scar mixed with Winnie Pooh's Tigger.

Too much Scar and Dub-T will murder all the chickens.

Too much Tigger and Dub-T could unknowingly bounce all the way to Zimbabwe.

Which is what worries me. Im on my way to Costa Rica for 2 weeks on family "vacation." I say "vacation" because Im being made to do manual labor for a good cause. Because apparently a Pastor's family cant take a family vacation without doing some good. Or something like that. But, hey, it is Costa Rica!

Anyways, Im nervous that Walkie Talkie will feel abandoned and pull a Homeward Bound straight to his previous village and volunteer.

If that happens I will totally Deb a rescue.

Positive thinking leads me to imagine my Tanned Return to a critter free hut with the squawks of happy chickens.

Just in case, I spent ample time this past week instructing my iwes on radio code to address and soothe Walkie Talkie.

Over and Out!

Every so often I decide to bring my guitar from the village into town. If Im going to be there for a few days or if other people will be there ready to be impressed with my one-woman act.

This was one of those trips when I was hoping for both.

Sitting on the back of the truck packed full with bags of maize newly harvested and prepped for purchase, I avoided looking at the eyes staring back at me. The bumpy ride provides ample time for me to dull my senses in anticipation of the inevitable "Desperado" calls by the ever present rastas.

So on this day when I dismounted and hurried off to the house with one goal in mind (gotta pee, gotta go, gotta go right now now) I failed to slow or even really notice the man chasing me.

Actually if I didnt have to pee I dont know if I would have slowed, but I would have noticed.

Eventually like all persistent men he caught up to me and as he caught his breath I prepared to deliver a quick and stern reply to whatever impertinent question I was surely about to be asked.

Yes, its a guitar.

No, Im not selling.

No, I wont play for you.

Yes, women can jam.

But instead...

"Will you teach my children to play the guitar?"

jigga what?

It was either my gaping mouth or the twitch in my right eye that led him to explain. He grew up here in Southern Province, studied music in the cities of Ndola and Lusaka and has returned with his family. Although he does advocacy work for World Hope, every afternoon he gives music lessons to 20 children ages 7-15 from the community. Over the years he has collected guitars, a piano, clarinets, flutes, a trombone, trumpets, and recorders. But since he has such difficulty finding musicians he really only teaches the piano and recorders.

So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"

The fact that I only pursued musicianship after knee surgery ended athletic ambition (but i still needed a skill to make people like me) did not run through my mind.

The fact that I taught myself to play the guitar from watching YouTube did not run through my mind.

Another absent fact was that I only know how to read music because in middle school we were forced to choose between art (my stick figures resemble my 3 yr old nephew's masterpieces), drama (you think im introverted now), choir (my ENTIRE family is tone deaf) and band (i chose the baritone saxophone so I could hit anyone with the big ass case if they looked at me funny).

What did run through my mind?

In my village I have seen only two crudely assembled "guitars" with 2 or 3 strings vigorously plucked by men ignorantly imitating a drunken Marachi band. Schools in the village (and most towns) dont teach music. Or art. No instruments. No materials. No teachers. There are no opportunities to pursue creativity. Which bothers me because what little of it I have, I treasure as unique, as evidence of individuality.

So this man and I spoke of the gift of music. The child labor here that steals learning opportunities out of the spongy minds of youth because the family often needs everyone working to acquire enough food to survive. The goal of these music lessons is to create concerts for the community: stripped of entertainment. To create cultural activities for the community: confined of creativity. To create opportunities for children to express individuality; to express the stories ingrained in their souls.

So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"

Brother I learned to play so I could teach.

Enter my School of Rock.

Prince is a plump kid with toothy grin.

Day is a consistent strummer with large eyes.

Larry is a nervous pipsqueak adherent to detail.

And then there is the weird kid that has yet to touch the guitar because he cant break his trance of staring at me.

What can I say? It happens.

On the first day when I paused to clarify and asked "are you getting me?" And their affirmative answer reminded me that town kids speak English, I almost called a time out so we could hug it out. Do you know how its been since Ive been able to communicate well with kids?

All the girls play the piano.

And the young ones putter politely on the recorders.

But these are my rockers.

Even though I barely remember how I learned.

Even though I've never taught.

You can find me reading "Guitar for Dummies" remembering the basics. Remembering the first feeling of creating.

Enter my School of Rock.

GAY OR ENGLISH?

...where I collided with the ZamNan. She had put the baby to bed and was talking about the strange white folk with the cook, Bezwick. I loved saying Bezwick because you cant say it without sounding English so I felt like I fit in more with the hippy crowd. These 2 people would quickly become my allies through the 3 days everyone else was too stoned to realize the random American girl eating all the food and drinking all the beer.

But actually it was a good thing I was mostly under the radar. Because when conversation really got goin I couldnt understand a damn word. One early morning Lifestyle was frying eggs and asked me to get the rolls ready. Ruth the Mormon (looking savvy with a bun and long jean skirt) came into the kitchen to make tea and they delved into an enthusiastic conversation concerning fried bread.

"But your frying the eggs, not the bread."

They looked at me like I just pimp slapped the Queen.

I mean I get the "egg roll" in Zambia but fried bread...

Then I think the bitter grunts were about Americans but I forgot my Pompous to Plain English dictionary so I left the kitchen.

By now I assume you are all wondering the nature of my relationship with Lifestyle.

As was I.

You see the entire trip I had kept a mental tally to decide if he was gay or just english.

The man made me tea. He owns a steel company and he did know how to change a tire. He was called upon to make snacks for the group - which included a dill sauce over fresh fish. Later, he would show off his cocktail specialties with warm brandy swirling around melted chocolate and topped with cool Amurealo. It wasnt so much the cooking that confused me.

There are plenty of manly men in my family that are great cooks.

It was the presentation. And the fact that he cooked in a wrap-around skirt. In only a wrap-around skirt.

He came up to me one night with the excitement of a boy finding ants for his ant farm and said, "I went out for a slash and they sky is excellent, a velvet blanket of stars showing the curvature of the Earth." What do you say in response to that?

The next morning was decision time. I left Zambia with one goal, to make it to the ocean. And I was close but I also had a free ride straight back if I chose to forgo Mozambique. To be honest, my decisions usually arent too difficult. Im very attune to my intuition, blame all those afternoons watching Oprah. So while I may pretend yo wrestle with a decision, Im always aware of what would be best for me.

So I gave up Mozambique.

I gave up the ocean.

For a free ride and more conversation.

We left with hugs and I realized I really liked these hippie pals. They had beautiful hearts and loved their lives.

Sometimes its easiest to find your smile by watching the Happy of others.

The ride back was as dreary as most returns from vacation. The closer you get to home, the closer your mind turns to business details. At least thats what Ive found to be the case for people who have businesses and think about details.

We were entering that tense mood where you know the end of the road trip isnt as near as you wish, the dark night is burning your unblinking dry eyes that are sore from staring at the bends of a paved road and your arms are heavy from gripping a steering wheel for hours. At some point we re-entered cell phone reception so I received numerous texts from all those friends I was supposed to have met up with.

ummm, whoops.

After assuring them I was alive I decided to call upon Carroll-Anne for some serious girl advice, that is, a sneaky way to decide once and for all: Gay or English?

She told me to ask about rugby.

While I was considering methods of diving into the rugby topic the monotony of the empty road was interrupted by a dog scurrying about. With no escape possible the little girl inside me squealed as we ran over him.

And in reaction to whatever sound I had just made, I started laughing. But Lifestyle was almost on the verge of tears.

So to cheer him up we started reminiscing the events of the week. The sunshine and swimming in the lake. Kimmo's fire dance. The time I tried to make tea and used salt instead of sugar. When I saw Stuck-on Dreds actually smile as he talked to local girls in the native dialect. Painting eggs and then smashing them together at A-Zor's request. Climbing the tallest hill at sunset and seeing across the lake to Mozambique. The mysterious one night appearance and multiple wardrobe changes of Dr. Fire...and soon we were back in Lusaka.

So it was an eventful vacation. One Im glad I took by myself. There is something magical in discovering new places and new people. Because once you do, you discover something new within you. And after the previous couple of months I needed something new...in me so that I could see the possibility of hope beginning again.

And oh yea, do you know the differences between English, South African and Aussie rugby?

Because I do.

FIREFLIES IN OUR MUSHROOM GARDEN

My tent was on the banks of Lake Malawi. Surrounded by baobabs, palm and bamboo trees. Baboons scampered around, chased my dogs that I deduced belonged to whoever lived at the huge house just to my left. A quick investigation turned up kayaks, wind-surf boards and an annoying native tobacco farmer named Headaches (his self-declaration, not my nickname).

Headaches, already with a beer at 6 in the morning, opened a bottle for me and proceeded to tell me what was wrong with America. Once, on a flight, he had sat next to an old lady from Kentucky who had asked him if he had a pet cheetah. Of course he aided her ignorance by creating an alternate life where he lived in a tree house to escape the roaming creatures he had to hunt for food and clothing. Instead of pleading that old ladies from Kentucky are about the worst representation of America, I sacrificed my pride and faked a laugh.

So Paradise comes with a price.

Eventually people started coming out of the house and other tents. And I realized I had crashed a huge Easter bash of old friends.

Which made me smile even bigger.

After breakfast, I found myself sitting an a cliche circle and as the joint was passed from hand to hand, I had one of my out-of-body thought trains. Its where I go when i dont have a pen and paper handy. I suppose its my MemoryLand. I try to burn every word uttered, every sensation felt, to this land, to be re-called upon later once I have proper writing time.

The tagline on this thought train 'Why i dont take drugs.' Its something Ive had years to consider. Everyone goes through these circle moment of truth - smoke or pass. And back in high school, I guess it was harder because my reasons to not partake always seemed lame. I didnt want to get made fun of and I didnt want the smokers to think I was judging them.

So back then - why didnt I take drugs? Was i afraid? Of the effect? Of getting caught? Was I morally superior? Was I dedicated to athletics?

How did I 'stay above the influence'? As all those annoying advertisements encourage today's overly mediacized youth.

Ruth (who dressed like a 3rd wife to a Mormon elder) leans to my and asks, "you dont smoke?" So here is the moment. The moment I usually try a lame joke to appease the stoned masses. Something like, "nah, my lungs are feelin a bit rough today," (rough from hyperventilating trying to think of a response to your question) or "hey! no worries, more for you." (that one really works)

In college the trick was to give a firm NO but remain general with a reason. As you get older, peer pressure fades, or is it you find yourself stronger to stick to your ways.

Whatever the response, you can be sure the question will come. And it came as I looked around a huge group of South-African, English and Dutch hippies by the banks of Lake Malawi on Good Friday.

It was a relaxing day. Just spent getting to know everyone. Among the group there was: an angry white Rasta from Zimbabwe with what appeared to be a stuck-on dreded beard; Kimmo, the artist, host and girlfriend to 'A-Zor'; Dr. Fire, an eye surgeon with beady eyes and gray hair; Mr. Friendly Giant, a professional photographer with a long, blonde pony-tail; Mike, who owned a chemical company and his wife Triss who brought along their precious baby and Zambian Nanny.

Dusk gently arrived with the lighting of tiki torches and Stuck-on Dreds drummed out a beat on bongos as the group decided it was decoration time.

We set up psychedelic backdrop paintings, installed huge speakers - complete with the dj table, 6 ft tall plastic mushrooms...People changed into tye-dye, the techno music started and as the sun set the blacklights flipped on. Everyone grabbed a beer and resettled into the circle...to do...Acid!

Woah, timeout...stop the thought train.

People still do acid?

I thought that stopped when all the good guitarists died.

So now my thought train is steamrolling. I need a different answer. Lame jokes only work with weed. People get seriously offended if you reject a high quality drug.

Mike brought the plate around and people licked their fingers and savored the paper like a hershey's kiss.

And then Mike leans to me and with his seductive South African accept says, "oh come on dear, be a bit of a devil."

And thats when a fresh light bulb, free of that stupid blacklight UV shit, went off in my train. I dont want to be a devil. I dont want to reach a good feeling by being bad. But what is up with the whole good or bad reasoning anways. Since when is chasing a sensation good or bad? People attend worship services, exercise or work excessively, create music and make love -- all for what? TO feel something. Something different. Something real.

Bl'azor' or R'azor' or L'azor', whatever the name of the dude that sounded like Andre the Giant from Princess Bride, leaned to me to explain how acid affects you. How is opens all the filters of your touch, taste, smell and sight so "that your life will never be the same."

Does that sound tempting to you?

It didnt work for me.

Because my thought train had arrived at its destination.

Question: Why dont you take drugs?

Answer: I like myself.

Wow. Written down it doesnt seem like a great revelation. But all these years of trying jokes, of rationalizing some moral standards that I now find ridiculous, and I realize the real reason is me. I like me. I like my brain. And damn, its a good one. I enjoy the highs and lows because its all My Life.

Now Im not saying everyone that does drugs is chasing a happiness they cant find sober.

I think they just started before they fell in love with themselves.

Because now, drugs are a part of who they are, which is fine with me if they are happy with themselves.

I just became me without the addition of a substance.

So I replied to Mike, "sorry man, its just not me."

And like all good middle-aged hippies in the world, he nodded and said, "right on, cheers."

Without knowing it, my comment of 'me' started a conversation about the identification of the self. These were people serious about expression. THey were stuck in nationalities. Some to places they had never even visited. (cheers to British colonalism) and some would never return to the country of their birth since laws required a more natural hairstyle than dreadlocks.

Triss told a story of an infamous immigration office where the permanency of her tattoos was brought with the question of what God would think of her when they meet at the gate. Triss, fired up from the remembrance of such a ludicrous comment, declared "God is gonna dig me cuz Im an individual!"

With that another joint was lit and the techno was turned up louder. The first to start trippin rose to dance their toddler-esque pee-pee movements along the banks of the lake.

And I sank into the shadows...

HIKING INTO PARADISE

I wish I could say I awoke refreshed. But really I was exasperated at my predicament. I knew I had a long way to travel and I wanted to start off but I couldnt be rude to this amazing family. So I took down the tent and packed my bag looking for a quick get away.

No such luck.

They had warmed up bath water AGAIN - did I really get that dirty just sleeping - and were cooking me breakfast. So I tried my best to kill the cynical Debbie Downer voice in my head and enjoy the morning while leaving them with a positive impression of Americans.

I suppose it was Twaambo that brought me out of the morning blues. He was around 5 years old and lacking in the usual child fright he smiled instantly upon seeing me. Consequently, I was happy to have him accompany me to the road for my hiking attempts. Of course Shumba came along to continue conversation. But Im not much of a talker in the mornings. Or any time really. Im good for 30 mins or so but at the 1 hour mark something inside me shuts off. And we had such a great talk the night before I had no idea what more I could offer.

Well the morning traffic was slow on this cloudy day and inevitably, Shumba dove into conversation while I began a target practice routine - as on all slow days. That is, picking up rocks and choosing a near-by tree to harass with my apathy. Twaambo found the game to be fascinating. Poor kid was stuck in a football country and he had a great arm! Of course, he had taken a position directly 2 feet in front of the tree and was just too adorable as my oversized sunglasses slipped down his nose with his dramatic wind-ups; nonetheless I was impressed he aimed for the highest branch.

Now as time ticked by I may or may not have started throwing rocks in the general direction of passing vehicles but regardless of my action (or in-action) a car swooped up to pick me. It was a small, blue Ford pickup truck with the words "Blue Steel" printed on the side.

The driver leaned over and swung open the passenger door. "Right then, its a bloody long way to Malawi. Get in."

Yes. It is a long way. No. It should not be bloody.

"The driver held out his hand, "Peace Corps then, is it?"

Oh, he's English.

"yea, is it that obvious?"

"single white female on the side of the road with a huge backpack. Yes but you know love, everyone chooses a lifestyle and I admire your mission."

And that is how I came to meet Lifestyle.

He had taken a one-way ticket from England to Zambia when he was 21 and now, at age 36, owned a steel company. "I had the company before Zoolander, mind you."

Lifestyle was headed to the southern part of Lake Malawi (my friends were meeting me at the Northern part) and we decided he would drop me in Lilongwe.

Now my hiking track had taught me that English people like to drink. And its best just to drink with them. So me and Lifestyle started off into the lush landscape of the Luangwa Valley in Eastern Province. The police checkpoints all waved us through so our only pit-stops were to top-up our drinks. I was thanking the hiking gods for bestowing upon me a direct ride - and it was even a cool dude to hang out with. The only negative things was that he only had techno music. Oh and he was drinking and driving, but this is Africa so stop being so square. (or stop reading)

Eventually the pit stops turned into pee stops and as the sun set we crossed the border into Malawi...where we were greeted with a flat tire! As Lifestyle started to work I held the torch with a heightened focus and thats when I realized my leatherman was no longer attached to my belt. I cant say at what pee-pit-stop I lost it but since it was a goodbye gift (and an important tool I use EVERY day) I made Lifestyle halt the vehicle repairs and look in the bush.

As my sadness turned to grief (this is the second goodbye gift I've lost), Lifestyle said, "Im sorry love but you mustn't be so attached to things." He quickly realized his admonition furthered my distress and attempted to recover by adding "it was a proper special-ops tool though."

We had an In-Rembrance Drink followed by a Celebratory Toast for the repaired tire and continued the drive. At a pause in the music we spoke about dreams and plans - and how disconnected they can be. He asked what I was going to do after Peace Corps. My response, "I dont know. I want to be a writer. But I'll probably have a dumb office job and work for just 2 weeks off a year."

His prophecy, "No, you'll be back. Africa calls and besides, that life is a bit soul-less, isnt it?"

So we arrived in Lilongwe. And it was time to go our separate ways. Only I didnt want to say goodbye. And I dont think he did either. Perhaps it was the vodka and Red Bulls, ok Not Perhaps. But he said, "Come to Monkey Bay." And I said, ok drunkenly shouted, "yea, Fuck Nkhata!" And he shouted "Fuck Nkhata. Bring on Monkey!" So we turned up the techno. And arm danced our way into the night.

And then I woke up in my tent.

Had one of those quick slide-show reels of the day before. Complete with sorrow for the leatherman and the damn bass line of techno.

I took a deep breath and opened my tent, not knowing what to expect.

And the laughter bellowed from deep in my gut - so much so that it rocked my limbs.

I had hitchhiked my way into paradise.

THE DAY I FELL IN LOVE WITH AFRICA

I awoke just as the sun peeked between the window blinds at the Peace Corps office in Lusaka. TOday was the day my 'Even Me Easter' trip was to begin. My bag was packed and my friends were all warned of the adventure I intended to experience. There was a group of volunteers meeting up at Nkhata Bay (the northern part of Lake Malawi) and I told them I was on the way.

So I set off with my lucky (hitch)hiking shirt. Or at least what I had previously considered to be my lucky shirt. The first ride was easy enough but it left me in Chongwe. Just a 30 min ride outside of Lusaka and Chongwe isnt exactly the most pleasent of towns. Ama guys are hyped up on Shake-Shake and love the sight of a single white female equipped with a backpack big enough to smuggle a few iwes. To avoid Obtaining the Frustration early in my day I walked a bit and met a man riding to town on his way to sell charcoal.

In my village charcoal men are tore-up. They are Rough and Tough and usually Drunk. But Kelvin wasnt any of these things and he had a nice smile. Eventually the topic of tribal affiliation came up and he said "im Tonga." To which I enthusiastically replied, "Even Me!" This was a rare event indeed, to meet a Tonga outside the Southern Province. His face lit up as I attempted to ramble through simple Tonga phrases and soon he was on his way to work with an entertaining story to tell his family later.

A couple hours later and Im still on the side of the road in the sweltering sun cursing my lucky shirt. By now my presence had bored all adults and I had an IwePack staring at my every movement. Which demands a suitable reaction: so I started to break it doen on the side of the road and the iwes soon joined in. Then I recruited them to flap their skinny arms to wave down cars - since I was convinced by now that aint nobody tryin to help a sister out by picking me up.

After a couple more hours I needed to refuel so I walked back into Creeper Central for an egg roll. That is, an egg on a roll, brilliant. And in mid-bite I hear "Blitelia, Blitelia!" I havent heard that since training which means..."Bamayo!" I blurt out with bits of egg. It was my neighbor during training (Carroll-Anne stayed with her) the woman that knitted me a bright blue beanie as a remembrance. Which I whipped out of my bag so she could beam with pride in front of her friends. Reunited and it felt so good. Now I was ready to take on hiking with a new and improved attitude!

But by now it was well into the afternoon. The hottest part of the day. When the IwePack slowly started to disperse I knew I needed a new game plan. Outlasting the energy of iwes is a scary place to find yourself. I had hoped to be staying the night an 8 hr drive down the road but I was losing daylight.

And thats when Kelvin found me. He was concerned I was still hiking. When I told him I have a house in my backpack so I can sleep in the bush, his eyes widened, "do you not fear?" Inside I laught because a tent really isnt all that different from my mud hut (except i can zip the door closed to keep out snakes, unlike my hut). Outside I smile and say "We must take fear with us." Which confused him Then and me Now but it sounded good. Kelvin struggled silently admist his thoughts and finally shook his head and said, "you must come home with me and start off in the morning."

Yes. I must.

We set off walking and 3 hours later my shins are starting to hurt.

"um Ba Kelvin, where exactly do you live?"

"ah, it is just here." He says as he points off in the general direction of the horizon and what seemed like never-ending road towards a thirsty sun-stroked death and another country's border.

He saw the light in my eyes fading and knew I wouldnt manage so he suggested I stay with another Tonga family that was closer. At this point I was so tired I would have stayed with a Bemba family (which are infamous thieves).

So a car randomly pulls over for us. The first car all day! And I jump in to tell the large white man in tiny shorts (classic South African) to take us to this friend's house. He started driving and talking. At least Im sure he thinks he was talking. He gargled on every word like if Jabba the Hut was rapping underwater. I did my usual chuckle, uh huh, at every pause. I caught just 3 words the entire 20 min trip. Australia. Mwannawasa (Zambia's late President). Whiskey.

What was Jabba the Hut talking about?

He dropped us off at this friend's house and I said "Ba Kelvin, I failed to understand a word." He laughed said, "Even me."

And then we met Shumba. He was visiting his sister and her husband (who were just returning from town that night). Shumba just graduated from college where he studied water engineering. And we talked about Zambian people and American people and Shumba's dream to bring fresh, clean water to his people.

The couple arrived soon enough and were quick to encourage me to feel free. THeir home was my home. They insisted I set up my tent inside the house because they had enough shelter. They fed me a deliciously warm meal, warmed up a bucket of water for me to bathe under the stars and I fell asleep to the sound of the family cheering around a tv (hooked up to a car battery) broadcasting a football game.

I fell in love with Africa right then. I have passed the Vacation Infatuation. I have lived here to be amazed and disgusted and yet Im still here and still happy. That day I felt the extremes of emotion. I was frustrated and desperate but thanks to African people at the end of the day my essential needs were provided.

Its important to check your mindset when going on adventures. Dont go to dominate. Dont go to contaminate. Go to relate. Go to integrate. I had my attitude checked as the sun set that day. I wanted to escape. To disappear. But people were always waiting, intentionally. So now I would travel this adventure to appreciate. To affiliate. To say 'thank you' isnt as important as to feel gratitude. Because words are meants to connect the emotions of souls.

That was a good first day.

But the adventure was just beginning...

Things Lost:

Knife

Tolerance for Techno Music

One Innocent dog's life

Things Maintained:

Reasons to NOT do acid

Awesome sense of humor

Belief that Americans should drink coffee

Things Gained:

More reasons to NOT do acid

Complete understanding of Rugby (Aussie vs English rules)

Schistosmasis

Windsurfing Skillzzzz

Main Characters:

Iwe Pack

Shumba

Kelvin

Jabba the Hut

Twaambo

Stuck on Dreds

Kimmo

A-Zor

Friendly Giant

Lifestyle

Ruth the Mormon

ZamNan

Headaches

Dr. Fire

Hitchin Guidelines

If you get a ride from:

A British Dude - prepare to get drunk

A Zambian Dude - prepare to flatter them with compliments concerning nshima and weather

A White Farmer - prepare for racist comments

A South African - prepare to laugh at every pause since that will be the only time you understand any of the conversation

Sometimes its hard to plan vacations. People change their mind. Weather. Money. blah blah.

So I decided to pick a destination. And hope I make it there.

Im bringing a map and my backpack stuffed with a tent and a knife.

I hope I make it to the ocean.

Enjoy your Easter.

Remember why...

Somehow I thought that death was honorable. That death was clean. I dont know. Blame the media, blame the books I've read. It was a horrible misconception.

Because death is ugly.

And I never knew that.

Death is slow. It is disgusting. And that is appropiate.

Because death is the climax of birth.

And birth is slow. I remember when my sister was giving birth. It seemed like forever. Crowded in the waiting room of a hospital. Pacing with a styrofoam cup full of lukewarm coffee. It is agnozing to wait. To feel that anticipation of the unexpected. Boy? Girl? Healthy? Hair? 10 fingers? 10 toes?

And birth is disgusting. I wasnt in the room for the delivery. I came a few minutes after. My sister looked exhausted and damp with hours of sweat straining for life dripping from her forehead. Looking around the room there are fluids--where they came from, I dont want to know! The baby-this new creation, a result of the purity in love-looked straightup gross! Dude had brand new fingernails and already needed a trip to the salon. In fact, he should just go to the detail shop my mom takes the cars to because damn, brother needed a polish and wax.

And yet, the change in my sister's eyes at that moment meant everything. She was no longer the girl I idolized with a sweet jump-shot and killer dance moves. She was a woman I respected and stood before in that delivery room completely awestruck.

Because birth is beautiful.

So this is where I get confused. If we make beautiful entries into this world than why must the end be so revulting?

And it is, mind you. It isnt sweet. Its bitter. But maybe thats just the job of us. The survivors. In death its too easy to manipulate memories. To steal the sanctity of shared sensations. But if birth is beautiful and death is ugly--than somewhere between is reality. is actuality.

Neither good nor bad.

Just is.

Right now I hate death.

I hate ugly.

But it is a wonderful ruler from which I will measure life.

Because life is...

Thank you to everyone for your comments, prayers and support.

Time ticks on.

"Im going to sleep Lweendo." "ok, sleep well my friend."

The Next Day

You didnt get up. You are weak. Again with the traditional. With the witchcraft medicine. The old women come. They pray and you drink roots stewed to soothe demented spirits.

The Next Day

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

No one greets me. Is this the beginning of the end? The old Man visits. You cant walk. You cant even sit. The old Man staggers with the weight of your wobbly body as he places you on a bicycle and together you weave a wistful route to the clinic.

The Next Day.

"Lweendo, its maybe a bit malaria." No, No, No. "Do you know your status?" You dont answer. You dont eat. More women. More roots mixed with the nurse's random medication. A brother. An uncle. A sister. A friend. They mumble 'its ok.' They never smile again.

The Next Day.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

I go to town. I see Boss. You are fading. Should I force you to the hospital? Boss asks "what is our role? what is the worst that can happen?" I say You die and I live with the guilt because I didnt try. So we go now says Boss and I.

We pick up a friend. He translates to the wives 'its time to go, help has arrived.' I kneel at your bedside. "is it ok? can we take you to the hospital?" No more traditional. You say yes. You are pale. You are trembling. You lay in the back with your mother and a friend. District regulations force us to journey to a further hospital for a transferral. The officer signed your papers. Told me you needed tests, we needed to hurry. Boss drives and I stare at the thundering clouds beckoning my melancholy.

Months of rumors. Of demon posession. Of ancestoral haunts. Lead to me carrying you up hospital steps. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die.

The Next Day.

"Its positive Lweendo." The words were heavy; pregnant with pain, swollen with stigma, floundering with fear. "I know, its ok, I know." Expression of emotion in this moment's confession. Repression of the past seals the confusion for the future. No more 'what if.' No more 'perhaps.' Stand up for your life. If you stay still, the world presses in. If you take one step, you press back. You choose. You move.

"Dont tell my family." Tears and trembling lips. Signs of ignorance. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die. By accepting the present state due to the behavior of the past than together we challange the future track.

Lead to us carrying eachother.

The Next Day.

You can sit! I joke and you smile. You eat and you know the new life will take awhile. They say rest, gather your strength. Make sure to come in three weeks with a friend. Your mother shook my hand and wore a big grin. I said "tomorrow I will come again. Now you sleep well my friend."

The Next Day.

We are going home. Bouncing along in the crusier, listening to the Beach Boys. You smile. You say you had a great dream last night. You were in AmericaLand with me and Chabota, laughing and speaking beautiful American english.

Scattered children consolidate at the Big Mama's House. "Thank you Lweendo for saving her life." Introduced to me their eyes reflect their mother's history. The oldest, a man studying the economy. Please dont die. The middle, a boy growing up solemnly. Please dont die. The youngest, a girl skipping gleefully. Please dont die.

The truth is you still have to fight. Tension in my neck. Block my shoulders from rest. Encourage you to live with no regrets. A cousin dropped by and along with tears in his eyes, his silence was indicative of an unrelenting pride. So I shook his hand and managed "dont worry brother. she will be fine."

I lied.

The Next Day

At church today they mentioned your name. Said you were sick but didnt give the reason away. Now the people smile as they pass by. They thank me and I see in their eyes the hope of a saved life. Your mother is so strong. Always at your bedside. She makes sure you take your tablets on time. Another cousin came to me, hopeful, for this week mirrors her own misery. She assures me we will speak with you so you will know the future isnt bleak.

The Next Day.

I stay away during the day. There are so many people, with so much to say. As the sun sets and the sky turns to pink and gray I figure I'll walk over to say goodnight.

But the air is wrong the closer I get to Big Mama's House. You are crying. You are screaming. Little Chipego and Riana huddle at the porch. There is just enough light so I can see they are as afraid as me. I take a deep breath and go inside. The room is lit by a single candle: haunting shadows danced along the mud-bricked wall. The wives and I are crowded, sitting by the mattress on the floor-its a horrific sight. The doctor had said this may be a side effect but its worse than I imagined.

Naked and flailing your arms, you are ranting and breaking into church hymns. You sit up and grab my shirt, interspersing 'Lweendo' and 'Chabota' in your flurried tongue.

"I dont know what your saying." Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.

Im afraid so I start to cry, when your oldest child walks in, my tears I try to hide. Then he yells and the wives are listening, sitting. Its so loud!

Bitterly I stand and step outside. I look to the moon then your son walks out, head down on his chest. I grab his shoulders, lean him to my breast, and together we weep out the confusion of stress without rest.

Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.

The Next Day.

You are quiet this morning. My stinging eyes are swollen from the emtions of the night. You are tired. You barely eat. Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up.

Your uncle took me aside and for the first time he said 'its bad, he worries you will die.' He told me they may send for the witchdoctor again. "No!" I burst out than took a breath and calmed my self. I explain its the medicine. "it makes the body strong but it hurts the mind sometimes." He understands and we share our concern that you dont eat. Your vomiting in your sleep. Your sweating, your shaking, your breathing is painfully labored.

Its just you and me in the room now. You are wrapped in blankets and sheets. "Do you fear? Does it hurt?" Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up. "Lweendo, Im going to sleep." "ok, sleep well my friend."

These are the last words we speak.

The Next Day.

More people visit. People are everywhere. I want them all to go away. Its too much for me to try and believe. I dont have any energy. I sit and stare at the sky. Im trying to relax but its pointless, doubt has poisoned my mind. At nightfall I walk to the house. Again I sit with the wives. Your eyes are different. Your lips are swollen. You shake your stiff body and spittle streams out the side of your teeth. As your mother spoons water in your mouth, she begins to cry. Im sitting in the corner. Why. Why. Why.

The Next Day.

There is no change in you. Only change on the faces of the women that love you. Finally my fear is mirrored. The wives ask me for tablets for the pain in their heads. I give them ibuprofen knowing it wont soothe their aching hearts.

They ask if Boss will come again. I say no. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.

Im ashamed. I want to run away. My heart burns with rage at the fact that there is nothing for your pain.

The Next Day.

I awake to the sound of gentle rain. Walking behind my house to hide between maize stalks. I stop and feel the droplets. Nature's tears mix with my own, swirling around my eyelashes. I cry out the Lord for strength. Knowing deep in my spirit that today is the day.

Inside the room in Big Mama's House. Your eyes are wide with fright. Your concave chest heaves moist breaths as if your swimming in a sea of disease. This morning the rain keeps the vistors away. So it is just your mother and me. But I dont think you know we are here. I think you only know the end is near.

You've lost control of your bodily functions and as we move you to the side your mom wipes the black plastic laid down as a sheet. The honesty of this moment penetrates my broken heart and numb mind. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.

The somberness of the day intensifies the rain as it strips from us the facade of a healing hope we all wore this past week. I sit in the corner of the room noticing the setting sun strike an array of colors through the window and into the mortar cracks cobwebbed across the walls.

Filled with emotion so intense that I fear the waves of anger and grief will swallow my sanity, I step outside praying for relief. In the middle of my words, in the middle of my requests: the wailing offends the tin roof like an onslaught of obscenities.

You died.

The Next Day.

Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. My feet found my way to my door. Inside my hut I found the peace to believe you are no more.

With daybreak the crowd gathered. Louder and louder the people from villages crawling on the ground, honoring your name. Alone in my hut, I cried all day. The wives told me to go to the house. To see you. But I refuse to see your dead body.

People come to pay their respects to me. Knocking on my door, all I want is privacy. I picked up my guitar to drown out the noise. And eventually in the afternoon I wandered outside.

Encouraging words to 'cry out the Lord' and 'feel no despair' pecked away at my calamity. At dusk, the vehicle brought the coffin and I cringed with every smack of the hammer sealing the lid with certainty. The mass of mourners stood to walk towards the freshly dug grave and along the way the pallbearers sang words of hope and grace.

We knelt around the grave and listened to the Man preach and pray. The men grabbed shovels and the women sang to drown out the echoes of dirt slapping the sides of the box tucking you carefully away into the soil of which you first came. An uncle was called upon to recount your history and towards the end he began to speak of me. He commended my attempts to save your life. He encouraged the community to comfort and continue to support me. Surprised and humbled I couldnt help but to weep. Thinking of a way for me to honor your memory.

The Next Day.

Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. The church gathered in front of the house. The choir sang. The preacher spoke. I spent the day writing you a song.

Its amazing, this complexity of grief. I smile at the thought of the sound of your voice. I cry at the fright of the last look in your eyes. I rage at the suddenness of your finality. I fear for my lonely months to come. Im thankful for every meaningless moment we spent under the sun.

At nightfall the wailing turned to melody. And our mourning turned to dancing. Somehow I was called upon to sing and perform my grief in song.

This would be a first for me. To stand in front of an assembly and sing. But for you, for your memory. I picked up my guitar and took a calming breath, then closed my eyes, to begin My Lament.

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Sleep well my Friend

Burning Embers

As you slipped away

It was your last breath

That said you couldnt stay

Men dug your grave

So you can rest

Wont see your face

On this world again

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Be still my Friend

Women wail

As I try to hide

The rain beats down

From the darkened sky

Children run to play

And though your gone

My spirit knows

That your memory lives on

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Cry out to the Lord

Goodbye my Friend

Goodbye my Friend

Goodbye my Friend

In-Service Training. In theory, its the conclusion of 3 months in village life and the beginning of your projected work. In reality, its a family reunion.

You get to see who cut their hair and who gained weight. Rumors of people lighting their roof on fire or becoming fluent in a tribal language are given a chance to become factual or die like that poor dog by the hands of the crazy PCV.

It began as we all slowly arrived at the PC office in Lusaka. Many had spent the entire day (or a couple days) on slow transport. They smelled, they were hungry, they were cranky from Zam Pop blaring continuously over buzzing bus speakers. I was refreshed after sleeping my usual 12 hours in the comfort of the Choma House, taking a hot shower, watching the Sex and the City movie over breakfast and then reclining for the 4 hour bus ride. Life in So' Pro' is smooth.

Hugs were exchanged and everyone packed large smiles into the land cruiser for the bumpy trip to the training institute. The accommodations were dorm rooms and mostly people stayed with their long-lost buddies from training.

Except me.

I don't know how it happened.

One minute we were talking. Everyone was laughing. Than like a fire-drill everyone scattered and I was left swatting mosquitoes and trying to remember if I packed bug spray.

Now I wont blame Carroll-Anne (and you shouldn't either) because her pro-activeness to guarantee herself a bed only proves how well she knows my meandering. Later when it leaked that we weren't together, she would have to deal with people quacking their judgments. But I know she needs a well-situated room and she knows I need a story.

And thats how I came to room with the Ironman.

Ironman is over 40, ex-navy, from the Pacific Northwest and into real estate. Oh, and he is an actual Ironman. Which is cool cuz I like irons and men. His side of the room was polished and looked an ad for UnderArmor. I dumped my notebooks on my guitar case, popped open a bottle of wine and looked at the ceiling with hoped the mosquito net would hang itself.

Eventually Ironman hung up my net and we got to talking about his alma mater, Portland State, where I coincidentally took 3 classes in 2 quarters to comprise my "Freshman Year of College."

Ironman is a 2nd year RAP volunteer and was attending IST to help train my intake. Classes started the next morning and after the free-for-all environment of village life, we all found the 8-17:00 schedule a bit daunting.

I slept as minimal as possible. With the midnight walks lit by the moon, taxi rides to town with RAP guys and their beards, and dance parties to Steely Dan...i mean who could deny themselves of that type of entertainment.

And then the MIT kids showed up.

They were 5 intelligent people aimed at teaching 30 hungover/adventure seeking/slightly trouble-making volunteers about appropriate technology.

I don't think we made a good impression.

I swear I tried. The first session I attended was the constructing of a device to shell ground nuts. The shelling of ground nuts is a time consumer for village women and it hurts my fingertips so I understood the appropriateness. It was the technology part that confused me.

Triss, the Cambridge student studying at MIT for a year, was constructing this gadget with cement and screws and fiberglass and complicated engineering terms tainted with a British accent. The first step was to use butter to lubricate the equipment. Then metal was moving around, I was having flashbacks to my brother's lego sets, practical questions were asked and Answered and when I was called on to tighten a bolt, I stammered "uh, you lost my with the butter dude."

I snuck back in the crowd, borrowed a friend's i-pod and retreated to my Iron Room to release all the building structures occupying my mind. Eventually I re-emerged ready to tackle subjects concerning human trafficking, soya milk and corn-cob charcoal.

After a couple days when my brain felt like it might explode just to put itself back together, we left the training institute to relocate at NRDC for the second part of IST that included our village counterparts. This relocation meant the possibility of re-uniting with my buddy Carroll-Anne. And in spite of if she was tired of taking people's shit or actually missed me, I agreed to leave IronMan and the daily breakfast of coffee and oatmeal.

Everyone bustled around filling out the paperwork to get a room and Carroll-Anne looked at me like my mom used to when I didnt do the dishes.

"You didnt get the form, did you?"

I bunched up my shoulders and smiled innocently "uh, they ran out. maybe they will bring more."

"Your the only one that didnt get one!" she exclaimed.

Honestly, I dont know why she puts up with me. But this time it wasnt my fault. It was my fault back when people gave her shit for when I slept outside and woke up with my eye swollen shut. And it was my fault when she had to lie to my host-family to say I was sick when I was actually playing football. Oh, and then there was the time we had to switch meals because I "ordered wrong" and was immaturely dumping/smearing food on the table in appreciation of their poor customer service.

But not this time! This time my aversion to paperwork and checking boxes had no role in my inability to obtain a form. Sure, I do hyperventilate with the boxes instructing me to fill using block print. And, my paranoia forces me to triple-check my drivers license so I dont mis-spell my middle initial. But Im working on growing up. And grown-ups fill out forms.

So I nudged the guy standing next to me and got him to ask around for a form. Eventually we got our room and I was pleased to see the net was already hung.

The counterparts seemed to enjoy the sessions and offered an insightful view on the role of the PCV in village life. We split into our provincial groups and discussed specific issues affecting Southern Province. Things like food shortage, lack of schooling and alcoholism.

At the end of the week we left the family reunion to return to our villages having an idea of the projects that would address the needs of our community. In addition to this, I hope to improve my role in friendship. Carroll-Anne cooks, she lies for me, tells me where to go and generally keeps me on schedule. When asked what I bring, she says, "your funny and you play the guitar."

Which I think translates to "you give me something to worry about and sometimes your annoying."

So yea, Im on the lookout for friendship skills. And I need something tangible. None of that emotional support bullshit.

Anyone got any ideas that don't include technology or forms?

________________________________________________

YOU ARE MY OBJECTIVE

They teach us development isn't building, isn't structures. But our surveys count these things. They analyze statistics and ignore the complexity of the individual within the community.

Count the latrines. The wards at the clinic. Number of people in the household. Number of orphans. Types of medication.

Do you wash your hands?

Do you have a bathing shelter?

Do you attend school?

Do you do...?

Do you do.

Who are you?

You are not your latrine. You are not your education level. You are not your dirty hands. You are not a disease.

You are you?

You are you.

Enter my soul survey.

I cant care about your school. I cant care about your clinic. I cant care about the soles of your shoes. Until I care about you.

Who are you?

Maybe someday I will return to the meetings and to the "sustainable development objectives." But today I need to care about you. I need to know why you cant sustain. Why you want to sustain.

Why you are you.

And maybe in finding you...

I'll find me too.

The world was buzzing. Every nation greatly anticipated the transfer of leadership. A beginning. A change. A hope.

Now the t-shirts with Obama's face make sense. Now the calls in the market encouraging me to "greet Obama" make me smile. A beginning. A change. A hope.

For right now the world loves Americans.

I joined the large crowd at a bar to watch the event. With 40 Peace Corps volunteers and a couple hundred people whose accents littered the globe, we were jammed butt to gut. When the announcer began I first wondered why they got the guy that announces wrestling events. I concluded that the world's viewing audience was in fact ready to rumble.

I "mall walked" my way through the room gathering the bits of conversations. But when the ceremony began the silence held a presence among wide-eyes, half-opened smiles and those rings of condensation on wood tables. The oaths, the speeches, the prayers...and the cello? Did you see how BIG that guy was smiling? His smile was the loudest at the bar.

Every so often the crowd erupted and the atmosphere was buzzed more than me.

As the announcer instructed the D.C. crowd to stand for the national anthem I remembered how my "enlightened intellect" in college forbade me from singing a song about war and borders. But right then I looked around at the faces of soul-searching volunteers employed and supported by Uncle Sam. A beginning. A change. A hope. At an Irish bar in an African capital.

If that doesnt send red-white-blue through your veins than you should check your pulse.

So I stood, with my fellow Americans, and we sang the Star-Spangled Banner. The English man next to me was infected with americanitis as he sang every word LOUDLY. At the conclusion with the cheers turning into another round of drinks, I turned to the Englishman and he said, "I bloody believe in America."

My Zamlish reply, "even me brother, even me."

________________________________________

I just finished a week of training that officially ended my 3 month community entry period. The training was detailed information of project planning and understanding budgets of grants/donation money. So basically a lot of stuff I dont understand and will try to minimize as much as possible in my service.

Im a farmer. Im a listener. Im a writer.

I work with the soil. With the people. With my mind.

For?

A beginning. A change. A hope.

Volunteers seemed to be divided into two major groups. Public and Private. Sure there are the few exceptions, but I will get to them later.

Public are the PCVs that dream of political glory to come. This job is really a service to their home country and a stepping stone to tailored suits and that daunting publicity for those classified government officials.

Private PCVs are the idealistic spirits choosing to live in the moment and are often so dedicated to their cause that they neglect things like english and personal hygeine.

These major groups are further split into different programs. For Zambia, we have LIFE, RED, RAP and HAP.

LIFE (linking income, food and the environment) PCVs are true MacGyvers. The ones that stare at mud and actually know how to turn it into bricks and then a stove! And they do it too. The Public LIFE PCVs are tree hugger politically charged with the fervor that makes you just wanna lick the dew off leaves and chew bark for protein. The Private LIFE PCVs want to escape to Walden Pond and live like John the Baptist.

RED (rural education development) PCVs are what happens when Richard Simmons meets Diane Sawyer...really excited about the facts and making sure others are pumped up for the program. The Public RED PCVs live in disbelief that educator's dont emulate policy and arrange computer donations to a school (even though most only have solar panel energy). The Private RED PCVs are friends with students and patiently waiting to return to the US and write a thesis paper on those under-educated peoples of Africa.

RAP (rural aquqculture project) PCVs are what happens after the ugly red-headed stepchild served his fraternity as the athletic coordinator. They seem to have been rejected enough in their life to work hard at something everyone else takes for granted. Public RAP'ers are educated in animal biology and the nutritional benefits of adding fish to a diet. Private RAP'ers love those scaly critters and physical labor so of course they will dig pond holes for 2 years!

As for those HAP (hiv-aids project) PCVS, of which I am an awkward member...we are the only acronym that doesnt include a solution and instead just states the problem. I dont know if its general in that it envelops income, environment, education and fish OR if its specific in that we project to fight a particular disease. All I know is that HAP PCVs are a mixture of Oprah's humanitarian concerns and Chris Rock's crude sarcasm. Public HAP PCVs know the medicine, know policy and strive to change the clinical employees in this developing system. Private HAP PCVs know people and hate a disease that seperates families. But both find jokes to be the form of relief in a bitter "project".

To understand the group dynamic:

LIFE'ers can save your life but if they fail (surely your laziness is to blame) than REDs can give a quaint speech at your funeral right after HAP'ers make inappropiate jokes about dust biting so afterwards you can let off steam at a bar with those RAP'ers.

As for those exceptions I mentioned. They are category shifters. Either through maturity or the influence of good ole' Zambians, they changed from their initial entry category. So they carry the purpose of Privates with the plans of the Public. Consequently, these are the volunteers I most admire. Am I public or private? Well, its too early for me to be an exception. So now I will stay true to my name and continue my lweendo.

P.S. Technically there is CAHP. The other health program that is being merged with HAP later this year. Because HAP is the best. Or maybe its the worst. Well, the most fatal definitly.

We are in Southern Province for a couple weeks staying with a volunteer one year in and also visiting our new villages. I will be in Dimbwe which is 50k from town. Good thing Im such a fierce biker! The volunteer we stayed with this past week has shown me some great cooking tips. homemade tortillas and salsa are a nice break from nshima and cabbage.

A couple days ago we had a meeting with a traditional healer. He said the most common ailments that he cures are when a man doesnt have the apetite for marriage (zambian way of saying homosexuality), a spouse has too many dreams of her deceased partner, and bad luck. Most of the treatment involves grounding roots and boiling the mixture with water. Then either breathing the steam, drinking the mixture or making small cuts on your body with razor blades (they call them tattoos) and being splashed with the mixture.

We asked where he learned these remedies and he said he has dreams and visions of certain sicknesses and their correct treatments. Now up to this I was very respectful and interested. But then he mentioned how he helps a woman that cant conceive. Basically it involves a root and certain cavaties of the boody. At that point I had a "coughing attack from the dust" and had to take a break. I mean seriously, adoption is always an option.

He showed us the jars that he keeps his concoctions in. Noticing the jar labeled "Die and Push" we asked what it treated. The healer told us about "talking coffin" This happens when a person dies of unknown causes because it is believed that someone is resposible. So the healer makes tattoos on the body, rubs in the mixture, and asks it to lead them to the murderor. People then carry the coffin around the village and they are led to the guilty person. African village ouji board?

So in reflection: it was very bizarre and |I think about the Christians that convince themselves of a fair God that probably supernaturally helps these isolated tribes...maybe his dreams are real but Im not trying out any roots.

Peace Out

Lweendo (my tonga name "journey")

In other news I had to say goodbye to Trent, my best buddy in the PC. He decided to take a different direction in life. I respect his decision and Im very thankful for his friendship over these past few weeks. And since your probably reading this "Im a woman for change so I will beat you as my husband!" I miss you pesi mbubo badela, ndanywa mosi zyotatwe in your honor! Love, Ba B

We are halfway through training. Time is moving quickly as we study our languages and get training in the technical aspects as well. Im learning Tonga and I will be going somewhere in the Southern Province. We just had our site interviews yesterday and we will get our post assignment on Thursday!

And then on Friday we will go visit our sites for 2 weeks to see what we think of it. Village/town life is cool so far but im excited to get back to the bush.

The family that i live with go by the name Sikangila. 7 of their 12 children live with us, i have my hut on the compound. they cook my food and boil water for my bath twice a day. When I get tired of trying to speak Tonga I pull out my guitar (banjo here) and the old man loves to tap his foot to the beat.

My close friends are Trent and Carroll-Anne. Or Tent and Annie and Blitelia as we have now been called by the Zambians. We bike to our training together and they love my "Never Surrender" motto. I wear the PUNISHER t-shirt when I bike and yesterday it totally mocked me as I fell for the first time. Just scrapes and bruises, no worries even though it was intense.

We had a gardening session and I was in charge of the machete. Me and Mindy had to gather dry material for the compost pile and I found and awesome tree with dry leavces. So |I went to hacking away on the branches and then me and Mindy started itching. ooops, so the leaves that were raining down all had tiny spikes on them that stuck to our skin and clothes. my bad!

besides those mishaps Im enjoying the food and clothing and the entire Zambian culture. BTW, if you are in class and need to use the bathroom, you just say "sorry, i must go wash my feet."

Trent taught our langugage teacher the phrase WTF! so that has become a good joke. There is a rumor we get to go to a store with electricity this week and Im hoping to get some cheese! Ive had 11 shots so far and learned about all the ways we can die but it sounds like the PC takes our safety seriously so no worries.

I hope everyone is doing greawt in the States. Yay for Zach starting college. And thanks to Amy and Maetzin for your letters. your replies on our their way.

God bless and Peace OUT!

This past week they sent us out in small groups to visit a volunteer and see what life as a PCV is really like. To welcome us the community wanted to feed us a guinea fowl. Which was cool...except they gave us the job of hunting and killing it. The five of us grabbed small rocks and ran after the bird (like a chicken) and it flew into a tree. So we threw all the rocks but it took Ba Jolie and his slingshot to shoot it out of the tree. Trent grabbed the fallen bird, stepped on its wing and went to work slicing off its neck. I thought I was more hard-core but it was tough to watch. Then, me and Mindy had to dip it in boiling water and pull out all the feathers...which takes a long time. But it was all worth it! Guinea Fowl is good stuff.

We also got to meet the chief but we had to walk 8k one way. I brought stupid shoes and I have cuts and blisters but its all cool. I got to meet a real African Chief. He has 5 wives and 25 kids. yikes!

We move in with our families tomorrow. They will take care of us throughout training which is until Sept. 28. Hope things are going well in America!

Just a quick note. Staging went well and everyone is really nice. They all have done amazing things in the US and abroad. The best piece of advice I heard was "Cross the river in a crowd and the crocidile will not get you." umm, sweet! There are 33 of us, 1 already dropped out to get married.

I gotta go get on the plane now. Thank you for the great send off, I feel very blessed and loved by everyone.

Peace OUT

Im going to Zambia! I will be a HIV/AIDS Community Mobilizer...no clue what that means. The Peace Corps definition: Your task will be to help the communities to understand the basics of HIV/AIDS, identify means of prevention, care and support, prioritize, plan, implement and manage these interventions in a sustainable manner.

Because that isnt intimidating at all.

I leave July 23 for staging (a short orientation to meet other volunteers and get lots of shots) in D.C. and then we all fly out July 25 to Lusaka, Zambia. The first three months is intensive training in a local language, technical skills and cross-cultural awareness. And then we are sent to our villages for the actual 2 years of Peace Corps service.

Im doing my best to prepare and see everyone one last time so email me or call. Im hanging out in the Bay Area filling out paperwork, packing and drinking a lot of red wine. And please PLEASE write a letter to me in Africa. But most of all...send up some prayers for my safety and this great opportunity to learn about my little self in the Lord's big world.

B. Fresh

She sits in the front row pew. She sits pristine, nails polished and hair highlighted.

I think its so she doesnt have to look at anyone else. I think its so she doesnt have to see people look at her.

She stares into space, occasionally rolling her eyes and the shame that seeps through her pores project her past as fattened regret - growing heavy with the stress of each patterend day.

And Im tired of feeling pity. And Im tired of justifying.

Im tired of wondering if she is the mold for which destiny has made me the clay.

9:15

A time. A place. A prescription.

The hours between almost let you forget.

9:15

A definition. A description. A precaution.

The answer to a question without a decision.

9:15

A blessing. A curse. A solution.

The stigmatized facilitator to a haunting hindrance.

9:15

I’m not really that great at inviting people over. I usually like it when there is a group of people relaxing and enjoying each other’s company but I suck at remembering to ask the people to come in the first place. This fact aside, the Parental Units were leaving town so my Mini-Me brother and I decided to have a mildly entertaining dinner party. After we failed at getting our older sibling to attend (and by attend, we meant cook) I knew it was up to me to financially and humorously fund this feast.

Why?

Because Mini-Me had invited his two best-friends (T-Bone who resembles Achilles the Brad Pitt version and Sunshine the California Golden Boy) and his current infatuation (the younger sister of my ex-classmate who was a perfect eccentric queen) which meant he was gonna try to impress her by lame conversation and over-seasoned cooking.

Damn it.

To even out this hormonal company I invited a family friend who was home from the Army and even though he is our sister’s ex-boyfriend Mini-Me and I still enjoy laughing at his good natured Mexican expense.

First stop, the grocery store with Mini-Me and the girl. I know that I should give her a chance to out-cool her eccentric queen sibling so I excuse her high heels on an average high school day as simple fashion in a player hatin’ world.

Sidenote: I like people based on two criteria. The first being that they laugh at my wit and the second being that they answer my questions intelligently.

She laughed at the way I carried the green bean cans. And then suggested we get salad. While I stood there trying to decide how she had usurped my two criteria, Mini-Me collected the remaining food parcels and we retreated to the house.

Mini-Me was cooking up a storm and so I attempted to engage High Heels in some conversation. Her I.Q. seeped through her multiple-syllable vocabulary as she referred to her surgeon father and the family’s culminating efforts to serve his non-profit save the planet and its people organization. Seeing how exasperated I was after finding the salad bowl, not to mention comparing myself to Miss Fashion Captain Planet, I went into the other room to watch tv.

This is when the real dilemma entered the evening. Family Guy promised an episode devoted to Stewie (I greatly admire his cynicism) but thinking back to High Heels’ comment on her inability to watch tv due to her planet saving schedule, I was prompted to contemplate CNN so as to impress her with my current events interest (and by this I mean my Anderson Cooper interest). I settled on timed increments between the two, hoping her ignorance would think Family Guy was insightful parenting commercials.

T-Bone and Sunshine arrived on-time wearing sunglasses shading their illuminating egos. Mini-Me winked at where I was to sit, strategically chosen so his spot caused his elbows to poke High Heels throughout the meal.

I stare at the empty chair right when T-Bone says, “Who is the other plate for?”

Mini-Me reflects the question to me, “Hey yea, where is that poco soldier?”

Did I just get stood up by my little sister’s ex-boyfriend?

Damn it!

Sunshine expresses disbelief that Mini-Me cooked the entire meal when High Heels defended him by stating, “Brittany watched Family Guy for the three of us.”

Damn it!

My response, “I found the salad bowl.”

I feel like Im standing in the middle of a room with people bustling around. Maybe somewhere like Panera. Im blindfolded and holding a jar full of marbles. My marbles.

Something tipped the jar and all the marbles spilled out. Now my jar is empty. But I can hear the marbles rolling on the wood floor.

I cant see them so I cant reach to pick them up.

So do I drop the jar and let it smash into pieces on the wood floor...

Or do I fill the jar with something else?

People often ask if I am afraid for my future Peace Corps service. I think I would be crazy to not be afraid. So here is a list of all the unreasonable and reasonable fears in no particular order.

1. Getting raped

2. Getting more sick than just a cold

3. Seeing a child die

4. Being outside of my comfortable worship style

5. Dealing with the absence of people that understand me

6. Returning to feel that I've missed out on the people I love

7. Not being able to stick it out full term

8. Coming back and feeling even more alienated from my peers

9. Being inadequate according to my job description

10. Bitterness rising in the hearts of my friends and family while Im gone

11. Meeting the other Peace Corps volunteers

12. Being unable to solve a problem

13. Losing my mind

14. Offending an elder in my community

15. Losing the ability to safely walk around outside at night

16. My religion being confused with my nationality

Most of all Im afraid of not trying. So even though some of these fears may become realities, living with a "what if" is the ultimate fear.

Somedays I feel really separated from the people I do life with everyday, my community. I think its because of dreams.

Everyone has dreams but not everyone has hope of dreams coming true.

College is a great supporter of dreams. It creates this atmosphere for dreams to safely turn into successes and failures. Most of my community still thrive in this safe environment.

And Im on the Rim.

I havent stepped out away from the environment so I am still enticed by the atmosphere. Im waiting to tip off the Rim, to step or to run into a brickwall perhaps but mostly Im just waiting.

And what does waiting do to your dreams?

They become goals or fantasies. I know now which of my dreams have turned into goals, as plans and details are outlined. I know now which of my dreams have turned into fantasies, no longer allowed to be failures because I completed the allotted time inside the safe environment.

Do you know what it is like share a conversation with a safe dreamer - - oh the possibilities between that safe dreamer and a lonely categorized Waiter on the Rim...

For now follow the goals.

Adhere to the rules:

1. Never one plate

2. Once a day, every other day

3. I got 5 on it

4. Ventii is my treat

When safety is not guaranteed it is achieved through a haven in the mind.

Tomorrow takes care of itself only when I wake up from yesterday.

I tried so hard in the past to die that now I wake up everyday surprised Im alive. Somedays I take pride in my ability to hide and even though I claim in God is where I abide perhaps it's merely fear that I strive to conceal

lest I contrive relief for this life revealed

In Him I confide and perhaps that is why in the Church all I learn is how to divide

Multiply my rhymes until they're more than empty lines

of free speech because hate in me is deceased no longer living diseased but released to see His ultimate glory cuz Im

wholly imploring How To

holy exploring What For

poorly exploiting Why Be

whoring?

I never knew I had a problem with being unproductive, until I became homeless. "Became Homeless" like I completed a course in order to be fully prepared to live a life of doing nothing.

I thought I could make the decision if she didnt care and if I could convince myself that she didnt need me. I was unprepared to battle my own neediness because fuck it if she is content with or without me, I am totally boring without her.

It would be easy if I didnt have friends or family. I would be homeless and have nobody to talk to besides myself. And I would too, I would wander up and down city streets talking to myself and wearing a Fresh coat.

being homeless is all about the coat and making a decision is all about other people.

Im coming to the end of my month of service at the City Rescue Mission. I thought I would be moving back to California but it looks like the Lord has other plans.

Last Wednesday I prayed with some friends about the direction to take now that my Peace Corps service is delayed until early June. On Friday the Mission offered me a position as an R.A. which includes housing. But my real interest is on the building across the street from the Mission (refugeokc.com) which is in the midst of a crazy transformation from a crackhouse to a peace-filled Refuge building for Jesus. On Friday I also got a call from a girl that is moving in to the Refuge and is supported as a missionary from her church. She has enough support to cover me for the 3 months that I now have to serve in what ever way God guides.

So God answers prayers in big ways. And as of Feb 1st I will be living (in the Mission or the Refuge) among the homeless and abused in downtown OKC and trying my best to be a faithful servant.