Mazabuka Sweets: Zambian Trainings and Lent

My first mistake was thinking that giving up sweets was a good idea. Always a poor choice. In any city, in any corner of the world, this is just torture (note that I am writing this 6 days into my Lent). In Zambia, this is basically impossible. Am I sick? Am I on a diet? First no soft drinks, now no sweets? I must be out of my mind! Denying anything at a Zambian training is relatively impossible since eating is often considered the point of the event (learning is secondary). Let’s look at the schedule/eating program for my paralegal training (this is not abnormal):

Breakfast 7:30am (corn flakes, eggs, sausage, beans, two pieces of toast, tea)
Class 8:30-10:30am
Morning Tea Break 10:30-11am (tea/coffee, soft drinks, large plate of cookies/biscuits)
Class 11-1pm
Lunch 1-2pm (nshima/rice, three portions of meat, two side dishes, macaroni, soft drinks, dessert)
Class 2-3:30pm
Afternoon Tea Break 3:30-4pm (tea/coffee, soft drinks and cake)
Class 4-5pm
Dinner around 6pm (another meal roughly the size of lunch)

Since I don’t drink soda and am observing lent, this means that I have to explain that I don’t want a delicious treat to the wonderful Zambian host at least FIVE times per day. First I need to be concerned about being culturally insensitive, since not taking food is not that simple. Second, this goes against the entire mindset of workshops in Zambia. I will elaborate…

There is an interesting sense of entitlement when a Zambian sits at a workshop; instead of understanding that you are only there to learn, most Zambians have a completely separate list of material expectations. This includes a sitting allowance (payment for attendance, thank you affluent non-profits coaxing Africans into workshops), t-shirts, excessive amounts of food and drink, certificates to prove they completed the training and a full set of worksheets/materials. The WORST sin at any workshop is to run out of food. This has only happened to me once, and I will just say it was one of my worst days at IJM. If you lack other materials, don’t expect trainees to share. Every participant must have their own copy of every single handout, or else you will be the subject of gossip and will be considered “poor organizers.”

All this to say, a trainee turning down any item offered to them is unheard at a workshop. I now not only stand out at as the random muzungu at the table but I have added to my list of the bizarre characteristics that I don’t take what is rightfully mine. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Turning down a delicious cupcake Sara made is one thing, but it’s much harder to turn down a sweet concocted by the Zambian woman offering it to me on her knees.

Let’s Talk about Fraud (and other things you learn at devotions)

Devotions are generally seen as a time for prayer, thanksgiving and focusing your energy on God; however, when placed in a corporate setting, I have discovered the added elements of awkwardness and inappropriate comments. In my field office, a different member of staff leads devotions every day. This basically means that I get to learn a LOT about every one of my co-workers each month. Some choose to get personal and discuss personal struggles while others bring up a controversial passage and lead a heated thirty minute debate. The majority of Zambians belong to the Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) or Pentecostal church and my views as a non-denom raised CRC Christian tend to clash with theirs. Therefore, I have learned to choose my battles around the devotion table. Sure they may think I am crazy for drinking alcohol and eating pork, but is that something that will keep me up at night? Not really.

There is a certain co-worker (let’s call him Julius for fun) that always leads the most interesting devotions. And by interesting, I of course mean beyond uncomfortable and outlandish. Thus far he has taught the office the biblical teaching on how to rear children (although he has none of his own), accused the U.S. government of creating HIV/AIDS to control the population of Africa, and informed us that praying to trees will make the rains come. The majority of the time during his devotions I feel like I must be staring in a ZNBC version of “The Office;” this time playing the role of Jim, gently rolling my eyes to the camera and quietly screaming, “are you seeing this?!” Despite my desire to crawl under the table and die during these moments, I have actually started to look forward to Julius’ morning at the devotional table. Without a TV in my flat, it is by far the best entertainment I get all day!

On Wednesdays, IJM takes a break from its exhilarating devotional table and heads over to Northmead Pentecostal for devotions with World Vision, another international non-profit organization serving in Lusaka. World Vision devotions generally fail to keep my attention because I don’t worship well while being yelled at. After 30 minutes of a short Zambian male calling for my repentance, the real fun begins! World Vision takes advantage of this captive audience to give its weekly organizational announcements. This may include introducing a new regional director, encouraging the staff to take a survey, or if we are really lucky, an in-depth talk on fraud and its consequences. One Wednesday members of the IJM and World Vision staff were imparted with the knowledge of the laws of fraud, forgery and how to report these crimes. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore…

Despite my seemingly critical attitude about devotions in Zambia, it has been fascinating to see where the Zambian church focuses its energy. There is a greater emphasis on following God’s law instead of grace, a belief that time management is next to godliness, that good deeds will bring about financial prosperity, and a focus on salvation above simply walking in Christ’s footsteps. Whether or not I can worship during organizational devotions is a matter of debate, but it is always an educational experience.

Water Water...nowhere?

I tend to take access to water for granted, don’t all Americans? You turn on the faucet and BAM there it is. Right when you want it, the right temperature, the right amount, starting and stopping exactly when you command it. I have tried to become more aware of this privilege in the past year or so, even engaging in Mars Hill’s “Walk for Water;” a fund-raiser that also serves to increase West Michigan’s awareness about the complexity of access to water around the world. I have a friend who simulated not having immediate access to water for lent last year, committing herself to six weeks of walking back and forth to a local lake to retrieve all her water. At the end of the day though, if she really needed it, she could always turn on the faucet. Similarly, the Walk for Water serves an important purpose, but how many of the participants had already forgotten about that walk by the following Saturday? I am not saying that it is impossible to empathize with others because they are across an ocean, or that Christians should stop trying to do so, only that I have been blessed with a number of recent experiences which have finally brought the “Walk for Water” closer to home.

My flat has consistent access to water (normally), but it is often the pressure and temperature that vary greatly. This is most evident in the dreaded shower. When I first arrived, I was pleased to find that while I had to squat in the shower (a great thigh workout!) I could depend on a relatively warm and enjoyable shower. Not so in December. Maybe it was the last bit of the dry season finally making its way to our pipes, but the water just could not be bothered to be warm or even there. About 75% of the time I would literally have to pump myself up to get into the bath, reminding myself that yes, three days is too long to go without, and yes, someone will eventually notice that stench. The double whammy of NOT going home for Christmas and the sub-zero showers were almost too much for my mind to handle. At times I was pleasantly surprised by warm water, but inevitably, those were the days that the pressure got me. Two minutes into the shower, lathered up in shampoo and body wash, the water would just stop. Most times it turned back on almost immediately, but sometimes it would take over a minute. These were the days I ended up almost sprinting to the kitchen and splashing water over my body; those several minutes of standing naked and lathered in the shower seemed to go on for a lifetime.

My favourite experience with water thus far has got to be the first weekend of December; the water turned off early Friday morning and didn’t return until late Monday afternoon, with some intermittent problems persisting even after its return. For our flat, this meant our only “shower” of the weekend was taken in a pool on Saturday afternoon plus we got to lug ever litre of water up three flights of stairs in order to have something to drink or flush the toilet. We discontinued washing our dishes for the weekend, and given our small supply of actual cutlery, this meant we were very creative with how we ate various dishes. Can that wine glass be used for pasta? Sure! How about those tiny tea spoons for cutting red meat? Perfect! To top it all off, after the water returned, the dirty, thirsty residents of the Rectory Court Flats received a letter berating us for complaining about the lack of water (how dare we) and stating with surprise that no one had even called and thanked the agency for turning the water back on! What a scandal! Should we be calling this agency everyday to thank them for graciously providing the services we pay them for? Perhaps a lovely fruit basket because our water has not been randomly turned off every weekend in November? I know customer service is not a universally accepted norm, but we are certainly not in Kansas anymore.

Nothing has really changed in the past month, the shower still tries to freeze me out and the faucets test me daily. I guess that sometimes it has more to do with your attitude. A weekend without any water can make those cold showers bearable and gives you a bit more patience when the water explodes out of the faucet for the thirtieth time. I am just thankful that I have exploding cold water instead of having to walk to retrieve it every day. Sure I miss my consistent, reliable North American water, but I suppose it is all about your perspective.

A Very Zam Thanksgiving

A list of my favourite holidays would currently include the following: Christmas, Halloween, any holiday with fireworks, and Labour day because it’s so ironic. Other potential new faves include: Guy Fawkes, All Saints and Dewali. Thanksgiving is noticeably absent from this list. I can’t say exactly why, but I always thought it was just a lame holiday. Sit around, stuff yourself, and pass out while watching American football. Not great in comparison to the truly great holidays of this world. Maybe it’s because Thanksgiving is such an intense family holiday and family has always been a little dicey for me? Bah, Christmas is full of family and it is the cat’s meow, the freaking bee’s knees! Whatever my reasoning, I don’t love this American pastime.

While I have spent Thanksgiving away from home before, this one was unique mostly because it was about 85 degrees, humid, and I spent several hours sunbathing in a pool. I have become pretty accustomed to cold rain, snow, and just general ugliness at this time of year. My actual Thanksgiving Day was spent at the Craig’s home (Katie’s parents) in Lusaka, relaxing and spending time with new friends. However, this was only the warm up meal.

The Mulilo (fire) flat warmly welcomed 23-ish guests to its tiny home on Saturday for a traditional American Thanksgiving feast. I personally took charge of the dishes and general clean-up seeing as though I am completely useless in the kitchen. Despite my best efforts to set something on fire or add peanut butter to the squash, the meal went off without a hitch. I suppose the table did catch on fire at one point, but that just seemed to be an appropriate initiation. I was elected as the MC for the evening: sporting the name “Lady Kyla,” carrying around a giant spoon meant to stir n’shima, and distributing the “special” drinks. Another duty of mine was to conduct the “Thanksgiving question game, aka, Ask the Americans.” Since most of our guests were Zambian, they didn’t have a solid idea of what the heck we were celebrating. Delightful questions were posed, such as “Why are we here?” and “Why do you eat turkey, I mean, why not duck?" My knowledge of Thanksgiving history is weak, but luckily Sara was bursting with info since her mother was obsessed with the pilgrims (who isn’t?!)

As in any good Thanksgiving party, we ended the night with a violent round of spoons. Katie and I placed first and second, respectively, decided by an arm-wrestling competition (draw) and finally an exhilarating round of rock, paper, scissors. Most of the apartment cleaned up nicely after the night of fun; however, our kitchen still smells like a combination of vomit, caterpillars and mildew. Delicious.

Standing at the Edge

In mid-November I took my first trip out of Lusaka, a much-needed (literal) breath of fresh air. The daily grind was starting to gnaw away at my joy, and it was time to run around outdoors and just play. Whirlwind was the name of the game- an 8 hour bus ride on Saturday with the return on Monday morning left us with about 36 hours to visit Victoria Falls. Saturday was dedicated to sitting by a pool and eating, lots of eating. In fact, we had two separate dinners. The first took place in a deserted bar/night club, spinning classical rock while we munched away on nachos and crocodile burgers. After an exhilarating round of pool without a proper cue ball (but with bugs-a-plenty), we headed off to dinner number two. This consisted of pizza and milkshakes while listening to a faux jazz/salsa band, covering such hits as “Red Wine” and “Killing me Softly.” Saturday ended with all of my flatmates falling asleep in the hostel room, passed out with the lights on.

Luckily Sunday made the 16 hour trip totally worthwhile. Sara, Michelle, Luke and I headed off to the falls around 10am and didn’t return until after sunset. We spent the day hiking around every imaginable trail, battling baboons, and even enjoyed the screaming as Luke and Sara swung across the gorge. Since the falls are at their lowest this time of year, we were able to actually hike across the top of them. Normally this part of the falls would be gushing with millions of tons of water, but we faced minimal resistance while hiking to the edge of the cliff. Standing at the edge of falls gave me the strangest urge to sing “This is my Father’s World,” and I did in fact hum it a few times that day. It is impossible to not be in awe of all the wonders, to shake in your boots a bit, and just be thankful for the amazing experience.

On the trek out to the edge of the falls, we met two Aussie brothers, Joe and Lewie, who were at the tail end of traveling around the world for a year. Later on that evening we enjoyed a “traditional” Zambian meal together, which in Livingstone apparently means eating n’shima and peanut chicken (pounded by the village wives) with a bib. It was weird. We ended the weekend with a few drinks, games and a good reason to learn Spanish. After a mere 5 hours of sleep on Sunday night, Sara and I managed to throw ourselves onto a bus and begin the long trek home. Despite the exhaustion, I had the bounce back in my step.

The Accountant who would have been a Football Star

I really don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and I am okay with that. For the longest time, I was convinced that law school was the place for me. There are lots of reasons why I thought this would be the case, and lots of reasons why I changed my mind, neither of which I plan on elaborating on today. The point is, things have changed, I have changed, and I am okay with that. But most importantly, that is not the point of today’s story.

One day after a long day of work at IJM, I was looking up different work options for after my year-long internship. Things got a little desperate, and at one point I think I even Googled, “what should I do with my life.” I wish that had worked. One of the few times that Google has let me down. I closed my computer in frustration and decided to ask a random question of my office mate, Preach.

Preach is our accountant and he does a wonderful job. In addition to Preach’s accounting skills, he is intelligent, sings beautifully and is incredibly articulate. When I look at Preach, I see someone who could have done anything he wanted with his life. Seeing as I would never be an accountant, my obvious question for Preach was: “if you could have done anything with your life, what would it have been?”

I learned that evening that Preach would have been a football star, a professional swimmer, or basically a professional athlete in any sport. So why not pursue this dream? Shouldn’t you just do what you love? Aye, there’s the rub! I learned in school that growing up in the developing world means you lack a number of basic rights or freedoms. If you are at the bottom of the food chain, you may lack access to clean water, food or basic healthcare. Yet, even the privileged are restrained. If you are lucky enough to receive a university education, especially abroad, you are expected to give back to your country and your family. As I think back, I see the trend of international students who studied law and engineering, practical studies for development and professions with the promise of a consistent income. Where were all the international students studying modern dance, Italian Renaissance art, or the effects of pop music on the national psyche?

As our discussion continued, Preach commented on the endless possibilities I have as a Westerner, particularly as an American. No matter how obscure a subject I want to study, there is a school (or a country) for that. I can literally do whatever I want with my life. And in that moment, I felt the tension. What a privilege, but for the love of God, don’t waste it.

For the Love of Food

I am NOT a food connoisseur, far from it. I am slowly learning how to pay attention to my meals, but it comes about as naturally to me as knitting or standing in a field during thunderstorms. However, since arriving in Zambia, I have noticed a dramatic change in my diet: mostly the increase of my intake of both salt and sugar. My daily cup of salt comes from the Zambian staple of “n’shima,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nshima Zambians eat n’shima for lunch, dinner, and even for breakfast in a slightly weirder and runnier form (yumm). N’shima, combined with some form of meat, veggie and sauce is simply fun to eat. I feel as though I am transported back to kindergarten as I scoop the n’shima up with fingers, vainly attempt to sculpt it into a perfect ball, and collect a delectable side dish on the journey to my mouth. This custom feels particularly fitting and confusing when I am wearing a suit; eating with my fingers, messing with play dough and inevitably dropping beans into my lap. What is not to love?

Despite their filling and fun main course, Zambians seriously lack good dessert. For an American girl with a sweet tooth, this is especially disappointing at the end of a super salty meal. To make up for it, I have developed a keen “sugar vision” to help me find delicious snacks in the flat. Peanut butter, chocolate, ice cream, milo, cookies- anything I can get my hands on! All of a sudden I am addicted to peanut butter and would give my left arm for a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Sweet snacks are a topic of daily discussion for the suffering muzungus in my flat, “did you use the last of the milo?” “did you buy more ice cream today?” and “why in the world would you eat all of the cookie dough?” Everyone is suspect, common courtesy goes out the window, and the last one to the cookie jar loses. A food’s value lies solely in whether or not you can put peanut butter on it, for example: apples- yes, oranges-no, bananas-yes, green beans- no.

Thankfully, we have a baker in the flat. The goddess is named Sara and no, you can’t have her. Thanks to her delicate Southern hands, I have so far eaten half a container of quiz bar cookie dough and devoured homemade peanut butter cups with scary intensity. Her brother, Luke, brought further treats into the flat this past week: dove chocolate and a large bag of Tootsie rolls. They were both gone within 24 hours. At this point, when you take away the chocolate and peanut butter, you take away my will to live. And I am okay with that. In fact, I think I will go have a peanut butter cup right now.