At the beginning of this 2011th year I was not a happy girl. I know that there was a lot going on that was contributing to my unhappy mood. My body wasn't the body that I recognized from America. PC work wasn't moving at the pace at which I was trying to push it along at. I was living in a space the size of a shoebox with the walls closing in a little bit more everyday. All of these combined with the general woes of a first year Peace Corps Volunteer, like missing home were getting me pretty down. As a whole I was just pretty unimpressed with how far I hadn't come in the 11 months since I left home. I joined Peace Corps to get to know myself a little bit better and it seemed like I was becoming more and more of a stranger.

I don't really remember the exact moment where I remember snapping back into the Maggie that I know and love, but it happened, and it was beautiful. I've always been someone who made New Years Resolutions, and kept them. And though I didn't resolve to do this on New Years Day I did, at some point in the month of January, resolve to find happiness again, 'ya know, put myself back together.

Back together for me, apparently, means running. As I said, I don't really remember the exact date of this resolution, but I do know that I woke up the next morning and went for a run. I didn't plan it, but I think I knew that running makes me happiest fastest. I am sure that there are other avenues to happiness, but for me, running is the ticket.

Running gave me the calm to deal with procrastinating villagers and finally get me my new, bigger hut built. Actually, running gives me the calm to deal with all things relating to time in any way shape or form. I guess when you spend 30+ minutes in the morning trying to see how fast you can go, how far you can get, time the rest of the day is irrelevant. You learn to surrender to the clock. That is until the next morning, and then the race is back on.

Running gave me the body that I am familiar with back to me. Running also gave me the time I needed to think and reflect on family in friends that I had left back in America.

So, last month I ran my first marathon. That kind of running gave me 26.2 miles to ask myself exactly what the fuck it is that I am doing. I remember Body asking Mind at one point during the hilly race, "Hey!...Asshole! This was your fucking idea. Are you feeling this pain? I would just like you to know that I had nothing to do with this. This was all your grand idea. I just wanted to check in with you and make sure you feel what you are doing to me. I hope that being able to say 'I'm a runner,' (she rattles in a snotty voice) is worth all of this for you, because this isn't even going to be the half of it. I am going to make sure that your next few days are complete and total hell. Every step is going to be a reminder of your brilliant fucking idea."

My Mind then stops and thinks to herself, without letting Body know that she is having second thoughts, "Nope...this is probably not worth it."

And then I started thinking to myself. “Mind, you decided to do this because you were not well, and you wanted to be. Body you carried her through all of the miles of training and never argued. Not once. Not with so much as a black and blue toenail. So we are doing this, we are finishing this and we will all be happy when this is all over.”

Since moving to my very Christian village, I’ve taken to telling people that running is my church. When I go on my longer more meditative runs on Sunday mornings. Running has always been my church. It is mindless and lovely for me. It makes me a better person. After a good long run the world always makes more sense. Through running I have learned that there are no problems that can’t be solved with a little bit of selfish love.

I have a lot of time, post race, to reflect on this mid race premonition. I have since realized that the pep talk came from somewhere deep within. As cheesy as it sounds I have decided that it was the more spiritual part of me finally speaking up during my longest session of “church” to date. Through trying to clean up Mind and Body, I found Spirit.

I have never believed in religion. When it comes up in conversation, at least in my Midwestern roots, it has always meant a Christian God, which I knew I didn’t believe in. The thought of Him never really did anything for me. I have however always believed in a Higher Power, and the power of just having some sort of faith. I have always believed in believing. I think, up until now that has been good enough for me. Just believe in something…anything, and you will get through.

So at the beginning of this month I made a second resolution. Believing in something isn’t good enough for me anymore. I want to know what I believe. Gratitude, the good in others, and knowing that you are happy and at peace with all of your decisions are all things that have me currently yearning to feel more aware.

I think that everyone has one part of the Mind, Body and Soul, trio that comes a little harder for him or her than the other two. Who knows how long this hunt will last. All I know is that one month in and it feels like I am just getting started.

“We run to undo the damage we’ve done to body and spirit. We run to find some part of ourselves yet undiscovered.” ~John “The Penguin” Bingham

“For me, running is a lifestyle and an art. I’m far more interested in the magic of it than the mechanics.” ~Lorraine Miller

GLOWing

Two weeks ago we finally held our girls empowerment camp. Cleverly named GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). GLOW is a very amazing camp that is supposed to happen in every country Peace Corps occupies. Peace Corps Zambia strongly suggests each Province (a province is similar to states in America) try to put on.

The prep work for GLOW starts about 9 months before the actual camp. First with the writing of a grant that will help to fund it and everything after that is planning the logistical nightmare and soliciting donations from local shop owners because the grant money alone will not fully fund the event. Before any of that can even happen there of course has to be chairpersons to plan the event. We, at Eastern Province, decided to hold two one-week camps, so myself and three other PCVs decided to head this camp. Actually I should say five other PCVs decided to head GLOW, but due to medical reasons for one PCV and irreconcilable differences between Zambia and the second PCV we were stuck with four planning the event.

I will leave out all of the prep work boringness from this blog. It was hard work that obviously paid off in the end. When August 15th finally rolled around and it was time to start my week of the camp it was instant excitement. There were eight PCVs all working together to pull this off.

Each PCV brought two, grade 8, girls from their schools to participate in the week long girl power event, as well as a female community mentor who will help to bring all of the knowledge back to the schools and assist the PCV to implement a girls group back at the school. During the week we taught the girls their rights according to the national law and not their village traditional law, we played games with them, public speaking, sex ed, HIV/AIDS education. We stressed to the girls that every time they spoke or had an idea they needed to speak loud and clear and with assertion and confidence… say it like you mean it! Not in an attempt to change their cultural, but in an attempt to teach them to be confident in themselves. A point that was driven home by our loud and proud female community mentors.

If watching the girls change from shy timid individuals to an entire group of positive and confident women because of our sessions wasn’t enough all of us PCVs got to watch and laugh as the ladies showered three times a day…just because they could. Ran around topless…and sometimes completely without clothes…just because they could. Watching them pretend that there was only one person in their beds at night when we tucked them in so that they could stay up until all hours of the night braiding hair and talking about all things that teenage girls talk about regardless of culture. They also found endless amounts of pleasure in washing all of their clothes…daily…just because the phenomenon of running water was blowing their minds.

Of course there could be a lot said about taking these young girls outside of their beautifully simple village lifes and showing them some of the more modern wonders of the world and then sending them back to the village to tell all of their friends about things that they may never see again. But I choose to see the good in it. Being taken out of the village to learn these things gave them the opportunity to be 100% girl without the fear of village elder furrowed brows. This was an amazing experience and by far the most rewarding week of my service thus far!

As they say in Zambia “If you educate a girl you educate a nation.”

The above is a text message I recently sent to a friend when talking about my lack of patience and how it has changed in Zambia. I was on a hitch that took 8 hours to travel a distance that should only take 4 hours. There were many seemingly unnecessary stops along the way. For instance the time we stopped for 45 minutes so that he could get a 1/2 roasted chicken because he was "very hungry," only to stuff it in the cooler, untouched, and trade it two hours down the road for some frozen fish. Oh Zambia.

I didn't quite realize that my outlook was such until I found myself typing it out in T9. If Zambia has taught me nothing else, I have learned that there is no need to sweat the small stuff. It is just time...it grows from nothing in these parts, so what if it takes you all day to travel what should take only a morning. Since writing it out I have found myself in many situations that a year ago would have had me on the phone with my mother preparing bail money, but now I just sigh, let it roll of my back and continue on with my day.

The most recent example of such a situation happened just this week...

A while ago I had this "really good idea" (sarcasm implied) to hold a 7K fun run, because I missed racing so much, and then have a big HIV testing event held after the race. There were going to be PCVs every where so that Zambians could ask all sorts of questions concerning America or PC. There was going to be American music playing from loud speakers at an acceptable volume, we were going to play any given song only once, (Zambians LOVE loud music, and they can play the exact same song over and over again for 8 hours straight, trust me, I've lived it) it was basically going to be one big day of culture exchange in honor of PC's 50th year of existence. My idea was just the race, knowing that I couldn't tackle it alone I recruited a friend to help, and from there the idea grew into what was sure to be an amazing adventure. We spent many days wandering around making contact with NGOs all over Chipata, We walked all over handing out flyers and posting them to make people aware of our idea. We even applied for a grant so that all of our bases would be covered...and then something happened!

The second president of Zambia died, and a nationwide ban was put on celebrations and events until his burial...5 days before our race was supposed to happen. This man gets buried on Monday, so we missed the mark by about 72 hours. Well, no big deal Magz, just reschedule right? You would fucking think so wouldn't ya America?!? Well, shit is just not that easy here. I will have to find a time when all of the PCVs would be willing help again, which is no easy task.

American Maggie would have totally lost her shit and maybe shed a tear or two over this whole thing. (American Maggie wouldn't ever have to deal with this because this shit doesn't happen in America) I was devastated for all of 6 minutes, no tears, and then I took a deep breath and started trying to plan when it could work again.

This was the biggest example of how far I have come in the last 16 months. I haven't saved the world, or even changed it probably, when newer PCVs ask me what the biggest change I've seen in myself is I quickly say that I am more patient now. A fact that my dear friend Casey will be happy to know about. She used to hate how compulsive and impatient I could be. If I had an idea I needed it to happen NOW! That mentality is impossible here...straight impossible.

Climb up over the top survey the state of your soul, you've got to find out for yourself weather or not your truly trying. ~Jason Mraz Lyric

Leaving my family was by far the hardest part of Peace Corps. I will never ever forget leaving the Kansas City airport that cold February day. I remember not sleeping the whole week leading up to it, just sitting up crying thinking about what the next two years would be like without them. I remember loading the car early that morning to depart and not being able to hold it together leaving them to do most of the work. I remember being crammed into the back of my mom's Malibu shoved up against my brother and not wanting to touch him because it was too hard. More than that I remember how he told me that it was okay if my arm rested against his leg, the look in his eye telling me he was trying to soak me in also. I love my brother more than anyone in the world, in fact, I can't fathom loving someone more than I do that kid.

On the other side of me in the backseat of that car was Matt. Matt is an amazing person. We have been friends and lovers off and on for close to forever now and he continues to be there when I need him. He is part of the family now so it was natural that he would be apart of the final send off. At the airport he was the optimistic one, buying funny trinkets to keep my spirits up. When it came time for the final send off he kept it together better than the rest of us.

My final memory of both Zach and Matt was watching tears stream down both of their faces through the tears on my own face as some airport worker told me that I would be okay as she shoved me through the metal detector. I still remember being so thankful for her, I am not sure I would have made it here without that last shove. The last thing I remember both of them saying was "I love you, and we will see you soon."

Well, two weeks ago all of those memories came flooding back! They came to visit. Our reunion was going to happen just like our depature...in an airport. In the days leading up to their arrival I had friends come and visit me in my village to help keep my mind off of how slow time is capable of moving. I thought I had gotten used to this fact being in Africa where time is SLOW when it wants to be, but when you are waiting to see two of your favorite people after 16 months of not seeing them, slow doesn't even begin to do time justice.

So there I am in the airport. I watched their plane land, sick to my stomach with excitement and hands shaking like crazy from nerves. I run down to customs so that I can greet them and hug them and somehow make them understand how much I have missed them both sooooooo much. With every person that clears customs before them I get more and more excited and the tears boil closer to the top, and then my brother comes to the door, and says in his brother voice, "I need your address now. They won't let us come through until they have an address." Asshole is business as usual and I love him more for that than if he had rushed to hug me also. "Well, how are you doing, I'm glad you're here." I say in an almost shrill voice. His response: "Well, I just sat on a plane for 13 hours, I am not great." For those of you that don't know Zach, you are thinking he is a complete dick. For those of you that do, you will understand why I love that asshole so much. 16 months and my greatest fear came to be realized as a waste of my time. I had been so worried that 16 months would change the amazing brother and sister relationship that the two of us have and so many others will never understand. The only thing that he didn't do was punch me, other than that, we were the same as always.

Then came my buddy Matt. Happy, smiling and ready for any adventure I could through at him. He gave me the hug that I have come to know so well in these past almost 7 years. Then to compensate for Zach he said something positive and along the lines of being happy to see me.

Just like that life was normal and more perfect than I had ever known before. We left the airport in a shuffle of bags, questions and haggling taxi drivers.

There are no words to express my happiness watching my brother and Matt play American football with my village kids. Or hearing my favorite kid Joanie saying "Get out my way, Imma gangsta," to Matt and Zach because all he knows is that it makes white people laugh when they hear him say it in his most adorable accent. There are also the memories of me laughing just like my villagers used to laugh at me when my visitors tried to talk Nyanja. I've always felt lucky to be able to experience life in an African village, but to be able to share such an incredible experience with two impressively open minded individuals who I happen to love very much...I'm just so lucky.

Being able to wake up at 5:00 in the morning and go on a freezing cold run with someone who was interested in my running and understood the runners lingo rolling off my tongue was such a breath of fresh air. I've always loved running with Matt. I love running with anyone who has run HCXC, but Matt and I have gone on many runs together. We've finished many runs together, some good and some bad. We ran almost every run at the same pace. That has never happened before. Matt is always much faster than me, or he has picked school or work over running and I can go longer than him. All of my PC friends smoke and think that I am some alien for wanting to take good care of my lungs so just having a running partner for a bit of a run would have been nice, but the fact that I had someone who could match me stride for stride was a really powerful boost in motivation at a pretty important part of a training program. Lucky again.

Going to a really fancy safari lodge as 3 mid-westerns who know absolutely nothing about being classy or how to really conduct ourselves in public without our mothers giving us "the look" from across the room gave me memories that still have me giggling out loud when I think about it. Seeing my brother so relaxed and in love with life that he is almost glowing was something that I never thought I would see. Watching him laugh until he cried because I stuck my finger in the butter because I am a moron is something I will never ever forget. Getting drunk with Matt in a pool at 1:00 in the afternoon from 1.5 beers while Zach is off getting vacation massages...awesome!

Getting soaked in the mist from Victoria Falls and then climbing into a taxi dripping wet talking about all of the things we are going to jump off of tomorrow with bungee cords affixed to our bodies is another memory I won't forget. Watching my brother taste Indian food for the first time with the grunted response being, "This is good shit," in the classy way that only Riley County Kansas can teach you. Or going on freezing cold 14 mile runs with Matt to Zimbabwe after scaring the shit out of him with my creepy hand at 5:30 in the morning crawling through his mosquito net. (I am laughing as I type out these memories.)

My last memory of them is still through streaming tears at an airport, but it is the memories in between those two that will keep me going for the next year until I see them again. I know I am consistently writing about how lucky I am, and you are all probably tired of reading about it, but I am so thankful for the this life. I am grateful for visitors, I am grateful that they could afford to come and I am insurmountably thankful 16 months did nothing to damage two of the relationships I value most.

Take care of all your memories, for you can not relive them. ~Bob Dylan

If you love having clean drinking water and a toilet very near your home please consider what it would be like if you didn't have those things. When you consider it and decide that it would really suck if you didn't have those things, then please consider donating to my cause. Thanks so much!

Click HERE

PEACE!

Running cross country in college allowed me a lot of time around some really dirty boys. No dirty in the way of cleanliness, but dirty in the way of thinking. They were college boys and there is sometimes nothing you can do about that. Much of what I know today about sex I learned as a result of them. Please do not panic, I didn’t take anything that they said as truth, but they would tell me things and then I would do some research to see if these things were true or false. Sadly for the women in their lives most of what they spoke was complete bullshit so I took it upon myself to educate them on the ways of women. Weather or not they listened I have no idea, if they did I should have gotten more thank you cards from their one night stands and girlfriends.

The dirty boys in my life were also obsessed with a game called Would You Rather. I am sure that many people have heard of this game and probably even played it. “Would you rather have 6 toes or 6 fingers?” Then there is the at home version, “Would you rather have tacos for dinner or pot roast?” I am still pretty sure that no matter what version you have played, the version that took place among me and my guy friends will trump it by way of nastiness. “Would you rather drink of 5 gallon bucket of your own shit or eat barbequed dead baby?” “Would you rather be trapped in a room with an angry gorilla or an angry bull?” I could go on, but I’ll quit while I’m ahead, I could go on, but if I did it would make the dead baby question seem like no big deal. Sorry to you folks at home that have to read this, but this is the reality that was my life during college. Even after some of these fellas graduated from HC, I would still get random “WYR…” text messages. Of course many girls opted out of playing this game, but I am not a quitter and have always been the girl to run around with the boys and since you can’t let your friends down I had to answer…or they would yell and annoy me until I snapped out an answer, “I’D EAT MY OWN SHIT OKAY, I CAN’T EAT A DEAD BABY!” “Yeah, see Magz, was that so hard, all you have to do is answer the question” Stupid boys, but still I continued to play.

When I joined Peace Corps I didn’t know that the game would follow me here. I was so wrapped up in the nastiness of the HCXC version that I had totally forgotten that a milder version existed! The PC version. I would like to enlighten you all now on just a few options that sometimes come up when we are all sitting around chatting….

WYR a baby goat fall into your pit latrine or a crazy woman come into your hut late at night to sweep and pray?

My answer: I’d take the goat. This sounds awful, but they die and crazy women just keep coming.

WYR eat caterpillars, kapenta (dried little fish), or flying termites?

My Answer: While I am all for trying new things, my motto in this country is “If it could potentially fuck up an entire day I am not eating it!” All three of these things fall into that category for me. But if I had to…I’ve heard the termites taste like bacon.

WYR be constipated or constantly shitting?

My answer: Things are supposed to come out of your body, not just sit there. Let it flow.

WYR shit into a plastic bag or a bucket?

My Answer: Bucket. I do it almost every morning. Something about the change in food has me sprinting out of bed at 5:30 every morning and there is no way I could make it too much farther. The mind is a powerful thing, thankfully, because when there are visitors it wakes me up a bit earlier.

WYR shit your self on transport or in your own bed?

My Answer: Both sound MORTIFYING! But the rule here is do not fuck with my sleep. Based on the last answer, you all know that it has been close.

WYR have ants or termites invade your hut?

My Answer: Both have happened. Termites are nicer, they warn you a bit and they don’t bite.

WYR have no matches or no toilet paper?

My Answer: No matches. As you can tell by the questions, shitting is very common here in PC, I never leave home without a good stash of TP.

WYR drink shake shake (nasty chunky corn beer that smells like baby vomit) or officers packets (little plastic packets of liquor that offer good nights but horrible mornings)?

My Answer: I have lived the packets. Horrible mornings, but pretty fun evenings…from what I remember.

WYR live two years without running water or without electricity?

My Answer: After being here for a year now, I have learned to deal without most of the other American luxeries, but literally everyday I crave running water. I miss it so much. I miss hot showers at the turn of a dial and I miss watering things and washing dishes without having to plan for it hours in advance. Water is amazing. Kiss your faucets people. KISS THEM HARD!

In this world there is nothing more submissive and weak than water. Yet for attacking that which is hard and strong nothing can surpass it. ~Loa Tzu

Today I was Jammin' in my garden with my African Herbsman, Bob Marley. It was the perfect choice of music for a four hour adventure in gardening.

I grew up on garden produce. The only time I had shit from a can was at school, and I hated it usually. Peas, green beans and corn taste awful from a can when you are used to fresh stuff. These are the reasons that my dad gets so pist when I comment on going "green." The Henton household has always been "greener" than most.

Today was a big day in the garden, and perhaps the day when I fell head over heels in love with gardening. When I step into my fenced in sanctuary the troubles go away (the reggae helps also) I am in the beginning stages of currently, but when I finish my garden is going to be pretty fucking rad.

Currently I have 6 beds and 20 tomato plants. I planted the first four and then left for a few days, when I came back my Amai had planted 16 more! What the hell she thinks we are going to do with 20 tomato plants is beyond me. We will probably sell them when they are as green as apples. (Zambians are not the most patient people when it comes to waiting for food)

Today I planted onions, radishes and carrots. My family is not really into the unknown. As it turns out Zambians are not that into flavor or the unknown.

Since I am often gone and gardens require daily care, Amai is second in charge. Then when it comes to harvest, if I am gone Amai gets the goods. I devoted a bed and a half just for her and my Atate. There is a popular veg here called rape (great name huh?) that my Atate is obsessed with so I had to get it for the man. :)

Tomorrow I vow to begin digging before 11:00. Digging beds at African high noon is not a good idea at all, in fact it is fucking stupid, but I keep doing it. My village thinks that white people don't feel heat. My village friends know that it is actually just stupdiity. Many passerbys stopped in today to say "Maggie, it is very hot right now, tomorrow start earlier." I reply telling them that I know. Then as they walk away, under my breath I mutter, I am just fucking stupid that is all...

Tomorrow I have big plans for a small herb garden. (Not of the Bob Marley variety mom, don't worry.) There are going to be some flower beds and a few more beds for veg so that I can cut down on my monthly grocery bill...all 20 dollars of it. :)

I am officially a green thumb now.

"I just want to keep my love life burning" Bob Marley

Today I was Jammin' in my garden with my African Herbsman, Bob Marley. It was the perfect choice of music for a four hour adventure in gardening.

I grew up on garden produce. The only time I had shit from a can was at school, and I hated it usually. Peas, green beans and corn taste awful from a can when you are used to fresh stuff. These are the reasons that my dad gets so pist when I comment on going "green." The Henton household has always been "greener" than most.

Today was a big day in the garden, and perhaps the day when I fell head over heels in love with gardening. When I step into my fenced in sanctuary the troubles go away (the reggae helps also) I am in the beginning stages of currently, but when I finish my garden is going to be pretty fucking rad.

Currently I have 6 beds and 20 tomato plants. I planted the first four and then left for a few days, when I came back my Amai had planted 16 more! What the hell she thinks we are going to do with 20 tomato plants is beyond me. We will probably sell them when they are as green as apples. (Zambians are not the most patient people when it comes to waiting for food)

Today I planted onions, radishes and carrots. My family is not really into the unknown. As it turns out Zambians are not that into flavor or the unknown.

Since I am often gone and gardens require daily care, Amai is second in charge. Then when it comes to harvest, if I am gone Amai gets the goods. I devoted a bed and a half just for her and my Atate. There is a popular veg here called rape (great name huh?) that my Atate is obsessed with so I had to get it for the man. :)

Tomorrow I vow to begin digging before 11:00. Digging beds at African high noon is not a good idea at all, in fact it is fucking stupid, but I keep doing it. My village thinks that white people don't feel heat. My village friends know that it is actually just stupdiity. Many passerbys stopped in today to say "Maggie, it is very hot right now, tomorrow start earlier." I reply telling them that I know. Then as they walk away, under my breath I mutter, I am just fucking stupid that is all...

Tomorrow I have big plans for a small herb garden. (Not of the Bob Marley variety mom, don't worry.) There are going to be some flower beds and a few more beds for veg so that I can cut down on my monthly grocery bill...all 20 dollars of it. :)

I am officially a green thumb now.

"I just want to keep my love life burning" Bob Marley

Facebook Statuses I never posted:

Maggie Anne Henton is obsessed with the way my new hut looks when it is lit by candlelight.

Maggie Anne Henton gardening with Bob Marley today. He is upset about the grass that I am not growing.

Maggie Anne Henton Today a kid told me that I could buy babies in town for 500,000 kwacha. About 100 USD. Been here a year and had no idea.

Maggie Anne Henton Because of my beloved garden my life takes about 60 Liters of water daily. That takes me an hour to collect. I miss running water.

Maggie Anne Henton Felt like a runner again this week...I bled through my sock twice this week. :)

Maggie Anne Henton has graduated from a Zambian baby to a Zambian toddler. I can now eat a whole stalk of sugar cane...but I still needed my Amai to start it for me. That shit hurts your teeth.

It is 19:00. I am handwriting this blog by candlelight. The air is crisp, clean and cold from this afternoons chilly rain. My feet are being kept warm by the charcoal that is cooking my dinner. Eric Clapton's Greatest Hits is playing from my iPod. Layla is the perfect blanket over the chorus of village noises that the night often brings. (i.e screaming children, and the drums that can be heard every night, the frogs, and my Atate chatting and giggling with passerby's)

Today was one of those perfect days. The kind where you don't really notice it as it is happening until the night falls and you realize that you are sad to see the day go. Nothing too exciting or out of the ordinary happened today. I did some laundry. I really needed it to it. Sadly after rubbing my fingers raw getting caught up on laundry I discovered that a rat ate through a bag that I stored my heavy blanket in throughout hot season...more laundry to do again tomorrow, weather permitting.

I also helped my host family get water. They are cementing the floor of their house. Yeah that is right! i said house, not hut...a mother fuckin' house. In case you are new to this blog, my Atate is a bad ass therefore they have a brick house with a nailed down tin roof. Badass status established and maintained! Go Atate. After the water was drawn my Amai helped me tear down my fence and weed and clear my future garden area,

Looking back on today, I think, that it was during all of my family time that the perfect day was in the making. While my Amai was helping me with the garden I still had clothes on the line and the rain came. We hustled around to get all of my clothes off of the line and my garden tools into shelter and out of the rain. When my Amai realized that I had it under control she rushed over to her compound to perform the same jobs. When I finished with my hut I ran over to help her put their firewood undercover. My Amai and I had a moment of eye contact when she first saw me helping that seemed to say everything. I was in the family, it was my job to help just as much as everyone else's job. I ran around with the women getting everything away while the men delt with the farm equipment. When everyone was finished I scattered to the comfort of my own hut to watch the beautiful rain in dry shelter. My Amain kept running around doing "mom jobs." She still had to deliver all of the boiled corn to all of her kids huts. The last stop on the afternoon snack tour...her newest daughter. I am pretty much the equivelent of a Zambian toddler, but she loves me still. :)

Today was confirmation that I am totally apart of the family. I think I knew that for a while, but I needed today to see just how much apart of it all I really am.

I've always been blessed.

I mean everyone is always blessed, all the time, but I think that when it comes to my family I really got a good hand.

When I was younger I remember my best friends coming to school and confiding in me the fights that they had had with their parents. I can still say that at 24 years old, I've never been in a fight with my parents. I really think that a strong sense of mutual respect was always there, ever since I can remember. My house would be a safe haven for friends that were fighting with their parents. My parents always opened their doors to them no questions asked. Momma Julie always ready to cook a meal that would make friends forget the tears that brought them to my house in the first place. Or if food was not in order she would sneak in a shoulder squeeze at just the right time. Pappa Tom always ready to make people laugh with a smart ass comment, and then on many occasions he would say just the right thing just before we were off to bed. My parents have always been perfect! I have always been blessed.

The first time a friend from college came home with me for a weekend she was shocked by how nice my family treated one another. Mostly she was referring to the fact that there was no yelling in my house...even...gasp...between my brother and I! My brother and I have a very loving relationship, though he would never admit it. Every time I tell him I love him Zach grabs my little muffin top and says "yeah, well you're getting fat." But then he smiles a little smile and we both know. Or he punches me hard enough to leave a bruise. Meh, brotherly love. I love that kid! In fact the only time Zach has ever verbally said those three words to me was the day that I left for PC, when it counts, Zach always pulls through.

The point is, I've never once taken for granted my family. My mom always cooking huge beautiful meals for large groups of our friends that we didn't tell her were coming at a moments notice, I always knew that she would do it, and I've always loved her for it. Or how no matter how pist she was that I once again blew through my monthly living allowance and needed more money she always gave it to me. She still hates me for it, but she did it. My dad coaching my softball time from the time I was in 2nd grade until I was an 8th grader, I still tell people that with so much love it chokes me up. My memories of him teaching me how to drive...when I was just old enough to reach the peddles. Or how he would let Zach and I drain his fountain Pepsi just after he bought it! Or Zach bringing water to me in bed when it was really annoying. Or how if I was already in bed he would just come in and turn the light on and leave. Those are the moments I know we all love each other the most.

I've always had a good family!

When I went to New York for a summer I got placed in an apartment with two of the kindest people I have ever met. My Brooklyn mom and dad, Ruthie and Edmund. They were an amazing family and took incredibly good care of me. I've always been lucky when it comes to families.

About a year ago today I was going to see my site for the first time. I was fucking terrified and questioning if I was actually insane or not. I got there really late and was worried about everything. People breaking in a killing me late at night....a snake sneaking into my hut and killing me late at night...things getting stolen...my mind was running wild. But before I could get too carried away a tall fat jolly looking man came up to me and said in breaking english "I live just there, if you need anything, just yell, I will be able to hear you. You are my daughter now, I will be your father." I trusted him instantly. Some PCVs don't have host families, they don't have Atates that make them laugh really hard daily. They don't have Amais whose laughter brings them out of a gray mood. I've always been blessed when it comes to families.

I've always been blessed! The good news is that I've always known it, and I've always loved it. What continues to amaze me is how lucky I keep getting with my families. Mom, Dad and Zach, will always always always be incredible and the loves of my life. Always! I will always know that. I will always remember that.

What continues to amaze me is how I keep getting good families. I am sure someday I luck will run out, but for now I am going to enjoy the ride. Constantly feeling this loved from this many sides of the world is too good of a feeling!

The love of a family is among life's greatest blessings. ~Unknown

Sometimes I forget that I need to be here. I mean that is so many ways. I needed to join Peace Corps. I needed to come to Zambia. I know that I was always meant to come here.

I’ve always believed that most things have long since been predetermined. The Universe decided long before I knew what would be good for me that I was going to be a runner. My body, stress fracture after stress fracture, has disagreed with this decision, but the Universe has decided and there is really nothing that I can do about it. But despite the amount of pain that this relationship has brought to be over the last 8 years, I come back to it every time. The amount of tears that I have shed over running will forever beat out any that I’ve ever cried for any man. I can’t say that it is the healthiest relationship ever, after no more than 5 or 6 months I am guaranteed a broken bone and a bruised ego, but I love the run.

The Universe decided that the running would lead me to Hastings College. Where I would meet all of my challenges. People could argue that it was the experience of College and the years of my life in which college takes place, but the Universe knew that Hastings College would be the perfect balance of everything. Never quite causing me to break, but never allowing me to get too cocky either, the perfect balance of heartbreak and happiness that would cause me to stay.

In the end, I believe, it would be that a broken heart and not an unsettling feeling in the space of my heart where happiness is held, a year after college, would be the perfect equation leading me to apply for the Peace Corps. That equation coupled with my constantly wanting to be somewhere else would be the reason that I got on the plane that would take me to Zambia almost a year ago today.

So I need to be here. I needed to join Peace Corps. I needed to meet people like my Atate who actually said aloud in his beautiful jolly broken English, “Why be mad? There is no reason. You should just always find yourself laughing.” I needed to meet my neighbor Patricia who is always there. ALWAYS. On the days when I would rather that she wasn’t she finds me, sometimes at 5 in the morning just to tell me she is going to the field as I lay in bed rolling my eyes. I needed to meet my Amai just so I could hear her giggle and take it back to America with me when I leave. The sound of her laughter, (she is usually giggling at Atate) settles the place in my heart where happiness goes. Letting me know that in April of 2012, that Happiness Place will be a clean and organized place ready to move on to the next chapter.

I need to be here because in January 2009 when I applied, I wanted to know that I could make myself happy all by myself. I wanted to know that I could forgive myself fully for things that I had done to myself, and to others. I wanted to know that I could forgive others for choices they had made that affected me negatively. I wanted to know that I could appreciate the really good things that I had done for people. I wanted to know that when I thought about myself the positive things that I had done would appear first in my thoughts instead of the painful mistakes I had made that put friendships in jeopardy and sometimes terminated them completely. I wanted to know that when I thought about friendships that I had terminated on my own accord, because I couldn’t handle the painful things they were doing, that instead of remembering the painful things, I would instead remember the positive things. I would remember the pain with a sense of gratitude, gently thanking them for turning me into the person that I am into, and then moving on. Not dwelling on anything else, not dwelling on the negative. There is a lot of time to think in PC. Some days, it is all there is to do. So in many ways I am not at all where I need to be in April of 2012 when this adventure ends in regards to these things, but I am a hell of a lot closer than I was a year ago.

I need to be here. 100%! I forget that. I am really bad about that. I always have been. I am here, living in Zambia. In an incredible village with incredible people doing things most people only ever dream about…and still….sometimes, all I can do is plan for what will happen in 2012 when this chapter is over. This is a problem that I have been putting most of my energy into. When I start a new book, inevitably 5 pages in I will flip to the back of the book just to know how many pages are in the entire book…then I will quick judge how long it might take me to read. And then within the book, at the start of every new chapter I flip ahead to figure out how many pages are in the chapter. This is how I have been my whole life, with every chapter of my life for as long as I can remember. I get to the vacation destination and instantly start stressing about how I am going to get home and how there are really only 6 more days left until I have to go home. THAT IS STUPID MAGGIE. Enjoy the journey…all of it…especially the now part of it. The present is a gift, I see the present under the tree and then just instantly look for the next one.

To be honest I am not sure this part of my personality will ever change, so I am really just more working on not letting this little quirk stress me out about myself. When asked what is next, I don’t think that I will ever be someone who says, “I am not sure.” I need to be okay with that.

I’ve been here a year. I’ve never once thought about high tailing it back home. I am happy here every single day. Not all day everyday, but everyday I feel happy. I love that I am doing this by myself. I love that many of these memories will forever only be mine to tell. I need to quit stressing about what is next, what will happen tomorrow, or the next day or even in the next year and just focus on what I am doing right in this exact moment. Be here, now. In every sense of the words; here and now.

"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others." ~Cicero

I just got back from toppin’ up. Sometimes I struggle to find things to write about for blogs. Life here now, for me, is just life. But life here, now, for me, is still a mystery to many people back home and I need to remember to take pleasure in how different everything is here. And I need to start writing about every little thing

So today I am writing about Toppin’ Up!

In America cell phones and the way they work is a bit different. You have to worry about the monthly bill and if you can actually afford to communicate with your friends that month. There are the beautiful options of endless amounts of text for call the same cost, unlimited internet, and unlimited minutes. In Zambia…nothing is unlimited…except for sunshine.

We’d been in country 3 days before we got our phones. The astounding differences between American phone companies and Zambian phone structure had us all a little stressed out. A day into the new system we were all hooked and I know that I am going to hate Verzion, AT&T, Sprint and all of those bull shit companies when I get back.

So we get our phones…the one I got cost less than $20. You can only imagine the spectacle that 50 clueless white people were making over a phone system that we thought was complete bullshit at the time. All the while we desperately wanted to just get a fucking phone so we could talk to our friends and family back home. We get the phones, only to find out that we then have to purchase a SIM card, which will in turn tell us our phone numbers. People who have traveled abroad for extended periods of time understand this part of the gig probably, because per usual the rest of the world has it figured out, and America is a little behind.

Now there is a mass of white people standing around in a tiny little store that might pass as a cubical in a normal work place asking what we do next. And you know how these things go when there are many people standing in one place all asking the same question because no one appears to really know what the fuck is going on. You know the chaos that ensues on kindergarten field trips. Especially when parents are along for the ride. Even as a kindergartener I remember knowing how insane that whole process. But I digress….

After what seems like hours about knowing which plan we needed to sign up for. “Is there unlimited plans?” “Which plan is the one that I sign up for so that I can call America whenever I want?” “How do I even text on this damn thing?” “Will it text in English?” And then without nothing really happening we all leave the store. None of the questions got answered. I just remember filing out of the store in a mass state of confusion. At the time I blamed it on jet lag and the fact that there were 50 people who didn’t know what was going on and one experienced PCV who couldn’t answer all the questions.

Then just like a kindergarten field trip from hell we get into the vehicle to go back home and we start really asking each other questions about how we can send a text message back home. I think that someone actually receiving a text from America while in the car inspired it. In that mass confusion someone got an answer out of someone or was technologically inclined enough to figure it out themselves.

“How did you do that? How did that happen? Did you just get a text from America? Help me, show me how you did that.” We all ask in one breath all at the same time.

“I bought talk time. “ They said. Then they went on to explain the whole magical system. Instead of paying for the damage at the end of the month when you find you’ve already shot yourself in the foot with too many charges you pay a little at a time up front and then it just subtracts a little bit at a time. They have these phones in America…track phones, tract phones…I have no idea. In America they seem annoying though.

All of the systems that are in place in America to make sure that you don’t run off with some major corporations little bit of money can’t really exist in a place like Zambia. There are no SSN to track people down with, and with poverty coming in ebbs and flows that change from week to week it would be impossible to do anything with some sort of “unlimited” plan.

The beautiful thing about toppin’ up in Zambia is you can literally top up anytime anywhere. Wondering in the middle of the bush, haven’t seen a person for a couple of kilometers and then all of a sudden you will see a little thatch shop that will be selling “talk time”. And then it is like the lottery every time you need it…but only because you have to scratch off the back with your fingernails to get your magic code that sends money to your phone.

You can buy it in really small amounts like 1,000 Kwacha that will send a few text messages. 1,000 Kwacha is about $.25. There are 2 major phone companies, Airtell and MTN. I’ve been told that MNT is the biggest phone company in the world. I’ve never checked into that fact. So text to text/phone call to phone call between the same companies is the cheapest way. Text to text can cost literally less than a penny, which is how most people in country communicate. In America we constantly criticize how there is only texting and people never talk on the phone anymore, here it is all people do.

Thank God for texting to. After a day full of not speaking English or understanding a single word that people around me are saying I totally look forward to when the clock ticks 18:00 after I bathe and I turn on my phone so I can text my friends about everything that happened to us during our always crazy days.

Toppin’ Up is totally rad.

Since early May my entire life has been occupying a space of roughly 2 meters by 3.5 meters. Among the many things sharing my happy place with me, were a double bed, my bike, and all off my food and clothes, not to mention the number of buckets and jerry cans needed to sustain a life in the village.

But a week ago all of this changed…FINALLY! Since June I have been going through all of the tedious rituals one has to complete to get anything done in a Zambian village.

When I first got to my lovely village that I now call home I was told that since my living quarters were going to be a bit smug they were going to build me a little kitchen that could house my bike and food. Thus creating a little bit more wiggle room in my hut and deterring the mice and rats from being roommates with me since they usually reside where the food is. Then after a month into my service Peace Corps came and had a meeting with my village and together they decided that maybe we should just build a bigger hut because it is very likely that my site would be replaced with a new volunteer when my service is up in 2012.

It was after that fateful meeting in June that my life became one big rollercoaster. One day I was being told that I would have my new hut “soon soon” and then another…after reality set in I was telling myself that it might still be months…like maybe 6 more. Keep in mind when we started this journey in June my headman and other important people in my village told me time and time again “if one is serious then a hut can be totally complete in 10 to 14 days…” They key word there is serious. I am not saying that people in my village are not serious, I am just saying that an American sense of serious and a Zambian sense of serious are about as similar as comparing Paris Hilton’s vocabulary with that of say maybe Condoleezza Rice.

So to start it all of I had to have a meeting with my headman. I had to tell him that I needed a new hut and I wanted everything to start ASAP. After leaving that meeting I am told discreetly by my translator/counterpart/best friend that now we are going to the other headman…the one who will actually get shit done. At this point I had been in the village for 2 months and had no idea that we had more than one headman. Thus the start of many double meets simply out of respect for this older headman who is apparently loosing it.

So after many weeks of meetings we finally got the walls for the hut up. This meant that we had to find a carpenter who wouldn’t charge the village too much money to build a house for the white girl. So we find this really cool carpenter who “built” (packed the mud) my walls with village tobacco rolled in newspaper posing as a cigarette the whole time. Oh and he was also wearing a rasta beanie on his head and a Bob Marley shirt…every day. I do not have to speak any more about how badass this dude was.

Getting the walls up also meant that we had to organize groups of women to come and pour water on my hole of mud everyday so that it muddy enough to pack into the shape of a wall. But it can’t be too muddy or then you have to wait a day for it to air out. This process had to start a few days before the actually construction started. The first day it was all little girls that showed up. A convoy of little ladies carrying water on their head that honestly weighs more than they do and then helping each other get it off their heads and pouring it into the hole.

So after the walls were up began the really hard part…the roof. Roofs in Zambia are a complete and total bitch…there is just no other way to say it. You have to get a lot of “poles” (long skinny trees) and then you have to get a lot of big fat trees that will be the outside support beams, or pillars if you like. Finding things like this are not easy in the 2nd most deforested country in the world. It is now September roughly (it all runs together now in my head) and by this time I am over being polite and going to the old headman, as is my Atate (host father) and my translator/counterpart/best friend, Simon. So together we skip him and just go straight to the 2nd headman. He tells us that he will organize the village (approx. 1500 people) and the men will go and cut the poles and harvest the fiber. The day that this is supposed to happen only 9 men show up. For the rest of the time it takes to complete my house and most especially my roof these will be my favorite 9 men in the world.

So they cut the poles and get the fiber and then I wait a week or two…at least…until they go out into the bush and go and pick them all up with an ox cart. After all of the poles are on my compound I have to have another meeting with the headman to schedule a day in which we can put the roof up.

Let me just briefly mention that in most of these cases I am not just having one meeting to get these dates and things done…I am having multiple meetings, multiple days in a row, multiple months in a row.

So on day my 9 knights in shining armor show up and place the big pillars into the ground. 11 in all I think.

Then another day they come back and hang the poles.

Then it takes two days to get the grass up around the poles so that I have a real thatch roof. That I am instantly obsessed with. It is at this point that I start to think that the hard work is done and the rest will be a breeze. I mean all I need to do now is get windows and a door made, get the cement smeared on my walls and floor and then move in. Sounds easy right???

WRONG!

I can’t remember at what point it happened or what steps we were on in the completion of my hut but for some reason in my Atate’s line of logic we could not move on until the windows were in…why I don’t know and can’t really remember. I just remember that it didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. So that meant multiple meetings with my sweet carpenter, January, to hustle him into completing these things.

Then once we got the door from him it was discovered that it was too big and we needed to dig deeper and add another layer of mud to the tops of my walls….

Then the cementing process needed to happen about the time everyone was starting to go to their fields to start clearing them and getting them ready for planting. Food security totally trumps my cement floors…and it should. Sweet January got it all done though. God bless that man. It is at this point in the game that he gets added to the 9…I now have 10 knights sitting around my Peace Corps round table.

Then at some point after the roof is up and running I have to leave the village for a time with meetings. When I come back I discover that I have carpenter ants living in my roof. They are so bad that after just a week they have left a half-inch of very fine white dust all over my hut. It is literally snowing in my hut and you can hear them eating. This means putting off moving in until I can get that problem under control. If I slept in there I would for sure suffocate.

So I buy some spray…totally convinced that would kill them. WRONG! Turns out to make it in Zambia you have to be tough, so fucking tough that 100% poison won’t kill you. So I run to Simon in almost tears asking him what we can do. He calmly tells me we will simply start a series of small fires in my hut and smoke ‘em out. Okay “sweet”, I say lets do that tomorrow. One week later we do it…twice…for 8 hours at a time. There was so much smoke pouring out of my hut it would have for sure killed a human in 30 minutes if they had to breath that. Carpenter ants though are like crab grass…they aren’t going anywhere!

I am reaching my breaking point now. It is January. I was promised to be living in this hut by the beginning of August. If there was ever a point in my life where I have reached my limits…I was getting pretty close a few weeks ago.

So since the ants are not going anywhere and I refuse to live anywhere other than that hut I decided to buy some black plastic that will catch all of their dust and hopefully we can live in some sort of harmony. So I purchase the plastic and run to Simon and ask who will hang it. He, at this point, has also reached his breaking point. He is over the meetings and having to explain to me that something isn’t going to work out and then seeing my heartbreak. So he decides he will take this responsibility on himself and hang it with his uncle and friend. “We’ll do it tomorrow,” he says. Two days later he comes over to hang the plastic. We get half way done and he has to come back the next day to finish. So three days later he comes back and together just the two of us we finish the job.

Then something really amazing happens! I ask my Atate when we can organize people to help me move my bed frame into my new hut. It is Wednesday when I am asking this and in my head I have Friday as moving day. But no, Atate says something so wonderful and so totally beautiful I have to ask him to repeat himself a few times. “Tomorrow, around 16:00 it can be done.” “WHAT!” A day earlier than I had expected….and the funny thing was…I knew he wasn’t kidding. I knew that by Thursday night I would be sleeping in my new hut.

And sure enough…it took 3 hours, 4 men, and 3 women (women were there to help with the logic of it all. Turns out men all over the world are a little short on common sense) When the women showed up they took one look at the whole picture and told one of the kids to go and get them some peanuts…they knew it was going to be a while and that we might need some snacks. ☺

So three hours later a huge trench 3 meters deep and 1 meter wide dug in front of my new hut my bed was finally in. And I was so happy I could have cried. But crying is no acceptable here so I kept it together.

My new hut is beautiful and perfect and lovely. Some people move into their first real house with roommates or husbands/wives or life partners. I moved into mine completely alone in a village in Zambia. I wouldn’t have done it any other way. It is mine…I worked endlessly with the carpenters, headmen and villagers much the way people in America work with contractors, zoning committees and electricians to get everything perfect . This is my first home and I love it.

“A house is not a home.” Luther Vandross

(The song I was humming the entire time we were trying to move the bed ☺ )

A few weeks ago I was at a Peace Corps Training. It was the best PC training that I have been to yet during my service. Generally with PC training workshops you bring a village counterpart that is supposed to help you bring the things you learned back to the village that way there are two people within the village that are equipped with the knowledge and so that when you leave the village after your two years are through the knowledge remains.

This most recent workshop was our Pepfar workshop. Pepfar stands for Presidents Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief. It was developed by President Bush and the reasons for which it was created are all in the name. People had a lot of problems with Pepfar when it first came to fruition but slowly the kinks are getting worked out. However regardless or how you feel or felt about Pepfar now or then please realize this program has done amazing things for all of Africa and especially Zambia. According to my our trainer, who came to Zambia from the UK in 2003, the only people who had access to ARVs were very wealthy people living in Lusaka. Now only 7 years later all due to the funds provided by Pepfar 350,000 people are on them. To many Americans that does not seem like a large number when you consider that it is a country of approximately 11 million people and the amount of money that the US government has been pumping into Zambia. However, when you also take into consideration that this is a developing country with a crumbling infrastructure, unreliable transport and government corruption 350,000 people is a HUGE amount of people.

ARVs are the drugs that are given to people living with HIV (PLWH) to help them keep their viral load down. A low viral load means that their less likely to infect their partners which also helps keep PLWH numbers down in Zambia. 350,000 is a large number. A lower viral load means that it is less likely that a mother would pass the virus on to her child while in the womb or during breast feeding. 350,000 is a large number. A lower viral load means that people will live longer to see their children and the world change around them. Again, when we are talking about the number of lives that have been dramatically changed 350,000 is a large number.

Pepfar funds 75% of anything HIV/AIDS related in Zambia. Non-profits helping PLWH, support groups that help people get the medication or teach them better nutrition...anything HIV/AIDS related you support 75% of! You should feel proud.

During the training we tried to do multiple activities that we could bring back to our villages to help people maintain a positive attitude. One of these activities was something in which we did a life plan goal list. The purpose was two fold. One to help people remember their goal so that they could stay focused and reach them. And secondly, to help people remember that they did have something to live for. They had things that they wanted to achieve for themselves and for their children. Everyone got a piece of paper and a marker and we were supposed to draw pictures of things that we wanted to do in the next three years.

Going around the room all of the PCVs drew pictures of college and a family and places they wanted to travel and cars and houses they hoped to own in the future. Big elaborate plans that our society has set us up to expect. Forgetting all about all of the things that we have started to take for granted. Our counterparts take nothing for granted though. They drew pictures of food and mud houses with tin roofs. They drew pictures of they children going to school. And during describing their goals they left nothing out..."this is the house that I would like to some day have with a tin roof so that it won't leak and my children will be healthier because there will not be mold and they will not be wet when they sleep." ..."These are my children, a boy and a girl. Only two because I want to be able to feed them year round. And they are healthy." ..."These are my children going to school so that they can learn to read and write since I did not get to." ..."This is my field of corn, it is bigger than lasts years and will hopefully get bigger every year so that I can try to give a better life to my family a little bit at a time."

Made me realize how big picture Americans are and how much we forget about along the way. Sure in America college and grad school are great goal, but it wouldn't be a terrible thing to say that all I want out of the next three years is to have food on my plate at every meal and a dry place to sleep every night. Does not sound too bad to me.

All misfortune is but a stepping stone to fortune.

-- Henry David Thoreau

Life in Africa is hard. From my very limited experience here I can tell you that. I can tell you that the people here in Zambia specifically work very hard for everything that they have. Waking up at 4am to bust their ass before it gets too hot to do anything. I can also tell you that Village life is hard...and it is fragile. More fragile than I could have ever known before entering this country. Due to things like poor health care systems, and having to travel for kilometers upon kilometers on a bike, ox cart or by foot to reach a clinic that may or may not have medicine to treat you takes its toll on a person. Working hard as soon as your can pretty much walk takes its toll on a person.

One in every seven people suffers from HIV. In 2009 alone nearly 83,000 people were newly diagnosed. Even in my limited experience here I know that number is skewed. Clinics do not report everything they are supposed to because either the man power or the motivation is not there. Many people never even go to get tested for many reasons. Perhaps traveling to a clinic would take a day alone just to get there. They could already be too sick to travel the distance to a clinic. Perhaps they don't want to be told that they have the disease so they don't even bother to get tested. The availability of VRTs is limited so for some people, even though they know they have HIV they do not have the option to take the medicine that would help them.

The current life expectancy of the average person in Zambia is 39 years old. I encourage you, no matter your current age, to stop and think about where you want to be at 39 , or where you were at 39, then think about stopping right there and being done.

There is also the malaria situation. Almost no one in my village sleeps with a mosquito net. They can't afford them. This can quite literally mean sleeping with mice and rats crawling all over you while you sleep, while getting ate up by malaria carrying mosquitos. Not exactly healthy.

Poverty is also an everyday part of life in Zambia. I see people every day who walk all over without shoes because they can't afford to have shoes and feed their children. (Flip flops here cost about $1 US Dollar.) They live in houses with grass roofs and mud walls. With no roof, in a bad downpour their houses could literally melt. Even with the grass roof the odds of it leaking are about 100% (Rainy season is coming, I am sure I will post about when it is leaking in my hut...) This means that the air in your hut can become unsafe to breath due to mold that will not go away. Poverty also means that food is also not available year round. Malnutrition takes its toll on a body as well.

Funerals are a very natural occurrence for me now in the Village. There are months where they happen once a week. No one is phased by this. Not like American funeral culture at all.

Recently I had small peak and brief peak into how fragile your world as a villager can be. Get excited this story involves the neighbor Patricia. I love this woman more than words can say so this experience was a tearful and terrifying one for me. God bless her though because without her as my neighbor, what the hell would I write about for all of you????

I had just gotten home from a trip to the boma. I had a fellow PCV with me who had come to visit. As soon as we arrive we do the polite thing and go and greet my family hello. Atate is an instant hit with Tabatha. (In fact, my Atate is pretty famous in Peace Corps circles because he is such a sweet adorable and funny old man.) After that we immediately head to the borehole to get water for bathing that night. After we get back into my compound I am just trying to get organized for the night and I notice that my Atate is yelling something in the direction of Patricia's house. Taken off guard I continue to look at my Atate trying to figure out what he is saying in Chewa, he repeats it and still I do not understand. Atate is yelling whatever it is that he is saying and clearly in a state of panic. (While it was happening this moment in time seems like it took hours, but looking back on it now I know that was maybe not even a full second.) Finally I turn to see what he is look at and yelling at and to my complete horror, the bundles of grass that Patricia's has leaning up against the structure that holds all of their food for the year are up in flames. Huge flames! Now everyone in the village has seen it and women are starting to scream.

According to Tabatha, I start yelling "Oh my God, Oh my God! What do I do? What do I do? Oh my God, Water! I just got water." At this moment she still has no idea what is going on, she has no idea what I am panicking about as I grab my two 10 liter jerry cans and sprint out of my compound onto Patricia's. I come back to get my 20 liter and a bucket to help pour water and Tabatha has finally figured it all out also and is now frantically asking "what do I do?" "A bucket," I yell, "get a bucket!" Together we sprint over and start pouring water out of jerry cans into the buckets of the men who are pouring it onto what I will call "the grain bin".

This "grain bin" is not the tin roofed dream you all imagine when you hear the words grain bin. It is made out of sticks, dirt and a dried grass thatch roof just waiting to have spark hit it just right. Contained within the bin is a years worth of dried corn that will also go up in flames faster than a beauty queen's hair.

To further paint the picture, the whole community has come over to help save this families food. The neighboring women are running with what water they can spare. The men are running buckets back and forth that are being filled by Tabatha, myself and my Amai and one or two other women. The rest of them are watching in wonder simply because they want to stay out of the way. The men are frantically getting water from the 4 or 5 of us or taking axes and cutting into the side of the bin and pulling out all of the corn. The corn at this moment in time is all that matter....just like most impoverished nations...do whatever you need to do, but save the food. My Atate is one of the men with an ax while others have garden hoes and buckets that they are scooping the corn into to get it as far away from the flame as possible.

It is all happening so fast, the water is doing pretty much nothing to calm the fire and I can't tell how much corn is getting burnt and how much is getting saved. Christina, Patricia's daughter, is screaming crying and can't be calmed down. Women are yelling directions to the men. The men are yelling at each other frantic to all be understood, everyone men and women alike are just yelling. I keep looking for Patricia, my best Village friend, to see how she is reacting to this whole thing. I can hear Tabatha yelling go commands to the men as their buckets get filled up with our water. Still, it hasn't been probably 4 minutes since I first heard my Atate yelling.

Now I hear all of the women start screaming "ALFRED!!" I quick look at my Atate, who sometimes goes by Alfred and he is fine, I look again searching hard to see who they are yelling at. Their screams sound as if someone is on fire...or about to be. Then I see it, my brother (named after his Atate) has climbed completely into the bin and is preparing to push the flaming roof off with his hands. The men have now started yelling at him as well. If he can't push it off and gets stuck in there he is a dead man. The flames will be too much and it is getting to the point where it could all go soon. I will never know if this act of heroism was just a high school boy thinking "this is going to be awesome," or if he just knew that getting that flaming roof off of the bin is the only way to save the corn. The only way! If the corn does not get saved it means that Patricia and her family of 6 will not have food until harvest in 2011. So in this moment of Superman-ness Alfred pushes the roof off himself with his bare hands.

The water has now run out and Tabatha are desperatly trying to figure out what we do next to help. All we can tell is that people keep saying madzi, which means water. We keep trying to decide if we need more water. By the time we run to the borehole, pump the water and run back it will be too late. During our contemplation I have time to think finally. If only for a second, but it is just enough time to bring tears to my eyes. "All of their food," is all I can think. I still had not really even stopped to ask myself how this fire started. The food was all that mattered. They have to eat.

So because we hated feeling helpless we run to the borehole about 600 meters away and pump out 40 more slow liters of water and run back. We were correct, by the time we got back everything was done. People had started walking away and my Atate was looking for me.

"You have done very well, Maggie, you worked so fast." Turning to Tabatha, "Both of you thought very fast. The people are very happy, thank you both." Zambians are always so polite, and my Atate is the most polite. :)

"How much corn did they loose?"

"It has all been saved. You should not worry."

"Thank goodness, Atate, how did it happen?"

"That little boy that you call mbvuto has started this." Patricia's son Joanie is just an ornery little thing. Mbvuto means problems and just that past week I had lovingly replaced his name Joanie with the name Mbvuto because he was always causing problems. As Tabatha later put it, Joanie is the kid that lights cherry bombs and throws them down the toilet. He is only 4.

"JOANIE?!?!"

"Yes, that one."

"How?"

"He had matches and he lit one and threw it onto the grass that they were saving."

"OH MY GOD. Mbvuto miningi." (Problems...many) With this comment people all around start laughing. And just like that all of the stress of that past few minutes is over. The food is fine, we can build a new bin before the rains come, no problems. There is humor in the world again. The villagers and obsessed with staring and Tabatha and I as we process this whole thing. Laughing the whole time. We are totally blown away by how okay it all is now.

Even the next day Joanie is the talk of the village. As people greet me on my morning chores, "good morning, Joanie problems!" Yeah no shit! Patricia finally comes over and I ask her who saw Joanie light the match. She tells me it was her that saw. He stole them from the kitchen hut and was playing with them. Having never used them before he was not sure what he is doing. But being the incredibly observant 4 year old that he is he figured out how to light them. He lit the first one and was so excited that he yelled to get Patricia's attention. When she finally looked over he had lit a second one. Her yelling NO at him scared him so he threw the match in hopes that it would keep him out of trouble, however he threw it right onto the dried grass. And just like a wheat field on the 4th of July, it went up in smoke.

"Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well." ~Voltaire

Read This. It will only take about 2 seconds if you are a good reader...For real 2 seconds.

Then know that you are lucky and have so much to be thankful for.

We have grown literally afraid to be poor. We despise anyone who elects to be poor in order to simplify and save his inner life. If he does not join the general scramble and pant with the money-making street, we deem him spiritless and lacking in ambition. ~William James

Being in a new culture almost always means a new language. Unless that culture change is leaving the Mid West and moving to the Big Apple...I did that once...we spoke the same language...English...but when it came to understanding what the hell they were saying I had not a clue. But that is another story. Right now I am talking about living in the Eastern Province of Zambia in Chewa Nation. Chewa or Nyanja (cimodzi modzi, if you keep reading you will soon understand the nonsense you just read!) is the language that is spoken here. There are a few selected words from this language and culture that are so stuck in my brain that the English equivalent no longer comes out of my mouth. This makes talking to people from America a little difficult. So I am taking this moment to update you all on some words that will hopefully be with me for the rest of my life.

DISCLAIMER: The Chewa part of these words will not probably be spelled correctly in Chewa...sad to say but I don't care enough to go through and look them all up, so if you are an Eastern Volunteer reading this...deal with it!

Atate: Father, or sir

Amai: Mother, aunt, it is a respectful way to refer to any woman older than yourself.

Iwe: Pronounced E-WAY this is the impolite way to say you. Most often it is the word that is yelled at the kids and myself by all of the adults in the entire country...not just Eastern. I have finally gotten brave enough to say this to the kids when I am mad at them for doing something..."Iwe....choka" "You, Stop" As it turns out saying iwe stops all children dead in their tracks as well as just about any PCV. It is a fun word. In PCZ when we as PCVs refer to "our kids" we say my iwe because if you came into the village knowing nothing about the language you would think that the word for child was iwe.

Chabe: Used to say only or just. For example...you are supposed to eat with your right hand chabe. Usually used at the end of a sentence for emphasis. It is an Eastern PCV favorite. I like it in my Village when asking for help..."I need you to do this...CHABE" So that the ladies won't get too carried away with their helpfulness which is something that Zambians in general have a tendency to do.

Pita: Go! Pitani is the polite way to say this...but this phrase often comes out of my mouth when I want the iwe to go away.

Tiyenda: Pronounced Tee-yen-duh It means lets go. Or Tien for short.

Sweetie: This is what they call candy in this country. A phrase I hear everyday in the village without fail is "Ndifuna ma sweetie" "I want a sweetie." PCV use sweeties as bargaining material with the iwe to get things done...like having one of them go and get your water for you on that particular day. It is payment. And after the sweetie is gone they will suck on the plastic that it came in to get every last bit of sugar from their beloved sweetie.

Madzi: Water. Used in a sentence it would go something like this. "Mufuna kutapa madzi? Ndipatsa ma sweetie pamene mubwera? Do you want to get water? I will give you a sweetie when you come back."

Bwanji: Means how. Often used as a general means of greeting. Sort of like hows it going? Muli Bwanji if you have never met before or it is a more formal event means "How Are You?"

N'gombe: Cow

Nyumba: House or in my case Hut

Boza: Lie or liar. One of my favorite Chewa words to throw around. The villagers love it. When I don't believe what they are telling me I just yell BOZA!

Manjae Manjae: Pronounced Mon-jay. It means soon soon. "Ndibwera manjae manjae" I will come soon soon. Never said just soon. Always double.

Samba: Bath or bathing

Muzungu: Most generally this means white person...but could be extended to rich person and you can even say it to your boss. I hear this yelled at me often...just incase I forgot that I was white.

Ndalama: Money.

Kulibe: Ku-Lee-Bay. Means there is nothing or to be without. Often said while taking one arm and putting it between chest and waist level, cupping your hand and moving it back and forth as if you have dice in your hand to signify nothing.

Cimodzi-modzi: Pronounced Chi-modzi modzi. It means the same...to be the same. What is the difference between that and that? Cimodzi-modzi.

Of course these are just a few. But I thought it might fun to let you all know what I am talking about sometimes. Because the longer times goes on here the more these words are going to leak into my spoken and written word vocab.

"Words should be used as tools for communication not a subsitiute for action. -Unknown"

Before I get into the actual story of the post I feel like I need to give you, the reader, a little background information. In past posts I have mentioned how I hate boobs in this country. Yes boobs. This hatred has led me to take such good care of my own two lady lumps. They get placed into a snug sports bra every day as soon as I wake up. This sports bras only job is to keep the girls up. Up where they belong...up is where I always thought boobs should be...until I got into this country. It is when I got into this country and into the village that I learned, rather quickly I might add, that this train of thought is in the minority. Boobs in this country are exhausting to me...on any sort of estrogen excreting thing...goats, cows, pigs humans. If it could check the "female box" on any sort of questionnaire then their boobs make me tired and sad.

In the animal world mommas meander along while their not so young "young" follow along beside or behind them tripping their mothers while head butting their tits, boobs, breasts, nipples, what ever you want to call them just to get a dribble of milk...and it appears to me that it is only to get a little drink. Their kids are never that committed to needing milk...they just get a little drink and then are off playing again, If you are going to head butt my tits for reasons unknown you better be damn thirsty to make it worth my time.

Where the actual humans are concerned...we have opposable thumbs so the kids can get a little more carried away here. Children here reach into their mothers shirt and pull out the saggy tit and begin sucking away while the moms seem to be totally ignorant to the fact that their privacy has been so much more than invaded. Or the moms will contort their body in some karma sutra impossible yoga position stance so that their milk wanting child doesn't have to move from to get what they want. They will squat down with their boob hanging out while their kid lays on the ground and whines because he/she wants milk but does not want to be picked up or moved. God forbid I inconvenience you, child, to let you suck on my tit. Damn kids...birth control has never been stronger.

Furthermore, boobs here on these women were never meant to be perky. No matter the size of said tit , they sprout out sagging. It is sad really...at the age of 15 these girls already have saggy boobs. Perhaps it is just the Zambian way?

So...now back to the story....

Well it started out like any other village day between the hours of 16:00 and 17:something. I sweep out my insaka (a gazebo like structure) and roll out my reed mat and begin my little exercise routine. This workout has been implemented into my village life as a way to maintain my sanity when busy months keep me from seeing other volunteers...It isn't much, pushups here, squats there and a few other odds and ends I found on womenshealthmag.com. It is about this time that my crazy neighbor comes over...yup, they exist even in villages in Africa. I love this woman with all of my heart. Her name is Patricia, I have written about her before, she is the lady who forced my bike wreck mangled arm straight at a time when it really preferred to be bent at a comfortable 90 degrees.

So Patricia is coming over to return the clothes pins that she borrowed earlier in the day (Clothes pins are a hot commodity here on laundry day...mine get borrowed often since I am the only person in the village with them). Of course because Patricia is the walking definition of a nosy neighbor she picks up my pages that the workouts are printed on. You know the ones, white girls in tiny shorts and sports bras, rocking the body that every suggested exercise rep reminds you you'll never have.

More background information, in Zambia, though tits are totally fair game and can been whipped out for the world to see at any sort of social function and it is not offensive to anyone but me...though I am pretty desensitized at this point in my PC service. Any part of your leg above the knee is pretty much a straight ticket to whoreville as far as they are concerned. Knees are naughty and the thighs that this white girl workout queen is sporting is enough to send Patricia into a panic attack.

So as Patricia is looking at this picture she asks me, for the millionth time in our short little relationship if American women can show their legs. Patricia speaks zero english so she has been vital to my language learning. I credit a big portion of my Nyanja comprehension to her. She is insistent on talking to me (because she is a nosy neighbor) and she is even more insistent on being understood and she will not stop until we are both sure that we are on the same page. The following is a roughly translated conversation that will forever be famous in my PC memories. Enjoy!

P: "So women in the America can show their legs?"

M: "Yup! No problems will happen if you show your legs."

P: "Humph! Not Zambia. If you show above here (pointing to just below her knees) HULE! (whore) No no, not bare. If you are bare it means that you want many men. You must wear chitenge then it is okay."

M: "I know."

P: "And the bra. It looks very nice. Very nice." Then while grabbing her own D cups down around her waist she pulls them up to a more perky place and says, "You want them so"

M" The giggling has started now

P: "Good, very good" She says as she looks longingly at the breasts of someone who, in Patricia's defense, never breast fed 6 children for 24 months a pop. That is 12 years of her life! Those boobs never stood a chance. And then again, "They look so good."

M: More giggling.

P: My giggling pulls her out of her busty trance. "Maggie don't laugh at me." She says laughing at me. :In America everyone wears these to keep them here?" As she again wrangles the girls up.

M: "Maybe" This is what I say because my language isn't good enough to explain hippies and not bra loving ladies.

P: "Yours are so good!" She says looking directly at my boobs.

M: The laughing is pretty out of control at this point.

P: "They look so nice, and they stay here." She says as again she pulls them up. "And I bet when your having sex with someone because they don't hit them in the face during sex. Not so?" Implying that because my boobs are in a sports bra every day when I take it off they are not so saggy that they could be classified as a weapon during intercourse. She then takes one of her own and swings it around showing me how hers hit her husband in the face during what Cosmo would call "girl on top."

M: I duck for cover and then die laughing.

So, there you have it folks. Wear a bra because apparently being hit in the face with a saggy tit during sex is not sexy. Ladies, if you are interested in doing some volunteer service work pack up all your old over the shoulder bolder holders and ship them my way. I got a village full of Saggy Sallies longing to be Perky Patricias.

Written in October in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. If shipping your old bras seems a bit odd (WHICH IT SHOULD) you could do a different kind of good deed! Donate Now!

Last week a group of 6 friends and I traveled to Lake Malawi for a little vacation get away. It was my first real traveling adventure in Africa and one that I will never forget. Early Sunday morning we all get up to try to make it to the Zambia/Malawi border in good time so that we could reach the lake in good time. Since this was new to most of us we thought that this would be enough to get us to our destination by 17:00 or 18:00 that night....we were wrong!

So we reach the border at 6:45 am I get out my passport and feel instantly nervous. I blame the American media and all of the shit that they always talk about concerning "the border". But no worries we made it through the border no problems...it is when we get into Malawi that the traveling mayhem begins. We crawl into two cabs that take us to the border town so that we can buy out a mini bus. Mini busses are the worst way to travel as far as I am concerned. They are small busses that are assorted colors. They seat 16 or 17 people properly...but it isn't that uncommon to find about 20 people crammed into on. They are also home to a whole host of smells that you would much rather wear without. We are American's with shit to do...so instead of waiting for the bus to fill up (which could take hours) we decide to buy out the whole thing and bargain with them on the price of 16 people when there are only 7 of us. We tell them that if we buy out the whole bus there can be no stopping for other people...they stop of 3 people and a huge argument ensues...they no longer stop after we throw down with them.

The mini bus takes us to the Bus Station that is an hour and a half away. I think these bus station situations are the reasons why they say it takes a certain kind of traveler to travel Africa....nothing in my American existence could have prepared me for this. As an American you expect that there will be a bus schedule...but since I have been in Africa for 7 months now I expected that there might be a schedule that would more than likely run 2 or 3 hours behind schedule. NOPE! Wrong! Upon arrival we immediately find a schedule that appears to be older than motorized transportation itself telling us that the next bus in Nkhata Bay will leave at 11:00. It is currently 10:00 and we have to do all of the things that travelers have to do in between points A, B, and C: pee/find the bathrooms, find an ATM to get Malawian money, and maybe try to find some food and if I am really lucky a Pepsi. Tim has been here before so he sets off to find out how the bus mess is going to pan out. The rest of the boys go out to find the ATM, "cash box" and the girls split the duty of finding the bathrooms and watching the bags. Meanwhile you are constantly being pushed and pulled around by fellow travelers and taxi drivers and other mini bus drivers trying to make a kwacha (money) are asking you where you are going and if you want to take a taxi/bus. As you are telling them no, they have already started bargaining the price with you...they don't listen.

Nat buys me a Pepsi which takes care of that so the girls and I head of to the cash box to get money for the rest of the trip. We've been told that the ATM offers us the best exchange rate from Zambian kwacha to Malawian kwacha. We find the cash box about 800 meters from the bus station next to a beautiful Mosque I put in my PC debit card to take out the kwacha I have been saving for this trip only to find that my card isn't working and due to a PC glitch in the pay roll system I did not get paid this month. Well, this is inconvenient, I think to myself, I guess until I get this straightened out I will have to use my US ATM Card. The machine then tells me some message I no longer remember because I've never seen a message like that on an ATM. Well fuck! I guess I am going to have to borrow money for a bit until I get this figured out. (As I write this it has been a week and 3 days since I figured this out and the PC glitch has still not been taken care of. Oh well)

We get back to the bus station and Tim tells us the stall in which our bus will come through and you buy tickets as you board the bus so now all we can do is wait until a bus pulls up that says Nkhata Bay on the windshield. This seemed easy enough to me. WRONG again! Every time a bus pulls up into this stall complete chaos happens for about 20 minutes until it is decided where the bus is going. When the poor bus driver gets to the station he himself does not know where he is going next, he has to wait until he gets word from his boss about his next stop. Until this is decided all people in the stall waiting to go somewhere crowd around the bus knocking over fellow travelers...including women and children...with no sympathy for anyone or anything you might be carrying. I am doing all of this with a walking boot on due to a recent stress fracture I have acquired and I am pretty sure that I am going to some how hurt my knee because I am being knocked every which way with no way to compensate for my movements. There are people 5 or 6 at a time trying to all fit themselves through a charter bus door at once including their luggage. We do this routine a few times all for no reason because the bus was never going where we needed it to go. "Thank God," I think to myself, "all of my fellow PC travel buddies are laid back individuals!" No of us loose our cool or our patients. And as I write this a week later I am happy to say that we are all still friends. :)

Finally we are standing in line for a possible bus when another in a totally different stall pulls up and people start yelling that this new bus is for sure going to Nkhata Bay. We sprint over there...yes I fucking sprint with my huge pack on my back and a boot. Now it is a whole new kind of chaos because this company and these drivers are trying to create some sort of system on these unorganized people. This makes matters completely worse. People are yelling...no screaming that they want on the bus. The driver and his crew are yelling and screaming back that in order to buy a ticket you have to get in a line on the other side of the bus and then after you purchase your ticket you go and form a line starting at the door of the bus. And then when all of the tickets are sold people will board the bus in an organized fashion. Then they have to tell at us...the white travelers in English everything they just said because Tim and Peter, our two loudest men, are screaming questions at the crew. By some crazy miracle that I am attributing to our American aggression Tim and Pete get the tickets and get us on the bus first and we some how get to skip the whole boarding line. We get expressed straight to the back of the bus...and then 10 minutes after we get on the bus other people have finally figured out the rules and start boarding.

When I first get on the charter I see a sign that tells all passengers that the bus has the occupancy for something like 63 people I think. After all of the seats are full the aisle then starts to fill up with 20 or 30 more people that will continue to stand for the next 6 hours! Zambians and apparently Malawians have an incredible talent for being able to sit or stand in really tight squeezing places for literally hours without moving or so much as shifting their weight. INCREDIBLE!

Now it is 13:00 and the bus is finally taking off. And we are on our way to the beautiful Lake Malawi. I have officially survived the worst part of traveling when it comes to traveling in Africa....the transport. We arrive at the bay at about 19:00 or 20:00 that night and then I get us into trouble with another mini bus driver. As the others were peeing and smoking and watching bags I was in charge of negotiation with a mini bus to take us straight to our lodge for a decent price. I did it...I thought. We all load our stuff onto a bus that is going to take us straight to our lodge. Right as the bus is about to take off we once again ask if we are all on the same page with the price. The driver looks at us like we are out of our minds and tells us that it must have been a drunken bystander that told me that price. The negotiation starts all over again....this time with 7 tired frustrated and hungry Americans all involved and 3 Malawians. Just for your information it is impossible to solve an argument with 10 people all yelling at the same time. You would think that in times like this you would remember shit like that from your 4th grade conflict management class...but you don't. Finally Tim and Pete start yelling louder than the rest of us so we shut up and they take it from there. Don't worry we made it and no one got in trouble or violent or shot. :)

Travel stories from the way back to Zambia are a little more limited. We got on the 1st bus we saw with no problems...however that bus' engine has seen better days and at times we were sort of going backwards when traveling uphill. It also got a flat tire, which took about 30 minutes to change. And it also happened to be a mini bus so it stopped what seemed like every 5K. Then we took the word of a fellow traveler who told us that the border closes at 18:00 or 19:00. A few of us think that this is funny because the people at the lodge told us that it was a 24-hour border. But not willing to be stranded over night at the border with no where to sleep we get a guest house and crash there for the night. Upon arriving at the border the next morning we ask when they open and close and they tell us that it is a 24-hour border. "Well fuck!" Tim, Peter, Fischer and I say to each other. (We are the 4 most relaxed travelers at this point) "Lets not tell the others” We all say in unison. :)

In the interim of the traveling we stayed at an incredible Njaya Lodge with a beach house right on the shore. I feel asleep listening to the waves and woke up to them as well. The water was crystal clear and the beer was cold. There were fish swimming at your feet and in between your toes. I got sand in parts of my body I have long forgotten about. Due to some misguided directions from a bartender I was forced to pee in a urinal...desperate times call for desperate measures. I went the first 3 days in the lake with my bikini top on wrong...in constant worry that things were about to be exposed and wondering what I was doing wrong. It was totally life changing when I figured out I had been doing it wrong. Every morning I had a banana smoothie that was totally life changing. And I did not get sun burnt! Life is good and I can't wait until my next travel adventure here in Africa.

"Got my toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world a cold beer in my hand, life is good today....life is good today" ~Zac Brown Band, Toes

Being in Zambia is a complete and total learning experience...every day I learn something new about myself, life, people and the world. That alone makes these 27 months totally worth it. I have been in Zambia for 6 months now and I have learned a lot as you can imagine, so in the spirit of my recent posts which consist mostly of lists I have decided to contribute yet another list!

Things I Never Knew...in No Particular Order

1. I never knew that you could actually use all of the ink in one pen. For real...did you know that it was possible that for a person to totally write a pen dry? I did not know this until my main method of communication was from the 1800s...pen and paper only. And for those of you that know me from my American life know that I generally have a lot to say...at least I think so...which means that I have nothing to say at all. So what I am saying is...I have completely and totally used up a number of pens since being in country. Weird.

2. And playing off of writing....did you know you could actually use up whole notebooks? I am sure lots of people do that in school when they are taking notes and stuff. But well in college that requires showing up to class and giving a shit...which were two things that hardly ever happened simultaneously...sorry mom and dad. But now that I do care about all of these people back home I fill up notebooks with letters quite quickly and it is pretty insane. And if you are reading this and have not gotten a letter from me...write me punk and I will write back.

Maggie Henton

P.O. Box 560059

Petauke Zambia

Africa

Write Air Mail and Par Avion on the envelope.

3. I did not know that I could be so in tuned with what my Vagina was thinking. (Mom, Grandma and Aunties sorry in advance) So in PC Zambia you have to ride your bike quite a bit...quite a bit. It happens to be my main means of transportation which is kind of fun. I have always liked exercise and doing it here in Zambia is not always easy....so anyway...back to my Vagina (Vagina with a capital V) As soon as I mount Black Betty (the name of my bike) Vagina is begging me to get the hell off....of the bike...not to "get off" actually. In fact when on Black Betty I am pretty sure Vagina is worried that too much more time atop the bike is going to impair my ability to ever be able to get off ever. So I guess...I never knew that something could spend that much time next to Vagina, and thing and Vagina could not work out some sort of agreement or compromise...but alas it is a hate relationship. My cushy bike seat is in the mail...

Thanks Momma Julie, Love Maggie's Vagina

4. When I first got posted to my village I thought that coming to the city and enjoying the comforts of AmericaLand type things would always excite me....but as it turns out...AmericaLand type things don't ever really work so well in American hardly ever work in Zambian cities. So though running water is exciting...it is even more exciting if it is hot...a luxury that doesn't often happen in Zambia. Recently I spent two weeks in the country capital in a hotel type setting...even if water is falling from the sky I would rather be in back in my hut where the water is hot and falling from the cup that is being held in my hand.

5. I did not know that you could watch porn and drive a semi truck at the same time...well you can. Probably not really safe...but it is possible.

6. I never knew that I could sleep so hard so many nights in a row. That has never happened to me in America....like waking up at 6am after going to sleep at 8pm in a puddle of your own drool night after night. Never did that in America

7. I never really knew that music was so important to me. I mean I did, but if my iPod were dead in the village it might be a rough couple of days for the villagers as grumpy Maggie tried to soldier on without her daily dose of Jason Mraz...yeah I am still obsessed with him.

8. Sometimes in the village there is really NOTHING to do. Nothing...I've washed a single pair of socks before just to do something. So I guess I didn't know that a world existed where you could sit all afternoon on your ass and read a book and feel zero guilt for doing so. ZERO! I've done it...and loved it.

9. I did not know that it was possible to put so much shit on the back of a bike. Like whole sheets of tin on the back of a bike. I've seen it being biked 18K on the windiest of days. The people in this country can put more things on a bike than you could ever imagine. Like 4 people. Yup, its possible, no American could ever do it...but a Zambian can...and they can bike though 6 inches of sand while doing it.

10. I did not know that it was physically possible for any human anywhere to put the weight of their body on top on their head in the form of firewood and walk many kilometers home just to start that wood on fire to cook for their families....oh and these women do it with a baby on their back...I've seen it. Zambian women are further proof that women are the superior of the two sexes...and Zambian women are the most superior of them all. These women kick ass.

11. Did you know that you could fit 10 people in a car? I am sure people that have lived in the days of drive in movie theaters did know this...but I didn't. I did some stupid shit in High School...but 10 people in a car...never happened. And generally there is a bit of a smell followed by them.

12. I never knew that it was possible for any population of human beings to listen to the SAME FUCKING SONG on repeat for hours and hours on end as loud as the stereo can go. Further more I didn't know that if you were in a neighboring population of people who did not want to hear the SAME FUCKING SONG over and over again on sonic boom for never ending hours from the other side of the village that it would never ever cross your mind to ask them to turn it the fuck off.

13. Being a farm kid in America I've pist outside the comforts of a toilet many times...I feel like that sort of helped me prepare for Peace Corps. But what I never knew being a farm kid in America secretly prepping myself for this life of PC that I should have been trying to aim where I was peeing. Once again men have it all to easy! They can aim where things go...with their hands...fuck they can write their names in the snow if they wanted...or here in Zambia in the sand. But as a female who has to squat in Zambia...I've learned a lot. This might go into being in tuned to what my Vagina is thinking...except this is one of those things we can't seem to agree on together. Here in Zambia you often have to piss into holes that are dug into the ground strictly for that purpose. But there is no standardizing of Chimbudzies (pit latrines) here in Zambia...the pee holes come in all different shapes and sizes so every time I pee in a Chimbudzi hole other than my own it is a guarantee that I am going to piss on my feet...guarantee! And furthermore it is guaranteed that the hole is more of a ball park estimate as I generally get quite a bit of urine on the ground surrounding the hole..and I'll never know how much goes down the actual hole. So what I am saying is...I guess I never really knew/paid attention to how much my pee stream changes trajectory over the course of a bathroom session...and the more you have to go the worse it is going to be. So ladies the next time you are pissing in a field because your dad is having you help cut wood or move cows and you need to pee...take a little time and try to see if you can keep it all in one spot. Good luck!

Don't piss into the wind. ~Unknown

So my last post was about all of the differences between "Americaland" and Zambia...since then I have been trying to make myself very aware of the things that make me think..."this feels like home"

1. The "mom look." This is at the top of my list because I am a daughter that had many not so hot ideas in my day....therefore Momma Julie mastered this look from when I was a young age. At least I think that she must have mastered it when I was young otherwise I wouldn't be alive today...I feel like that look stopped me from making many bad decisions in my day.

But back to my point...this mom look transcends cultures...I have seen it in use in in the Village many times. It is the same look that I am sure has kept the Zambian population what it is today because without that look the little iwe minds would have gotten themselves killed. I too in fact have had the look used on me by my host mothers in the Village...I have two: my actual host mother, and my crazy neighbor that tried to rip my arm apart you will remember from a previous post.

What I am saying is I feel like this look comes the day you give birth and never really goes away. God bless the look for having the ability to stop me and many other immature thinkers across the world dead in our tracks!

2. Keeping on the mom theme....The whiny mom voice. My personal favorite way to utilize this voice has always been from my bed on a Saturday morning while my mom loudly throws dishes around to wake Zach and I up. I use it to get her to stop making so much damn noise at 10:00 in the morning...I mean for Christ sake we are trying to sleep!

The iwe in the village use the voice in much the same way though here it is pronounced "Ahhhhhhhmaaaaaaaiiiiiii" It makes me laugh every time because I can hear my own mother responding when their moms yell back "Ciani" (Chiani). Depending on the time of day that I choose to use this voice Momma Julie either responds gently (the 10am voice) "What Maggie?" Or later in the day when I am just saying it to hear myself talk...like when I need her to hand me the remote to the TV and it is just on the other couch within reach and she is in the other room. Come on...we've all done it :)

3. Now onto the men....apparently it does not matter what culture you are from...if something is broken and a bunch of men find themselves standing around said broken thing....things will get better before they get worse. IT HAPPENS EVERY TIME! Granted her in Zambia it gets much much worse before it get to be better...and better isn't really better it is just sort of good enough for now. And of course no woman could possibly know what the fuck she is talking about...especially the while girl, and I don't mean to toot my own horn (yes I do) but I am usually fucking right.

4. The sound of little kids laughing always always makes you feel better. Even if they were the ones that made you pist in the first place. Their giggles are magical and I wish there was a way we could use them to bring peace to the world.

5. No matter where you are in the world there is something very incredible about a beautiful day. I used to love waking up in August and September to the really crisp cool mornings...where the cold doesn't bite at you...instead it is just a gentle nibble before the heat comes. I am slowly kissing those mornings goodbye as the hot season rolls in...until next June beautiful days...I will be waiting. Lucky for me beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it was a quick lesson to learn that there are not really bad days when you are blessed enough to be in Africa!

6. I gave a shout out to mommies...so now for my daddy! A father only wanting the best for his daughter never seems to change either. For my whole life I watched how my dad sat back and let me do what I thought was best for me. He coached my softball team for many years, yelled at me when my grades were shit, snuck me money in handshakes goodbye before I used to leave for college so mom wouldn't know...the list goes on and on.

Here, my Zambian Atate sits for many hours and watches the builders as they build my new house making sure that the walls are straight and life is perfect for his daughter (though his english isn't 100% he sometimes calls me his son). He goes to meetings with me to try and make sure I am being understood, he runs all over the village to make sure my requests are met quickly, and he apologizes incessantly when Zambian Villlage promises and inevitably broken...just like my own Pappa Tom would do.

7. The mother daughter bond! Mothers and daughters sit for hours on end just talking in the comfort of a shade tree. They talk the afternoons away about what...I'll never know. But I understand it. My mom calls when I am here and we just talk and talk and talk. It would be the same when I used to come home on weekends from college, we would just sit in the kitchen and talk about nothing while she cooked a meal.

Another aspect of the mother daughter bond that extends cultures is how you can look at one another and know what you are each thinking...no words needed.

8. Home is where you lay your head. You know when you are on vacation and you have walked a million miles and all you want to do is go to the hotel that you call home and go to bed. Same feeling here....though my hut is not really home home....after being gone for 2 weeks at a training all I want to go is go to my hut and sleep in my tiny 2 meter by 3 meter love nest. I have committed to making that cave my home for the next 2 years.

9. Friends give you warm fuzzy feelings no matter what. It doesn't matter that we can't fully understand one another... hell, at times we can't understand a damn word we are saying...but the comfort is there. Because even when words aren't available...they still get you.

10. Being happy is all that really matters....ever.

My work is based on the assumption that clarity and consistency in our moral thinking is likely, in the long run, to lead us to hold better views on ethical issues. ~Peter Singer

So there isn't really a day that goes by that I don't think to myself either out loud or in my head "that shit would never happen in America..." Then I thought that might be a neat blog about cultural exchange...let me begin.

1. In America if I if my tit is every hanging out in front of my dad/mom/brother/friend/child/random child/stranger I've never met before/ANYONE OTHER THAN MYSELF...I put that shit away ASAP! If I have a shirt that just happens to have a hole in it right where the nipple on my tit might be I would throw that shirt away...never to be seen again! Or I would at the very least wear a bra. Well not in Zambia. I feel like I could write a whole blog on boobs only in Zambia...they exhaust me...and I kind of hate them.

2. In America if I am cooking my dinner and a fucking tarantula the size of the palm of my hand comes to visit me I freak out! (Well that is a lie...1st I do the big sister thing and check to make sure brother Zachary isn't around because that could quite possibly the worst thing he would ever experience.) But here in Zambia when that happens I don't even try to kill it and I don't even scream...I just flick it off of my porch with a flip flop. The damn thing was so heavy and big that I couldn't even flick it off on my first try. Then the poor thing came back 45 minutes later only to be brutally murdered by my neighbor with her BARE FEET!

3. In America when people tell you that you are getting fat...everyone else around you drops their jaw to the floor and jabs their elbows into the side of whatever moron thought that would be a good thing to say. Well folks not in Zambia. I am constantly being told I am getting fat and everyone around just nods their head and smiles very large as if they had just told me that I had the body of Heidi Klum. So while I am trying not to cry they think they just handed me the biggest compliment ever. No mom I don't really think I am getting fat...all of my clothes still fit, and I am still running.

4. In America when your pot is dirty and black you grab some steel wool and soap and give the pot the best elbow grease you can muster and get the stupid thing clean. Well, not in Zambia. They take a little bit of water and pour it onto the dirty/sandy ground and rub the pot into the dirt and use it as their steel wool and get that pot better than new! In their defense they cook over an open fire every night so their pots are black black black at the end of every day. They actually judge me quite harshly when I wash my pots with a scrubber...a few times my neighbor has actually come over and taken my clean shiny pot out of my hands and rubbed it into the dirty ground while saying "In America soap...in Zambia dirty..." In my head "this shit would never happen in America..." on a lot of different levels like if someone stole my pot out of my own hands I would probably deck 'em.

5. In America if your neighbors are gone all day but their under 5 children are still around the house all day with no supervision you call the cops and get the children taken away from them because that shit just isn't okay. But apparently the phrase "It takes a Village to raise a child" came from Zambia or somewhere in Africa. Because when I haven't seen Patrica or Moffat all day I do not worry one bit about what Issac or Joanie are going to eat for lunch or dinner or anything like that. It is really quite a beautiful thing. It isn't like the kids are going hungry they just show up at someone else's house and get their food and then leave and go play. That shit would never happen in America.

6. Along those same lines, if you are a parent and you haven't seen your kids since breakfast and it is now 18 or 19:00 you might start to worry a little bit about where they are...not in Zambia though. No one in really gets to worried because the whole village knows who your kid is and where they are supposed to be and they always come home eventually. Again it really is beautiful and neat.

These are only 6 things but they are the first six that came to my head which means they are probably the most often thought about ones.

There is little difference in people, but that little difference makes a big difference. The little difference is attitude. The big difference is whether it is positive or negative. W. Clement Stone

It started out like all of my other Saturdays since being in the Village… I wake up early in anticipation of seeing other American Peace Corps Volunteers in the boma for a day filled with strawberry ice cream, cold Pepsi (cold is rare in this country and Pepsi even more of a rare thing) and chitenge shopping with Maria fellow PCV with a shopping addiction.

So I wake up around 5:00 listen to my iPod for 30 minutes or so then get out of bed empty the ashes from the night before into my chimbudzi (pit latrine) to keep the smell from creeping up on me. As of currently I swear that I have the nicest chimbudzi in Zambia, bricks, concrete, tin roof, big and beautiful! Then I go back to my hut, fill my brazier with charcoal to make myself a little oatmeal before my energy consuming trek into the boma. I take out the chunk of charcoal that I soak over night in kerosene…light my match, hold it to the kerosene marinated charcoal….and…my match goes out as if I just put it next to water. What the fuck? I just held an open flame up next to something soaked in a flammable liquid and the match goes out? That should have been my first clue. But no, I go through 4 more matches before the damn thing finally lights. Put my pot on there… check it again 15 minutes later to see if it is getting hot and….well….wouldn’t you know it, the charcoal went out. Again I say. What the fuck? How does that happen? That has never happened to me before. So I go and get fire from my host family and go about my merry day forgetting about how the fire gods abandoned me that morning.

My bike ride to the boma that has been taking me about an hour and a half I cut down to just over an hour, thank you iPod for providing me tunes to help my little feet peddle fast! Make my weekly trip to the post office that so far has not let me down! I always have at least two letters filled with love from friends and family back home. But today was different…I had a package! A package from my family that wasn’t expected to arrive for at least another week, as far as I know my day is just the best thing ever! Forget about that weird fire situation that was my morning…I got a package from home…and I know it has candy from America-Land in it.

Then the bike ride home happens…

I get on Black Betty just like it is any other day trip. Package loaded on the back shelf as well as my backpack full of veggies and nutritious things from the market. Take off to head home. I am leaving about 30 minutes later than I would like to just in case it turns out that I need to walk some of the way, because the last 6K home is no joke! There are kills that have my thighs and hamstrings screaming…but I haven’t had to walk yet. Well…I mean until yesterday. So the first bit out of the boma is all downhill and if I really use my imagination I can trick myself into thinking I am on a rollercoaster at Worlds of Fun. Or, mom, remember when we used to take the “different way” home? That is kind of what the first bit of that bike ride feels like! (Mom shout out!) Then I get about 6K from home and crash…hard! It is probably 16:30. I need to be home within an hour or it gets dark, but I can’t move my left arm….at all. In case you are wondering you can’t really ride a bike with one good arm on sandy Zambian “roads.” A passer by has to help me lift my bike off the ground and stand it upright as I fight back the tears of pain creeping up on me. He asks if I am alright and with the best broken Nyanja lie I can come up with at the time I tell him I am fine and start walking my bike the 6K home. It took me two damn hours.

When I finally get home my neighbor starts heckling me about how I said that I would be home at 16 and it is now 18:30. Again in some language I don’t really know I have to explain everything that happened and she can see that I am trying not to cry, mostly out of frustration by this point, and she immediately jumps into action, you know the kind of action that good women everywhere are capable of. She puts her game face on and tells me to get my brazier and charcoal and she will get me fire so I can wash my dirty self, though I can see in her eyes she isn’t sure how I am going to undress myself when I can’t move my arm at all, but she is going to let that slide…neither one of us are ready for that kind of commitment. She gets me water for my bath, and my dinner later.

She sits with me while it is heating up and asks me about my family in America and if they are okay. She really likes saying the name Zachary…oh and it is no longer Tom and Julie…it is Thomas and Juliana. That is the funny thing about Zambians, I know that hear you when tell them your name. They usually repeat it back to you to make sure they got it right. And then after that initial repeat…they call you, or your family, whatever they want. In fact just the other day I got in an argument with a Zambian man from a neighboring village about what my name really was. You would think I’d be the fucking expert on that…FALSE…he was. For those of you wondering at home, my name isn’t really Maggie, not even Margaret (All Zambians call me Margaret). No, my name is something that is too hard for them to say so I am lying about what my real name is. Him and I went round and round about what my real name was for 15 minutes…there isn’t really anything better to do. He is still sure that he is right, I finally told him I didn’t really care what he thought my name was he just better call me Maggie and nothing else.

Okay, back to my day. So Patricia sits with me, gets my water nice and hot and then explains to me that she wants to clean my hurt arm. Um, no! But again that is the funny thing about this whole cross culture exchange thing, sometimes shit that you know is going to be a bad idea you let happen anyway. Like your head is screaming…NO…NO…NO!!!! And then my arm is screaming…um, “excuse me Maggie, I feel like I should have some say in this. If you are going to let her touch me when I can’t even straighten my own self out you’re a fucking idiot. Don’t do it!” So she pours boiling water into a bucket, gets the cloth that I use for dishes and starts swirling it around in the hot steaming water.

Head: “Say no..use your words and say no…even in English, she understands no in English. I mean I can’t help you come up with no in Nyanja right now because I am too busy trying to talk you out of this stupid idea.”

Arm: “NO NO NO! She is getting closer. She isn’t going to be gentle…no no no! I am tensing up now…how do you like that? Even that hurts, I know it hurts me to tense up to, but if you won’t listen to me you leave me no choice moron!”

But then contact happens….and it feels good! Like really good, the warm water and a sort of mothers touch may have been just what I needed.

Head: “Sorry, turns out you were right this time.”

Arm: “ditto, this is the best I have felt in two hours.”

But just like any good poker player, you should trust your first instincts. Patricia gets this idea that she should try to straighten my arm out. I’m resisting and telling her no and I that I can’t. And saying “that hurts” in every language I know (one). She stops and goes back to the little massaging part that feels good. Then…that crazy lady out of no where rips my arm straight and I let out a yell that cuts through the village night like a streaker at the World Series.

Head: “Fucking idiot! I told you.”

Arm: “God damnit! Do you realize I am never going to be the same again….how could you let her do that to me. I was pretty happy just being all curled up here on your lap and then you had to go and hand me over to her. That fucking hurts…and now…I am going to tell your eyes to cry. I’d been telling them to wait, cause I couldn’t decide if the pain was ever going to get bad enough, but now…because you’re a idiot, I’m going to make you cry in front of a crowd of people…Zambian Villagers that you want to respect you. Take that!”

Eyes: “sorry, we had to let down the floodgates, we are trying to put them back up super quick, but arm told us to. And truthfully we had wanted to do that for about 2 hours. Sorry.”

Patricia: inhales the way Zambian women do…and then “Oh sorry sorry.”

Me: inhale, the way American women do when they are trying to hold their shit together…and then “no problem, no problem.”

Arm: “Bull shit it is no problem…idiot.”

Peace Corps comes to get me and takes me to a hospital 2 hours away that wants to keep me over night….cause my arm hurts. My head has had enough of the way I don’t listen to it sometimes and completely takes over. “Um, no! We will not be spending the night in this hospital because her arm hurts. I understand there is no doctor in tonight, she will just get a guest house and be back in the morning.”

Me: Thank you head! I did not want to sleep in this scary place.

Head: “Yeah, for the rest of the night let me do all the talking.”

I am sure I just jammed the hell out of my elbow and just called PC to have someone come and get me since I couldn’t really do anything for myself. But just incase it is broken, which I am sure that it isn’t, we have to go to the doctor. So Sunday morning bright and early we head back to the doctor. Only for her to tell us that the x-ray people don’t work on Sundays. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Me, Head and Arm: “Sure why the hell not? We have nothing better to do.”

So, lessons for life. If you start you morning holding a match to something completely 100% flammable and nothing happens, go back to bed. Cause that shit isn’t natural and something terrible is about to happen! I am fine, I just can’t really pull my own pants up.

“It was such a lovely day, I thought it a pity to get out of bed.” –Somerset Maugham

So it has been about two months since I last posted anything and I can’t even begin to tell you all how much has changed/happened in the two months. I want to write about all of it, but please keep in mind that it will be scattered and you are all going to have to have a bit of patience with me.

From The Top:

We arrived in Zambia on 2.18.10 after a 15 hour plane ride from US to South Africa we were finally in Lusaka. We had been told time and time again that the Peace Corps (PC) would be there when we arrived in Lusaka. Upon landing we found out quickly that PC hardly ever is anywhere when they say that they are going to be as they were an hour late getting to the airport to pick us up. But when they finally arrived all 49 of us were greeted warmly by the staff and Peace Corps Volunteer Leaders (PCVL). After being greeted they loaded us all up into 6 Land Cruisers that made me feel like I was living in every movie of Africa I’ve ever seen. The Cruisers took us to the hostel where we hung out for a few days did some training sessions and ate food that was awful and had us all sure we were going to have to go back home because we were starved to death. After a few days of training we headed out on our 1st site visit.

The purpose of the site visit is to get you out into the bush as soon as possible for a quick reality check. PC wants to make sure that you yourself are damn sure that this is something that you want to do and somewhere that you want to be. So they send you to a current volunteer’s site to spend a few days with them and see if you can handle two years of it. Obviously I handled the site visit fine because well, I am still here in Zambia writing up this blog….

After returning home from site visit we were immediately placed with our host families. The purpose of living with host families is to get you in the nitty-gritty of it all: the food, the people, the culture, the family dynamics…all of it! I was lucky enough to have an amazing host family! Keep in mind these families are a lot different that most things that you come into contact with in the states. Most people live on “compounds” and the whole family lives there with them. My compound was pretty large and my family was pretty large. Grandpa and Grandma started the compound and two of their four children lived there as well with their children and some nieces and nephews. My Amai (Nyanja for Mom) is a fantastic cook that immediately calmed my fears about food in Zambia….turns out the hostel just had shitty food.

So I spent the next 9 weeks there on the compound with the family falling in love with all of the little iwe (what PCV call Zambian children. Pronounced E-Way it is Bimba (a language) for you, so it is pretty much just saying “hey you”). My favorite iwe was a little tike named Batson who was 4 years old. Just to put him into perspective for you everyone on the compound called little Batsy “problem child’ because of how ornery he was. If there was a loud noise somewhere you just had to yell Batsy and his little voice would answer back “sorry sorry.” He just knew the most obnoxious thing that he could do in any situation and was completely different than all of his mild mannered brothers. I loved that kid with my whole heart and when he kissed me goodbye a few days ago I cried my eyes out and know that no other little iwe is going to be able to replace that little nugget of love.

As far as what we did for training here is a run down of our daily schedule:

• 8:00 Language class starts. Because I am going to Eastern Province in Zambia I am learning Nyanja (Knee-an-ja)

• 12:00 Language is over head home on my bike for a little lunch with my Amai.

• 14:00 Technical training starts. We learn all the sorts of things that we are going to need to know when we are in the villages as far as farming goes.

• 17:00 classes are over and we head to a bar grab a couple of beers and then head home to do it all again tomorrow

The schedule went pretty much every day like this for 9 weeks. Learning language for 4 hours straight is fucking annoying and impossible and by the time language is over you never want to speak another word of the language ever again and you certainly don’t want to learn more when you get to the village. You are burnt out and just over it.

On Thursdays we are all together there is no language and we learn culture and HIV/AIDS and things of the general PC nature. Saturdays we have language only and Sundays are used to make sure that your sanity is still in tact by whatever means possible.

So after 9 weeks we are ready to swear in as actually PC Volunteers because for the whole duration of training we are only PCTs and not PCVs which is of course what we all really want to be. So last Friday 4.23.10 at the American Ambassador’s house 46 of us took the oath that we could commit ourselves to this cause for the next 2 years of our lives!

I know that this is pretty sporadic and jumpy but I just wanted to write a quick thing to let you all know that I am alive. I get placed in my new home on Wednesday or Thursday at which point I will start to have a little bit more control over my own life and will hopefully be able to update you all a little bit more often. My boma (small small town type thing) that is 20K from me has an internet café so I am incredibly lucky in that regard. I will be able to write and post pretty much whenever I bike there.

Other little changes, I have a mow hawk now, or as we all like to call it a Zamhawk.

I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it. -Rosalia de Castro

So, this is the last blog that I will be writing from the States for quite some time. I just wanted really quick to give everyone the skinny on what has happened these past 48 hours.

Monday morning 10:30, said goodbye to family and Matt. That pretty much sucked ass...there is just no other way to say it...sorry Grandma. Yes I cried the entire 2 hour flight to Philly which is where I am now.

From Philly caught a shuttle to the hotel was at the hotel by 3:30 local time. I then just hung out in the room until 5:00ish when my badass roommate from Detroit showed up, and thank God we instantly hit it off. 6:00 had a quick Peace Corps registration which was much more like herding cattle than anything formal.

Side note about the hotel: We are staying at the Holiday Inn, Historic District. 400 Arch St to be exact, I think. I say this because they have been the most amazing group of staff in a hotel ever! They have helped with everything we have needed. Been prompt and nicer than necessary, and if you are ever in Philly needing a place to stay, regardless of the cost I suggest you look this place up. It is worth it!

This takes us to this morning...Got up at 6:15 to get yellow fever and H1N1 shot. The yellow fever made me have a fever from 3:00 until current and at times I fell a little like I am on a boat in the middle of a lake on a windy day.

After that went and saw the Philly sights with a few of the girls. Had Subway and a Dr. Pepper for my last lunch. (Shout out Casey!) Saw the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall which was pretty snazzy.

Then at 1:00 we started our Staging stuff at Peace Corps trainees. There was supposed to be 53 of us, 49 made it. So we already have defeated some odds! We felt good about it.

After this got over at 6:00ish 20 of us went to an Italian restaurant for our last supper. I had Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo for my last meal and two beers. Pretty good beer actually...which is why I had two.

Tonight/this morning at 2:00 we leave Philly to head for the JFK Airport in NYC so that we can make our 10:30 flight to Johannesburg South Africa..For those of you that have made the trip from Philly to NYC or visa versa before you know that this leaves a hell of a lot of time to get there...this is apparently how the Peace Corps operates.

So, that is all! I wrote this in a blazing fury so if things don't make sense DON'T JUDGE ME, after all, I am leaving for Africa tomorrow for 2 years! Oh my goodness. And no, it doesn't seem real yet. Thank you again for all of your support and love throughout the past few months...it has not gone un-noticed.

I was never not going to come here...this was never not going to happen. -Unknown (And by "Unknown" I mean to me right now because I don't have my quote book in front of me.)

Well, today is Thursday February 11, 2010. And bright at early this morning at 8:21 I got a call from Zambia. Since it was so early I am a little fuzzy on particular details…such as names and job titles. I talked to two people, the first was a male and I think that his job title was the head of the L.I.F.E project in Zambia. His name is something that I am fuzzy on. (They kind of woke me up) Then there was a female Volunteer named Sarah, but I can’t remember her job title. 2 out of 4 ain’t bad.

I have been packing a lot in the past few days and things are starting to get a little sad, but the phone call from two people in Zambia that I just a few days away from meeting was really neat. It was a great reminder to myself of the reasons that I initially applied to the Peace Corps. I am now so excited that I can hardly stand it. I can’t wait to get to Zambia, smell the smells, see the sights, and meet the people.

Find out who you are and do it on purpose. –Dolly Parton

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

There is something really amazing about your last days at home before what will hopefully be a very long stay away from home. I am crouching in on my last days at home and so I am trying to get full on all of my favorite things around the house.

Pop: Pepsi. As a female and someone who has spent a large portion of her life running and needing to be in good shape, and having a mom who never let us have pop before noon and never more than 2 in a day, I have never really splurged in this department. But my dad however is a huge Pepsi drinker and because of it my brother and I can’t drink Coke. I know that I have never in my life had a Pepsi and not thought about my dad. And a Pepsi out of a fountain always leads me to think about my brother, my dad and I. You see when we were little my dad would always stop at a convenience store fill up some Styrofoam 20 oz. cup with Pepsi and ice and then my brother and I would try to mooch as much of it off of him as possible. Then when my dad would go to take a drink….opps, it is all gone. This is why to this day I still think that Pepsi in a Styrofoam cup from a gas station tastes better than any other Pepsi in the world. Kind of like how some people prefer beer from a bottle/can/keg. I myself am a bottle girl, though a good tapped keg is pretty swell as well.

Favorite Sandwich: Turkey, onion, avocado, Miracle Whip on wheat bread. My awesome Auntie Cathy made this sandwich a few years ago. This sandwich is what jumpstarted my love affair with avocados in general. Cathy made this sandwich for the 4 of us before our 1st skydiving adventure. When she was telling my friend and I about what she was planning to put on these sandwiches I will admit that I was a little turned off by the idea of green mushy things. But after waiting in line for an hour and then waiting another hour to get up into the air I was starving. I would have probably ate anything put in front of me. But to my delight they were the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Favorite Candy: Reeses Peanut Butter Cups! My momma filled up our candy jar with them yesterday…most are gone as of right now. Keep in mind it is only 10:00, by midnight I am planning on needing her to get some new ones tomorrow, she is pretty cool like that. In fact when my mom 1st brought them home a few weeks ago she had no idea that they were my favorite. It was a habit I picked up my junior year of college during March Madness that year. Not really sure why, but roaming through Wal-Mart one late night they seemed to satisfy some craving deep down inside…after that I never really had the courage to kick the habit. I can in fact, plow through a whole bag by myself and feel completely guilt free. To my delight my mom watched me do just that and never said a word about it being bad for me. She is pretty cool like that sometimes.

Favorite Person: My brother. Ever since I left for college I always told people that he is my favorite person in the whole world. He makes me happier than anyone else in the whole world and I can’t imagine ever loving anyone or thing more than I love that kid. So as of late we have been spending our mornings and nights together. He sings little bits of songs to me, I then download them so that when in Africa I will hear the particular song and think of him.

We had been getting up everyday by 11:00 so that we could catch re-runs of Nash Bridges on WGN for an hour. Then a week ago WGN pulled the rug out from under us on that. When we were little we used to watch Nash as a family every Friday night…at least I think it was Friday, could have been Saturday. I love Nash Bridges, though most people have no idea what that show is these days.

During the 11:00 hour Zach will also cook breakfast for me. He is a pretty darn good cook…especially breakfast food. And then after Nash is over we get our fill of all that ESPN has to offer. Then around noon or later we get started on something…usually it is later than noon. I am going to think of him everyday at 11:00 for the rest of my life I think.

Favorite Show: Sex and the City. Over the past few days I have been trying to get my fill of SATC before Africa. Though I am pretty sure that all of the information that the ladies have to offer will be of little use in the forests of Africa. I started watching Sex and the City in the last few weeks of my Freshman year of college. I had never seen the show growing up because well, we only had 4 channels, needless to say HBO wasn’t one of them. Anyway, after track season was over my friend Randi and I thought that it would be a good killer of time to burn through a few seasons before summer hit and we had to split ways. Needless to say I was hooked. In the years that followed I have used Sex and the City as a way to make sense of problems with friends and relationships. In the past probably 4 days I have plowed through 3 seasons. I love those four girls and have often thought that I was meant to be a part of them, the producers just didn’t think that it was proper to put a minor on such a progressive show.

As I have been sitting here typing, (while watching Sex and the City) I am not sure if all of these things are my favorite because they are my favorite, and I came by it naturally, or they are my favorite because of how they became my favorite. Like nature vs. nurture? Perhaps I was meant to be a coke girl but my dad and everything that he stands for nurtured me into a Pepsi girl and now I just can’t shake it.

But then there is the issue of the avocados, I never liked them until the skydiving incident. In fact they never even looked appealing., but after going through something so amazing with 3 people that I love so much, how could a girl not love avocados?

I think that it will always be hard to know why we are so fond of the things that we are fond of. Is it all predestined? At the end of it all I think that most of the cheesy stuff is bull shit, I know that if my aunt had fed me a seafood salad after jumping out of a plane I probably would have thrown myself from the car. But I know that I am so glad that all of my favorite things remind me of such beautiful memories.

It’s not what your looking at that matters, its what you see. –Henry David Thoreau

There are a lot of things that they don’t tell you about the Peace Corps. For instance, they don’t tell you that there is a lot of paper involved/wasted in the months leading up to your departure. The packet that gets mailed to you in regards to your invitation is a hefty weight…all of which is paper. The “Welcome to Zambia” online .pdf file is about 90 pages. You of course don’t need to print it off, but it helps quite a bit, and I don’t feel wasteful because I have referred to it many times in the weeks leading up to my leaving. I recently organized my Power of Attorney papers, 6 pages, needing at least 6 copies each…it starts to add up. They don’t tell you upon applying that they will sort of string you along pretty much until the day that you leave and perhaps even longer. Only telling you exactly what they think you need to know in that particular moment. And in all of the things that they tell you, not one of them has the answers to the questions that friends/family/random acquaintances are asking. They don’t tell you EXACTLY what you need to pack. Sure they give you a suggested packing list, but I need strict guidelines. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the list that they have given me, but I really just wish that someone that had just left Zambia was standing over my shoulder as I loaded up my bags and said “yes” and “no” to all of my questions. I know that I will over pack, but I feel like if there was a list that said “Bring the following items and nothings else…” it would be much more helpful for me. I know that figuring these things out and feeling through all of the confusion is part of the Peace Corps allure, which is why they don’t get me too flustered. But there are things that they don’t tell you that are starting to get me flustered as my time in the states winds down. The biggest of which being that they also don’t tell you how hard it will be to say goodbye to the people that you love. I leave in 20 days! Sometime in the next 20 days I am going to have to say goodbye to some very important people. The very idea of this makes me immediately burst out into tears. In fact, just writing these words makes my eyes well up. I have already said goodbye to a good friend from high school who has managed to keep in touch with me through the years. At my time of graduation in 2004 I would have told you that this would have been an incredibly unlikely combination when held under the same light as some of my other friends from high school who I now know nothing about. I imagine that it wasn’t as hard for him as it was for me…I mean he isn’t the one who is about to leave the country. He is great because whenever the two of us are home at the same time we make absolute sure to see one another, even if we haven’t so much as shot one another a text in the last 6 months. I feel like those connections are sometimes the best ones…him and I have an understanding. A few weeks ago I also said goodbye to my best friend from high school. Her life is so beautiful and busy now it is hard to imagine that she will miss me much. She has this incredible husband and an even more amazing daughter now that takes up all of her time…as they should. And if having a loving family wasn’t good enough she also gets to travel the world along side the two people that she loves most in the world cheering on her basketball playing husband. I actually look forward to finding out what this Peace Corps adventure will do for our friendship. I just told someone earlier today that it isn’t as if we wouldn’t be friends, because we have been through so much together already, a few years in different parts of the world isn’t gonna change that. I am excited to read the letters that will get exchanged between the two of us in the years to come as we experience new cultures from various parts of the world! Last weekend was a big weekend for goodbyes, as they will be from here on out. I had to say goodbye to my favorite couple from college. I ran cross-country and track with both of them and roomed with her our sophomore year of college. Our senior year of college her and I sort of fell out of touch, but she was still always there. Such an amazing person who has not an evil bone in her body. Everything that she does has purpose and I have always held her in very high regard. That was my Saturday night goodbye. Yuck. Sunday however was much harder. On Sunday I had to say goodbye to what has become a second family throughout the last six years. It has hard to know what kind of impact dating someone will have on your life, but if you get a good one, usually a good “in-laws” so to speak come along with that. And then if you are really lucky that good family will take you in and adopt you as their own, regardless of your relationship status with their son. I have grown to love each and every one of them as if they were my own, brother, sister, parent or niece in my time with them. It would be really hard for me to ever be able to express to them how much their friendship, acceptance, and love of me has meant. They have always let me back into their family no questions asked, even after I had done negative things concerning the overall emotional well-being of their son. I hope that in some small way these people know that all of their small gestures of kindness and even better acts of love in these past years will never be forgotten. I love you all. This weekend I venture back to “Hastings America” to say my goodbyes to friends met through college. This is a visit that I am not looking forward to at all. The tears that will be cried in those 48 hours are many…I feel like I should start drinking water now to save up for such things. Saying goodbye to the town of Hastings itself is a sad thought. I have been through so much there and it has seen so much of me. It is so peculiar to think about the 18 year old Maggie that first said hello to Hastings, a day after her 18th birthday, and then compare her to the 23 year old Maggie that will be saying goodbye to Hastings. Makes me appreciate growing up and not growing young. Thank goodness for mistakes, no matter how big they may have been. They all led me to this point right here. So I guess right now if the Peace Corps called and asked if there was something that I really needed help with this writing is what I would answer with. But to all of you who I don’t get to say goodbye to please know that I will miss you and you are just as apart of this adventure as I myself am. You all lead me to the point that I am at today. So many of you were incredibly important people if even for a fleeting moment in time. You all shaped my world into the reality that I now live in. I am glad for this. I thought about one of my favorite Sufi poems which says: “God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot I am standing now. I was never not going to come here, this was never not going to happen.” –Elizabeth Gilbert

There are some things that they don’t tell about life after graduation. For instance, it is completely and totally possible to not have anything that you need to be doing. During undergrad procrastination is an assumed state of mind, there is always a paper that could use your attention or an assignment that you could have put a little bit more time into, but there was also always something interesting on ESPN or CMT for me. I mean, sure there are things that I could do right now, I could start my 1 load of laundry, I could put stamps on all of my Christmas cards that need to be mailed. But there is really nothing that I need to be doing right now. Since there was nothing that I needed to be doing and I was having an incredible Carrie Bradshaw moment I thought that a little note would be a worthy time sucker. I leave for Zambia in a little over 2 months. This is a concept that I am so scared of and so excited about it keeps me awake at night sometimes…and by sometimes I mean often. So many things about it will be drastically different. For instance right now in Zambia the average temperature is 68 degrees, here in Hastings Nebraska right now it is 5 degrees. Here, currently the roads are bad because they are so packed with inches and inches of snow that they are almost hardly drive-able. In Zambia however the roads are dirt and probably muddy right now since it is the rainy season. Things are starting to seem real now though. Just 8 days ago I turned in my 2 weeks notice at my place of employment. I was so nervous about doing this that I am pretty sure in the days leading up to it I am pretty sure I developed an irregular heartbeat. The girls at work took it well and were far more supportive than I had anticipated them being. At this point in time I only have one week of work left and I’m excited about that. As checkpoints such as this approach this whole process seems more real. I can’t wait to someday be writing a post from somewhere in Zambia. Stay tuned….

Hello all. I was a little bored today at work and was listening to some reggae music (mostly Marley) to perk myself up. The sadness of summer leaving me and winter setting in was getting to be too much today. The simple and happy beat of reggae music was enough to keep my spirits positive. In my boredom I thought that I would write a little note commenting on some of my favorite song lyrics!

Courage is the triumph of the soul

I know where I wanna walk; I know where I wanna goSo come put your hand in mineEverybody's welcome

Music is what God wants us to do

Sing a song for me; I'll sing a song for you

When we put our voices together,We create a harmony

-Jason Mraz, Anything You want

One love, one heartLets get together and feel alrightAs it was in the beginningSo it shall be in the endGive thanks and praise to the Lord and I will be alright-Bob Marley, One Love

Quench me when I'm thirsty; Come on and cool me down, baby, when I'm hot. Your recipe is, - darlin' - is so tasty, When you show and stir your pot. So: stir it up, oh! Little darlin', stir it up; wo, now! Come on and stir it up, oh-ah! Little darlin', stir it up! -Bob Marley, Stir It Up

Those are probably my three favorite reggae songs of all time. The 1st two have an unbeatable message and the 3rd on just has such an addicting sound you can't help but wiggle to it. I am glad I started this blog so I have something to do in times like these at work. I hope that you have a happy Friday!

So for months, pretty much since April, I have been taking a deep breath every time an unknown number comes across my cell phone’s caller ID and then October 27, 2009 without even looking at who was calling I answer my phone only to be greeted by the Peace Corps! I immediately feel sick to my stomach and my hands start to shake uncontrollably. I can’t be for sure, because I was so nervous and my memory from that phone call is very foggy, but I think that I talked to a woman named Shelly who asked me a few questions about how I would handle stress if I can’t go for runs during my volunteer services as exercise is my go to stress reliever. My nerves kept me from actually knowing what I was talking about, but whatever I said seemed to make her happy. After our conversation she said that I needed to keep an eye on my e-mail as something would be sent “shortly”. This “shortly” that she was speaking of had me checking my e-mail every 2 minutes for the rest of the day to no prevail. I knew what would be in this e-mail. I knew that it was going to tell me that my invitation is on the way…maybe just maybe this e-mail would tell me where I was going. That Tuesday no e-mail comes, but on Wednesday morning when I check my e-mail my suspicions were confirmed…INVITATION KIT HAS BEEN MAILED! On Monday November 7, 2009 a huge Peace Corps envelope is sitting, waiting patiently in between my door and screen door when I arrive home on my lunch break. All of the feelings that I now associate with Peace Corps come back (queasy stomach and shaking hands) I rip the packet open with an excitement that I have never experienced before! I first thing I read is… Dear Maggie, Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that we invite you to begin training in Zambia for Peace Corps service. You will be joining thousands of Americans who are building stronger communities around the world. This call to action gives you the opportunity to learn new skills and find the best in yourself. I let out a little squeal and then immediately I call my dad because I can pretty much guarantee that he will answer. He does because he is hauling cows with my brother and Grandpa (3 birds with 1 stone). I tell him the good news. He is as excited as a father can be about sending his only daughter off to a country he knows nothing about for 27 months, but he does a good job. I then call my mom; she has pretty much the same reaction as my father. For dinner that night I went over to the couple’s house that really cultivated my interest in the Peace Corps. Both Dale and Elaine served as Peace Corps Volunteers in Africa when the Peace Corps was a very new program. They look over my packet and commentate on all of the changes the Peace Corps has made since the two of them opened their invitation kits back in the 60s. (I don’t think that I will ever be able to fully express to these two how much, together, the two of them have influenced my life. The love and excitement they had for me that night is something that I will be forever grateful for!) I officially called and accepted my invitation on November 9, 2009. The next step includes me creating a Peace Corps resume, an aspiration statement as well as completing my passport and work visa applications and getting them in the mail. As tomorrow is Veteran’s Day and I have the day off I am planning on completing all of that tomorrow. It will be a full day, but one that I am thankful finally came. I am not an adventurer by choice, but by fate. –Vincent Van Gogh

My grandmother recently passed away. It was a rather unexpected event for my family and I. She was in the hospital for a routine cancer related surgery and acquired an infection that killed her pretty much immediately. I have found peace in knowing that she left this earth quickly and hopefully without a lot of pain.Thankfully in my short 23 years I have not had to deal with death a lot, but even with my limited experience I am amazed at all of the emotions and questions that come along with the difficult event. Is it okay to cry or do I need to be the strong one right now? If I cry does that mean that I am not strong? Would grandma want me to be this upset? Should I be happy that I had as good of a relationship with her as I did? Is it okay to be happy? I just kept running through all of these emotions in such a quick manner it was becoming hard on my heart. Sinking low with the sad thoughts and then lifting up when I thought of a beautiful memory that had her in it.The day after my Grandma Shirley’s passing I was passing time by perusing through Jason Mraz’s twitter account (some would be ashamed to admit this, but I quit being ashamed of my obsession with Mr. A-Z months ago). Right at the top of the page was his stage quote for the day: “When in doubt, be grateful.” -Matthew Engelhart. I found an intense amount of clarity in this quotation. It is true I still slip up now and again wondering if I am doing this right, as if there is a right or a wrong way to mourn, but then after the tears have dried and the confusion has passed I remind myself..that I need to just be grateful.I have decided that I am grateful that I had two sets of really incredible, deeply loving, and hard working grandparents. I am grateful that though their spouses have passed now that my Grandma Sinn and my Grandpa Harlin loved my Grandpa Sinn and my Grandma Shirley. They raised families together, they held grandkids together and they laughed and cried together throughout the years. I will miss my Grandma a lot. It will be hard to see my Grandpa without her in tow, and it will be hard to step into her house around the holidays knowing that I won’t get to hear her laugh…but I hope that when my emotions get the best of me I will take the time to remember…to just be grateful for all of the times that we had together.Some pictures that I took pretty recently (thank goodness!) of my silly Grandma!

Last Wednesday night I found myself among a room full of minds looking for the answers on How To Be A Peacemaker. The man with the answers was Colman McCarthy, a syndicated columnist, editorial page writer for The Washington Post, an adjunct professor for Georgetown Law, on top of many other things. McCarthy was an amazing speaker who spoke on nonviolent conflict resolution as well as many other things. I held onto his every word throughout his lecture. I found myself wishing I had brought a pen and paper so that I could write down all of his thoughts to properly digest them later.Midway through the lecture McCarthy is talking about how everyone in his audience has gifts. Then he tells us to stop and think about these gifts and ask ourselves if we are truly using these gifts to make our world better. “Up until this point,” he says, “you have been given every gift to make you the person that you are today.” He wasn’t talking about being gifted in the conventional way that you always think of…”He is super smart, she can write really well, he is outrageously fast…” McCarthy was talking about the bigger picture.I have been given amazing supportive parents with big hearts who always had time for my brother and I. Mamma Julie, as she we fondly refer to her, would do anything for her children. I will always remember how much she loved it when Zach or I would unexpectedly show up with a group of friends expecting supper.She never ever complained about that, even when Zach and all his football friends that could eat us out of house and home would show. She loved moments like that, when her cooking skills got an impromptu lesson, and we all loved her for it.Among all of my friends Mamma Julie’s cooking is famous.They talk about it for months and months after the meal is over.I will always appreciate my mom for those moments.Papa Tom always has a big heart that is quick to lend a helping hand whoever needs it. I remember acknowledging that trait in him from a very young age. He organized softball tournaments for kids in the community that were sick to help their parents with the medical bills that were no doubt piling up. Now that my dad owns and operates his own construction company he is always doing something to make someone else better than they were before, often doing much more than they originally requested at a better rate and better quality than they could find anywhere else.Then there is my brother, the good ol’ younger brother that most people dread to talk about and often leave out of discussions of love. No me though, without fail he always puts a smile on my face. I can never imagine loving someone more than I love him. When I think about my love for him I understand why parents say that they would do absolutely anything for their kids. Though I have no child of my own I can imagine that the way I feel about him is not much father from how I will feel about my own children should I ever have any. We have a very unique relationship, never really having been in a fight. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t get a long, always in awe over siblings that were always at each other’s throats. This was a concept that Brother and I were never aware of. I won’t spend too much time on him because the thought of missing him brings me to tears all too often. He is amazing influence on everything that I do. I always want to be the best person that I can be so that he knows that the world is his. The award to my favorite person in the whole wide world goes to Zach, any day of the week.After family is always the discussion of friends, mine are something wonderful. There is Amanda, the same best friend that I have had since I was in 7th grade. Though life has sent each us of down very very different paths we have such a love for one another that couldn’t be duplicated. I don’t think I tell her enough how much I appreciate our history together and the future that is still to come. Though time has tarnished our relationship to something very different than it once was when we do manage to get together it is still amazing.Then there is my team of friends in my current life. The writing of this blog got put on hold for the weekend, I swore that I would get around to it this weekend, but the truth is I was spending too much time with them that of course it couldn’t get done, they were more important, they will always be more important. There are 4 of them that are a constant staple in my weekend life. It doesn’t fail that Friday night I get a text or a phone call from all of them asking what is going on. This Friday for sure was no exception. Matt is always the first to call or text to see what is going on simply because he gets off work first. He makes the long trek down from Grand Island multiple times in a weekend to Hastings to be with all of us, truth be told when it isn’t the 5 of us it feels weird. Casey showed up next, fresh off a bus full of High School Cross Country kids. Tyler then makes his bald headed appearance. And when Brian is finally off work he shows up and the night always goes from there. This past Friday found us all at my house eating a meal that Matt, Casey and I cooked together while waiting for the other two boys to show up. The evening that followed was one filled with great discussion, laughter, music and an epic rubber-band fight that will leave me finding ammunition for weeks to come in various nooks and crannies of my apartment. J The memories from that evening will no doubt bring me warmth and a smile for many years to come. I remember thinking a few times throughout the evening how much I was going to miss this when I was gone. How painful it might be during my lonely African evenings knowing that the four of them were together without me. I love our little group and the love that we bring to each other. I really can’t help but think about how I am going to miss it when I am gone. But I also know that it will be here when I get back.

Though I know that there are many more things that I have been given that I need to take the time to express my gratitude for, as it stands now the above are my most valuable gifts. And since this blog took me so long to write, for you faithful followers I am now approximately 9,997 hours closer to being an fantastic writer. If you are someone reading this blog never doubt that you are a wonderful gift that has been given to me and I am glad.Until next time-Magz

So, it has been nearly a week since my first entry. I can’t quit thinking about it either, I loved the feeling of blogging and now find myself constantly wondering what bit of inspiration will get my fingers moving across the keys again. Though I am sure I have plenty of good ideas I am often tripped up by the all to human state of mind…”what if it isn’t that good?” That thought usually immediately counteracted by my who gives a fuck attitude, again followed by something negative like “who the hell is gonna read it anyways Magz?” Then a few days ago whilst surfing through one of my daily websites I found something that would help me with this attitude…. The 10,000 hour rule. Simple as it sounds, writer Malcom Gladwell makes the simple observation that anyone that is considered an expert in any given field spent at least 10,000 hours to get to that point. I don’t know why this seems like such an outlandish concept: Michael Jordan, hours and hours on the court to be the best, Michael Phelps, hour upon miles upon laps in the pool to be the best, Jason Mraz, hours and hours and hours for me to consider him a musical genius, John Grisham, hours and hours in front of the his computer to be able to hold me at his attention from cover to cover. I am no running expert, but I have spent well over 10,000 hours and miles into before I could finally call it my own, why should me wanting to write more often be any different than my desire to run. I know that to get better I have to put in the miles. To become a better blogger that some of you might actually enjoy reading, this will be the riff-raff that had to come first. It is with this in mind that I stripped down to my naked self it is then that I am most comfortable, (Clothes are annoying and often get in the way) Selected my all too often played Jason Mraz Playlist (I am happiest when his extraordinary voice is filling my ears and my head with fantasies) and set out to write this entry. Though this entry it isn’t anything explicitly inspirational, I wrote it and I am now approximately 9,999 hours closer to becoming an expert in blogging. And you all get to read the progress hour by hour, entry by entry. I wonder if I would still be as enthralled with the above mentioned Jason and John if their earliest works were available for my viewing pleasure. I wonder what my English teachers would think of my grammar. I wonder what my mom and grandmothers are going to think about my use of the word fuck in my entries. I imagine when I get really comfortable in my blogging the swear words will increase ten fold. I am confident that the grannies and Mamma Julie will continue loving me despite my affluent use of four letter words. Yours in Nakedness- Magz

I always wanted to be a writer. I used to watch Sex And The City wish that I could make my thoughts come out in words that sounded as beautiful as hers. Significant others from the past would write poems and songs and I would envy their ability to express their feelings in such a meaningful and honest way. When I came to college it became a secret obsession of mine, writing passing moments of some creative thought down in my notebooks, hoping that it would blossom into a poem or something more later. They never did. My senior year I would spend countless hours on my computer writing thesis papers wishing while the music was playing in the background that something more insightful was coming out of the constant tapping of my fingers on the keys. So today, I had an idea. A rather profound idea, perhaps the most profound idea I will have for a long while. I am currently in the middle of what seems like endless waiting for the Peace Corps to tell me what happens next. I constantly have thoughts rolling around my head about it all. And I have never been more serious about the use of the word constant in my whole life. Always wondering. What is going to happen? What if I am not good enough? What if my friends have all forgot about me when my two years are up? What if, what if, what if? Well today I have decided I will blog about these thoughts. I need no one to read it. I need no one to approve of it. I just would like to write. Write about all of it. Especially right now when the Peace Corps is teaching me patience. Patience is really just time, and time is a fools game, and I am a fool with a computer, so alas For Karma’s Sake is born. Beautiful isn’t it? So now the question is where am I at in this whole thing?Online Application- Completed Letters of Reference- Completed Interview- Completed Background Check- Approved Dental Evaluation- Approved Medical Evaluation- ApprovedPlacement- Pending ... Pending ... Pending I have been waiting for my placement letter for a little over two months now...I think. This is by far the weirdest part of it all for me. I feel like everything up until this part happened at whirlwind speed, I turned in my application and then letters of reference then the PC called to schedule my interview. Amazing how quick that all happened. At the end of the interview I was told that I would be a great nominee and my medical packet was in the mail. From there I did everything that packet told me to in record and time. Now all I can do it wait for the letter or the phone call to tell me where I am going and when I am leaving so. Well I think that is going to round up my first official entry. I don’t know how much I like the word blog now that I am writing it. I like journal better. Perhaps I will get used to it.