Merry Christmas!!! Happy New Year!!! We Central Province Volunteers got together in town for a “White Elephant” gift exchange (fun - it’s been so long since I’ve done one of those) and a Christmas Tea Party (thrown by me). I played the two Christmas songs I could on the harmonica and sang Christmas carols all night by the campfire. I had every intention of making a mini snowman out of nshima, but the power was out nearly the whole time and it just didn’t happen.

Well the past month has been full of adventure and not much being in Mpelembe. I had some time to kill between Provincials and Camp GLOW, so rather than going back home only to immediately turn around again, I decided to take the opportunity to check out the local sights. (“Local” being within a hundred kilometers or so.)

First was Kundalila Falls, which means “crying dove.” I thought it sounded more like rushing water. The path leading down to the base of the falls was steep and winded around the edge of the cliff where the water falls over the edge. It was beautiful and quite terrifying. There’s certainly no safety regulations when it comes to things like this and it would be very easy to trip and go over the falls. (Our pot, in fact, did go over the falls. It escaped while we were washing it in the river.) At the base of the falls was a huge pool surrounded by towering cliffs. The water was icy and it was exhilarating to jump in and swim in the swirling mist, looking up at the water rushing down. It was a fantastic experience - one of my best in Zambia. And in general too.

I went with nine other volunteers so we hired a minibus (small blue vans that are notorious for being awful) to drive us. We made it there in one piece, but the way back was a disaster. So hilarious, though, that it wasn’t actually bad at all. Just ridiculously funny. We ran out of gas. Twice. The driver had to walk or hitch to fetch more, which cost us an hour or so each time. Then the bus stalled and we had to push it for a kilometer or so up a hill. One volunteer was steering and the rest were pushing. The driver was just watching. Finally we got going again and thought we were home free, when the door fell off and went clattering down the road, also releasing the spare tire which went bouncing away behind us. We tied the door back on with handkerchiefs and finally made it to town. A one hour trip took five. (And then he wanted more money than we had agreed on!!) The best part was the “Do Not Panic. God Is In Control.” sticker on the dashboard. God must have been on vacation that day.

Next I visited Nsalu Cave with another volunteer. We had to hitchhike for awhile and then bike down a hilly bumpy rutted red dirt road for 25 kilometers. After climbing up the base of a rocky mountain, we came to the cave, which wasn’t really a cave but a natural half dome cut into the side of the mountain. The walls were covered in 2,000 year old Bushman paintings. Artifacts dating 20,000 years old have been found there as well. (I even saw some chunks of what appeared to be a broken pot lying around, but I can’t imagine that the proper authorities could have overlooked them if they really were ancient artifacts. I just left them there.) The paintings were mostly indistinguishable lines and circles drawn in red, yellow, and white paint made from animal fat, but you could recognize a couple drawings of canoes too. The walls were also covered in recent Zambian graffiti, mostly done in the name of various churches. We found a long branch with a charred end that people had been using to write and tossed it over the side of the mountain. At first I was sad that people would mar the cave like that, but I guess it’s really no different than the people who had made the original drawings, right? Maybe in 2,000 years, people will come to see “Mwape was here 2006” and think it is amazing. Anyway, we speculated for awhile on what message the painters were trying to get across. We decided it was probably religious, as the dome is the perfect place for some tribal ceremony. In fact, I really which I could have spent the night up there, banging on some drums as the sun set on the hills and valleys below. It really would have been beautiful and whimsical. Unfortunately, since it took us so long to get there, we were only able to spend a half hour or so looking at the paintings before we had to turn around and head back.

Camp GLOW went pretty well, but not nearly as well as last year’s camp. Only half of the girls showed up, which was a big disappointment. One of our guest speakers never showed up. The biggest problem, however, was with the teachers. Last year, the camp was only for the girls, but this year in order to get funding, we had to bring teachers too. They were just miserable the whole time, complaining that they weren’t getting paid, complaining about the food, not participating in any of the activities, and running off to check their phones all the time. They also disagreed with much of what we were teaching and flipped out when we mentioned condoms. It was really difficult for me to sit there and listen to them blame sexual abuse on the clothes that girls wear, complain that we’re not teaching the girls sewing and cooking skills, discourage male-female friendships, and absolutely refuse to admit that teenagers could be having sex, when we all see young girls dropping out of school because they get pregnant.

It really made me wonder why I’m here trying to push my values on people who obviously don’t want them. How do we really know whose morals are correct? Is it ok for foreigners to try to change Zambian culture or should we just leave them alone and hope they do it themselves? Where do you draw the line between cultural differences and universal intrinsic injustice? Should we leave gender inequality alone because it’s part of the culture or should we try to change it because it’s universally intrinsically unjust? Is it possible that gender inequality is not universally unjust? It’s just so difficult and frustrating. I suppose between the Peace Corps Volunteers and Student Partnership Worldwide (college age Zambian women who we had facilitate all the sessions) versus the teachers, the girls got to see both sides and can choose for themselves.

After having said all this, the camp overall was still a success. Not all the teachers were downers. One (who was a man!) always had a smile on his face and participated in everything – he even helped the girls sew sanitary pads! We had sessions about avoiding sugar daddies, encouraging assertiveness, self-confidence, and motivation, preventing HIV, having goals, etc. There were also fun activities like obstacle courses, pottery making, canoeing, and lots of singing. (It’s interesting how Zambian girls feel no shyness about singing or dancing in front of a group of people – something that most Americans would be horrified to do - yet will cover their faces and squirm when called on during a discussion.) Though the girls may not have opened up and bonded as much as last year, they still had a great time and were sad to go.

We had an agricultural training for our fellow Peace Corps Volunteers. I taught about chickens. I don’t think anyone cared.

When I returned home, I was greeted by the tragedy that I’ve now just come to expect. That termites ate my beloved straw hat was the least of it. Even though I left the chickens in the hands of the headman, someone still stole Corncob. The headfamily blames the Mumbas and the Mumbas blame the headfamily. I now only have three chickens left – Pocahontas, New Chicken, and Eggy.

I also found that Finnigan, my dear dear love, was missing. I don’t think that he was stolen or died because various villagers have reported seeing him pacing back and forth in the bush. I think he must have thought I abandoned him because within two days, Ngwi died, I took the chickens to another house, and I went to Serenje, so he was left with an empty house. I feel really terrible because I loved my Fins so much! We had such long in depth conversations. It’s not a total tragedy, I suppose, assuming he’s just gone feral and is off hunting rats in the bush. I hope he’s happy with his new life.

With suddenly no cats, I noticed the huge void they left – how lonely and quiet it suddenly was. And how many rats had infested my house. So when Kapiria told me he had found someone who was selling kittens, I agreed to go take a look. (He really is one of the nicest people I’ve met. He knew how much I missed my cats and went and found another for me.) I know what you’re thinking. Carrie, you’ve only got four months left! Why in the world would you get another pet now?!? Well, four months is no “only” when it comes to being lonely without a pet. And four months is no “only” to be picking rat turds out of your dishes every morning. I only had Ngwi about that long and felt that was plenty of time to enjoy her. Anyways, there were two kittens – a male and a female runt who was about three quarters of the size of the other and had two different sized eyes. I named them Piddles and Puddles. They were both just skin and bones, but especially the runt. Ridiculously skinny. I thought it’d be fine, that I’d just fatten her up with food and love. I was wrong. Within a day, she had died. I was shocked. It wasn’t nearly as horrific as Ngwi’s death because I hadn’t yet grown attached to her, and it wasn’t my first hands-on pet death, but it was still an awful awful experience. I buried her next to Ngwi.

I’m convinced that I’m being punished for something, but I don’t know what. I’ve lost Grandma, Finnigan, Ngwi, Piddles, Changa, Fireball, Wee Wee Wee, and Corncob all within a month or so. I’ve had so much tragedy and death, things are just morbid. I’m not even counting on Puddles or the chickens being alive when I get back. Maybe someone’s doing juju on me.

The headman also thinks someone’s doing juju on him. He went to a witchdoctor, who took some hair, blood, and bone (not sure how he did that one) and mixed it with amasuku, a bushfruit, and that’s supposed to solve everything.

Joshua has entrusted his school notebooks to me, because he says his older brother Victor will just rip out the papers to roll cigarettes.

We’re still trying to sort out the whole housing issue for the volunteer who is to replace me. With all the theft, we’ve decided to find a different house. The housing committee in the village is dragging their feet, however. They’ve had three months to make a decision and nothing has been done. I wouldn’t be surprised if my site isn’t replaced at all.

I almost rescued another baby monkey, but it was sold to someone else before I could get it. And here’s an interesting factoid: In Bemba, the word for “monkey” and “ancestor” is the same. Looks like old Darwin stole his ideas from the Zambian scholars after all!

Doug’s mom sent me a beaded bracelet that I put on as an anklet. It’s caused quite the stir in Mpelembe. No one can comprehend why I’m wearing it and why I’m wearing it there. People keep stopping by to see the bracelet from “The Mother of Doug.” I don’t think it helps that it resembles the beads women wear around their waists when they get married. Could it be the same difference as a Zambian coming to the United States wearing underwear on their head?

National Geographic is having an essay contest for Peace Corps Volunteers about the Global Food Crisis. By the time they informed of us of it, the deadline was nearly over, so I won’t be entering, but it got me thinking about it anyway. I’m sure they’re expecting sad stories about poor people suffering, but if I were to write the essay, mine would be just the opposite. Here in Mpelembe, it doesn’t matter who the president is or what the economy is doing. Those things happen, and the oblivious villagers just keep going on with what they’ve always been doing. Farming. It’s hard to lose your job if you work for yourself. It’s hard to lose your home if land is free to begin with. It’s hard to starve if you grow your own food. In Mpelembe, there is no “Global Food Crisis.” Most people from “developed” countries would look at the “poverty” of the villagers with disgust and pity. They wear old clothes and are “unemployed” and live in simple houses and have chickens running through their houses and carry things on their heads and don’t own cars and do manual labor. Most people would see this as backward. I see it as the future.

There’s still time left if anyone wants to plan a visit to Zambia!




Handy Hut How To: How To Greet A Fellow Zambian

Everyone you encounter must be greeted. There are different greetings for the different situations you may find your greetee in. For example, if you find the greetee working, sitting, eating, resting, mourning, or traveling, you must use the greeting that matches the situation. One can also greet according to the time of day if it is morning or evening. (If it’s the afternoon, however, you’re out of luck.) When in doubt, the universal “Muli shani?” always works. One greeting is ok, but it is better to say at least two or three greetings before starting the actual conversation.

If you are close to the greetee, you must shake their hand, which is done by grasping hands, linking thumbs, and then grasping hands again. (Beware if you feel a tickle on your palm, as this is the “dirty handshake” and means something else.) The greetee may release you at that time or may choose to hold your hand for the rest of the conversation. This is ok, especially when it is between two males.

If you are far from the greetee, you can squat/bow a little bit and clap your hands as a replacement for the handshake. If you are on a bicycle, which makes it difficult to squat/bow and clap, you can rest your hand on your chest as you pass by.



Heather – Wow. It is the same song! I just assumed, because it was so silly and horrible, that it couldn’t have been anything but a grandma creation. How it came about was that I had this little plastic dinosaur that was green until you put it in cold water. Then it turned yellow. Green and Yeller.

Frank From Zambia – Two cultures is one is an excellent way to put it. When I’m in the village, I find it hard to imagine that town exists. And when I’m in town, I find it hard to imagine that the village exists.

Mom & Dad – Thank you for the Christmas present! I’m not sure what the foot things are?!

Doug – Whenever I swing the babula, the kids remind me that when Doug did it, he swung it all the way around.

Pookie – Thanks for the Christmas package! It was amazing timing for the marshmallows. I donated a bag of them to the Christmas tea/cocoa party. Yum!

Bonnibelle – Thanks for the Christmas presents! Also perfect timing. I’m going on a camping trip and the dry rice and noodle packages are perfect!

Dad – Happy Birthday!

Cathy – Happy Birthday!