Images of Life

What moved me to post again? after months and months of blogging silence?

the following: Images of Life in Lusaka

Sir G, I remain awed and touched by your work. Amazing. Im so so glad you followed your bliss and made the change way back then. Despite all the risks and all the ties, you are the perfect example of what can happen when inpired humans listen to their hearts.

accra, may 29,30, and likely 31st

saskia is...

waiting for the letter....

...Chawama news...

A little boy walks into the local store, looks up and smiles at me.
He looks scruffy, cant be older than six or seven. He looks alive and alert.
He is attended to by the lady behind the counter. He asks for something, she takes a piece of cardboard off the display and removes a small tube.
'Seven thousand'. He hands her a note of ten thousand kwacha. While she gets the change I look at the display. I see small tubes of glue. I look down and see a small used dirty plastic bottle in his hand.
I walk out disturbed. Who am I to intervene and forbid her to sell the glue to the charming little sniffer?

A boy and his grandma

This morning i drove into town to buy printer cartridges so we can print colourful certificates for the teachers that have been participating in the workshop. While walking to the bank to get money out of the cashpoint, a small boy passes me with his elderly grandmother on his arm. Shuffeling slowly, the boy looked up at me with big eyes; his clothes dirty and holed, his grandmother blind and stooped and helpless on his arm. He held up his hand, I walked past on my auto-pilot "Sorry, No." So many ask me for money, so many hold up their hand. I wouldnt know where to start, and automatic pilot is on before i step out of the car.

Walking on towards the bank, my heart broke a little. My shell broke. He is not a glue sniffing street kid, although they deserve as much help as anybody. His grandmother is blind and cannot care for him as I imagine she wants to, needs to. The upside down roles, the shame the grandmother must carry inside her, the responsibility of the little boy, he couldn't have been more than six years old.

I promised that on my way back i would find the boy and his grandmother, and give them a little bit of money.

Scanning the streets for the boy and his grandma, my eyes fell on little boys in shop entrances, little girls on the sidewalk, with grandmothers on their arms, old, dilapitated and some also blind. But i couldnt find the boy. I walked beyond the car and continued on. Looking left and right, up the streets and down the streets. I couldnt see them anywhere. I saw a crowd infront of Shoprite, the big South African supermarket chain. I crossed the road, waded through the crowd, passed hords of little boys sniffing glue and gave up. I looked down to my left, and on the floor, just there, next to me, the little boy sat. Looking at the ground, a little distance from his grandmother who sat on the ground, crumpled in on herself.
Amazing, here they are!
I walked up, and said 'sorry'. He looked up, a little dazed. I put the 5,000 kwacha in his hand and he started to beam. Smiling, i pointed to his grandmother. He leaned over and said something, put the money in her hand, she lifted her head, he said something again. I smiled at him and walked away. I turned back and saw him wave at me, and beam, and smile a beautiful smile. I smiled back, kept on walking, crossed the road, and felt a force of something overpowering and painful rise up inside me. I crossed the road crying, walking on to the car crying.
I don't know what it was, or what it is, because it wells up inside me as I write.

My shell broke. I found the boy. He smiled, and I cried.

impressions of life in lusaka
sitting at breakfast in a café, a little mzungu (foreigner, i.e. white) kid drops his glas on the floor. he looks briefly disturbed and glances at his mom for a fraction of a second before turning around to the young zambian staff imploring him to clean up his mess. it looks just a little too habitual for comfort.

two young, capable and dedicated staff members of a training organisation have gone without any pay for two months now. they come to work at 8am every morning and do what they can until after sundown. the company isn't bringing in clients, there is no money for salaries for yet another month. it's not the first time.
The young woman is getting married and needs to put in money for her 'kitchen party'. Her relatives will contribute, as will family friends and friends from the mother's church. She is expected to put in the largest part before anyone else contributes. If she doesnt, she will be seen as expecting everyone else to pay for her. She is seen leaving her place of residence early every morning and returning late at night. 'Ahh that one! she works. she has money.' When she explains that she is not getting paid, she isn't believed. She asked her employer for help, but there is no money.
The young man went to see the doctor. Infection of the kidney. Antibiotics, immune boosters and Chinese herbs. 350,000 kwacha. He hasnt been paid for months, hasnt been eating, and can't take his girl out for a soda. He needs the medicines. He asks his employer for help, but there is no money.
They will be at the office at 8am tomorrow morning, doing their bit.

the recently wedded bar keeper is no longer wearing his ring on his finger. what happened? aahh, i found an sms in my wife's phone, and i didnt like it. I asked her what it was and she got angry. She packed her things and went to her parents place. Her parents called him, brought them together to work it out. They realised that he was right and that she did wrong. She is still at her parents place. She is due to give birth to their first child in three weeks.

I sit in a car with three young lads. They seem like boys yet they have responsible jobs. They jest and joke, we banter and laugh. I look out the window and appreciate being back in Zambia.

football party, ghana-styleee
poor solitary Guinea supporters.. and what eerie silent streets during the match..


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHlT2SLMR04

ps. dee - see BusStop accross the road from Paloma? :)

Boiling mango leaves with pinch of salt and more on medicine
i tried, i did. i dragged myself out of bed on day 4 of being bed-ridden in my lusaka bed-room, and attended a focus group meeting. I arrived sweating , and spent the day a veritable zombie presence. I won't go into the details, but i did come out of that day wiser in the ways of indigenous remedies, and conflicted about whether one should wallow in one's illness and let it do it's thing and pass through, or whether one should put up a brave face and pretend it isn't there, so as to not give it a chance to win the fight.
It was obvious that i wasn't my usual self, as people approached me not with 'hello' but with 'sorry sorry...' only to follow with a 'you will be fine, don't worry'.
By lunchtime, i felt like the only thing i could do was go back to bed - the sweating and shivering wasn't stopping, i was unsure when i walked if i would stay standing, my sight was blurry and my main contributions to the dialogue were loud and disturbing coughing fits. Junior however had no mercy - 'Saskia, you should just be yourself again, the way you usually are. Otherwise you let the illness win. Just get up, go eat some lunch, and don't look like anything is wrong'.
I felt scolded like a child, and a further mixtures of sentiments including shame for my weakness, self-pity, indulgence, i felt spoiled and childish and elements of many more things. Here I was, always in good health, a strong western-fed body, and as soon as i get sick, I fall down and writhe on the ground in self-pity. Surrounded by people that have grown up in much less luxurious, nutritious and health conducive environments than i have, and it seemed they simply hold their heads high and don't let the illness see that it is bothering you, otherwise it will overmaster you.
So i went and had a few spoonfulls of food. I couldn't manage more, I felt nauseous, but I looked at Junior and he nodded - this was good, good enough.
I sat through the remaining hours of the session until it was finished and then *really* wanted to go. Whomever I spoke to gave me their best recipes to feel better, the main two recurring ones were:
- Mango Leaves:
Boil the mango leaves (theres mango trees in every yard in lusaka) in a pan of water for 10 minutes and stir well. Add a pinch of salt. You will be cured in less than two days.
- Ginger, lemon and honey:
Boil the ginger root in water for 10 minutes, add fresh lemon juice and boil the peel with the rest of the mixture for another few minutes. Add some pure honey. One person was cured in one day only.
I went for the Ginger, Lemon and Honey. Cooked it all up in my hotel water cooker for tea..

That same evening my friend Gareth came to see me, brought a thermometer, fruit, juice and crackers, and was shocked, i really did look like a zombie. He wanted to take me to the clinic and i was avoiding it. It's just a bad flu, it will pass. We took my temperature - it was 39.4 celcius. We chatted a bit more, hung around, he called a doctor and family members, and made the decision for me. We are going to the clinic.
Pay 300,000 Zambian Kwacha and you have an expert consultation. How many can't just cough up 300,000 kwacha on the spot? The doctor on night duty, en elderly Indian chap, again scolded me... 'what? You have been having high fever for over 4 days and you still think that nothing is wrong?' he shook his head and similar sorts of sentiments as above swirled through me, triggered altogether differently. He did a malaria test - negative. He did more general check-ups, took my temperature again (102.something - i was momentarily shocked, until i realised it was a Fahrenheit thermometer) and didn't want to prescribe anything until blood and urine tests had been done, but they could only be done tomorrow morning when the lab was back open. For now, i had to go to the treatment room, have my blood taken, and take medication until my fever went down. They would not release me until my body had reacted to the medication, and I had come down off this high fever.
It took a while.
We noticed i was getting better when Gareth and I started fooling around and making movies about me in the hospital bed, 'Sas, what does it feel like to be hospitalised in a developing country with eboli virus?', it would have been a good movie if not for the unstoppable smiling and grinning that we couldn't hold back.
They took my temperature again, 35.8 celcius. What? What meds did you give me?!!? That's what it's like in a hospital in a developing country - faulty medical equipment.
finally at close to midnight they let me go.
Today, two days later again, is the first time i woke up without fever. I feel weak - I'm on antibiotics, I still sweat bucket loads at night, I switch between being restless and falling into deep deep sleep. But with all the possible side affects listed on the liner notes for the medicines, I am very thankful that it seems to be going the right way towards feeling better from here.
Insh'allah.

Of Mildred Mpundu, journalism and HIV/AIDS
i posted about 2 months ago on Mildred Mpundu, she has since passed. There has been an outpouring of condolences and personal accounts of grief due to the loss of this amazing woman for Zambia and anyone that has been fortunate enough to know her professionally, personally or through reading her articles, and the contribution to the eBrain Forum of Zambia by Henry Kabwe that i found in my email inbox this morning has moved me to tears.
Thanks Henry for sharing your experience of her, and contributing to all our appreciation of her inspiring nature.

Of Mildred Mpundu, journalism and HIV/AIDS

A Dedication by Henry Kabwe

Before Mildred Namwiinde Mpundu became a journalist, she existed as a child, a school girl and a responsible young lady.

Before she became open about her HIV status, she was one of the journalists doing their daily routines of writing to the publics that they served.

She worked for the Times of Zambia newspaper and was one of the first Zambian Key Correspondents under the Health and Development Networks (HDN) based in Thailand.

On November 13, 2007, I received a call from another journalist, Felistus Chipako that she had died.

November 13^th is my birthday and I was on the way to Lundazi District, over 800 kilometers from Zambia’s capital city of Lusaka.

When I broke the news in the vehicle carrying an entourage of colleagues from the Media Institute of Southern Africa (MISA) Zambia that were heading to add value to a local community radio station, Chikaya, it became apparent that a great person had been lost.

The delegation leader, Brian Lingela, the head of broadcasting at MISA Zambia, made the situation more emotional. He narrated that Mildred taught him in primary school before they both met again as media practitioners.

“She was like a mother to me. She used to call me ‘son’,” decried Brian, who later disclosed that he had plans to take Mildred to some herbal clinic which had promised miracles for people that need immune boosting.

When a lady called Dorcas died in bible days, a number of women she had helped tried everything to ensure that she lived and had unusually believed that God would to resurrect her from the dead through Peter, the apostle. And, it worked.

This is what everyone that saw Mildred’s health fail wanted to do to ensure that she continued living and being good to society.

For Mildred, wearing a smile even in the most challenging moments was as natural as blinking the eye.

She was a darling of everyone. “Yes dear,” was her catch word and the spirit behind the voice was so soothing and reassuring.

Whenever she rebuked you, it was like funny. She never offended in her correction but she did with so much emphasis and fortitude that it was difficult to ignore or disobey ‘the order’.

On my birthday last year, my life had become a nightmare. I was beaten economically, socially and emotionally.

Everything had gone wrong. My grandmother and mother had died within two months, and I was battling some financial challenges coupled with a bit of personal social issues.

The birthday that was supposed to be celebrated had become a bitter reminder of the people that were responsible of my being brought to this earth.

By this time, Mildred had become financially challenged. She and her child – that darling called Mate – had come to my office.

She could not watch me look like a bear deprived of her children and invited me to her favorite eating spot in town for a meal.

When I looked at her failing health and the sacrifice she made to just make me feel better, it made me shed tears whenever she was not focusing her attention on me.

That was my birthday last year and on this year’s birthday, she said ‘Bye’.

I had earlier called her a week before, on a Friday to be specific, to inquire about her whereabouts and how she was doing.

She told me that she had traveled to her father’s home in Kalomo District and was supposed to be back the following week, especially Monday.

On Monday, I remembered to call her and the sister indicated to me that she was not talking.

I thought it was one of those little relapses that come to those infected with HIV and are taking antiretroviral (ARV) drugs.

However, it was not to be; the following day, she died.

I first met with Mildred when a features reporter under her desk, Gethsemane Mwizabi introduced me to her and told her that I was leading the Media Network on Orphans and Vulnerable Children.

She immediately inquired about the Media Network ostensibly referred to as OVC Media Network in two minutes and the next thing I saw was her hand reaching into her bag to pay the membership fee into the network.

I did not realize the amount of value, insight and hard work Mildred was going to bring to the organization, but it had definitely appealed to me that her commitment to children’s was unheard of.

She was soon to be elected treasurer and took up the responsibility of organizing events. I can imagine her budget for the last come together we had in that graceful handwriting.

The budget contained too many details but I knew how time wasting it was to try to compromise on the amount of things to buy for any event. In the end, she was doing the tedious lot and needed to be backed in all manner of ways.

Mildred was held dearly by both veteran, ‘middle-class’ and inexperienced journalists, including students.

She had mastered her art of writing so wittily but never thought of her position in the ranks of journalism when it came to getting advice on how she could do an article or some report better.

It used to beat me to get ‘bothered’ (I told her word was a command) to go to her lap top and go through her article or report to confirm whether it was good or not, and suggest possible corrections.

With no qualms at all, she would get on with her work and made her win a lot of awards in the journalism sector.

She was also a well traveled journalist. If there was one person I used to wonder how they kept moving to from one country another, it was Mildred Mpundu. I would sometimes rant against the idea of going to another country. Jokingly, of course!

It was in this period that we started noticing her health failing. She was always complaining of one aspect of ill-health or another.

Her food patterns also changed as she resorted to more health foods but rebutted anyone who indulged in junk food. Didn’t I start changing my eating habits when I did a long winding project with her? Well, I was commanded to and I did it with pleasure.

To her, eating the right food was vital to living with HIV. Although, she did not tell us her status by then, she emotionally condemned ARVs as a business venture by the West.

I was so scared of her words just in case she needed the ARVs.

Afterwards, her health became so bad that she could not walk and was confined to bed. When we visited her one day, she could not come out of the bedroom. We were asked to go in.

On her bed, she struggled to speak and Mwiika Malindima from the Zambia Institute of Mass Communication (ZAMCOM), who is also a Key Correspondent for HDN, Glory Mushinge, the chairperson for training at MISA Zambia and Pastor Joe Mulenga were so touched.

She now started saying there she saw no need to remain in denial. She was going to face it and test for HIV. She went ahead to praise ARVs and how they had helped people living with HIV/AIDS.

It was a soothing experience that had left us hopeful that once she got on ARVs, things could get better. While chatting, her youngest daughter kept shifting among the three male visitors as from one husband to another and made the situation a little lighter.

When we left, it was clear that we had a big challenge and started wondering how we could of help.

She went to Teba Hospital where she was confirmed that she had HIV.

Before long, I received a text message while in a church in Mansa District tipping me to read The Post newspaper for that day. We had gone to visit relatives and watch the Mutomboko Traditional Ceremony of the Lunda people.

After church, we struggled to get the newspaper until we found a man who had it in a shop at a filling station.

We saw the story, Mildred Mpundu had come out about her HIV status and we got so emotional that our rather congenial trip turned out to become somber and quiet.

The following day, an indicator of the impact Mildred had created was to come.

Harriet Mulenga, a beautifully bouncing lady who had deteriorated in health due to HIV/AIDS called me.

She said she saw Mildred’s story in The Post and wanted to talk about her five years experience on ARVs.

I met with Harriet some three years earlier at a ZAMCOM media workshop on HIV/AIDS supported by the United States President George Bush’s HIV/AIDS program.

Since before of us are busy people, it was difficult to get in touch and get the story running somewhere, but Harriet kept my phone ringing and I kept reassuring her on the other side.

However, I did not know that The Post had graciously offered Mildred an opportunity to be contributing articles.

So when Harriet called me on a day when I was with Mildred, I talked to her about Mildred’s work and I handed the phone to Mildred.

They talked and became friends right there.

The following day, I was Mildred’s aide when we went to the Comprehensive HIV/AIDS Management Program (CHAMP) and the two women hugged like they had known each other for a long time.

Then we proceeded to the boardroom where the interview was to be conducted.

There was Mildred doing her work. She got her notebook and started interviewing Harriet.

How touched I was! I could not hold it and I sent a text message to the one who made me get closer to Mildred, Gethsemane, who later confessed that I was a strong man. Whatever, he meant.

This interview was very encouraging to Mildred as she confessed that she would also get better.

“Muzakaniona Henry nizakaina so. Ma hips yazachoka aya (You will see Henry how I will get big like this. My hips will protrude),” she said while showing how big she would become with her hands and we all laughed.

After the interview, the two people living with HIV kissed each other with Mildred carrying a bunch of pictures that showed Harriet as a ‘finished’ (her own words) and weak, and a happy ending of the now bouncy and beautiful lady.

I jokingly said “How about me?” and Harriet said mine was not supposed to be public. The laughing frenzy continued.

It was sad that Mildred died while I was in Lundazi. Monalisa Haundu, her friend and colleague in the OVC Media Network tried to organize a number of people to go and mourn our colleague, but it was too late.

I traveled from Lundazi, Chipata and Petauke Districts under a strictly rescheduled program but the long journey between Lusaka and Kalomo District where Mildred was buried betrayed me.

In Lundazi, those that knew her were beaten. Former ZAMCOM Director Mike Daka, the director of Breeze FM in Chipata said it was sad that a committed journalist like Mildred had died.

He confessed that she was the first journalist to start consistently writing about HIV/AIDS.

When I arrived in Kalomo around 11 30 hours, I called her number and I was told that the procession had already started off for burial at a farm.

I was told that it was difficult to know where the farm was and could do better to wait for the procession to come back.

I was in Kalomo for an extended period of time for the first time and my emotions could not allow me to stay on for the sake of Mildred.

I saw an ode to Mildred by Dr. Robert Mtonga after buying the Times of Zambia and when I tried to read, it was too much to bear.

Even the call boys at the bus station discovered that I had gone to mourn ‘Ba Mpundu’ when they heard talking on the phone.

The whole area had a sense of solitude and sent a strong indication of what Mildred meant to people out there.

Beyond one person living with HIV/AIDS like Harriet, a lot others have been encouraged by Mildred.

Beyond one journalist like me, a lot other journalists are inspired by the life and work of Mildred. Her advice to the media was blunt but helpful. “Never mess with the sources” and “I wish I listened to my parents” come out as strong conclusions of her advocacy.

And beyond one call boy, one Dr. Mtonga and one reader, Mildred’s impact will live as a testimony for all who have read and continue reading her articles.

Though dead, Mildred will continue speaking and touching lives.

Having shared a hope of the resurrection of Christ and the eventual glorifying of those that believe, she hoped for that better place; the place of rest and comfort.

We shall then see each other one day, “My dear.”

A quick mind-scape from the hotelroom..
I spent a relaxing day offline on a plot of land in the bush surrounding Lusaka yesterday, playing with dogs, bouncing on a trampoline with two young boys who have recently moved with their parents from the Lusaka residential areas to the wild and wonderful bush, chatting and playing camera woman/waitress to friends who were planning and plotting away on the cement slab where a few months from now their very own house will be stand tall and proud, for an entire day not talking about ICTs for Development (ok apart from that session with Rachel in the kitchen when she asked me that much-feared question for which i never seem to have a short answer 'how are your projects developing in zambia?'.., stopping to have a good look at the their own community of Guinea fowl, all spotted and lovely, chattering away in their little habitat complete with improvised waterfall (leaking water tank), fallen tree trunks, lookout hill and more, causing me to think of them as in animation style movies with pronounced personalities, pecking order, dramatic interrelationships and lots of adventure within their little microcosm, feeling sorry for Molly the beautiful black Labrador who got spat in the eye by a spitting cobra (and allegedly killed it by ripping it in two! go girl), racing the boys across the plot with unfair but exhilarating advantage (me on a quad, them on their bmx'es..), watching the sun set in its dark red and purple hues over the horizon of trees, surrounded by the glow of fires across the farm land, set alight by villagers getting the land ready towards the end of dry season for the next cycle of planting ...
I was happy yesterday that i didnt have my camera with me, that my mobile phone that has a camera was out of battery, and that i was walking around unburdened by technology and the desire to capture every little thing around me in digital format. But now, when i recall all these images in my mind, i wish i had had something with me none the less, just a few shots, just a few impressions of what i saw yesterday that felt so normal, but what today I again realise is special and extraordinary for many of us.
oh well. sowwy.
:)

before we drove out to the plot, Gareth and I went past the Chikumbuso project in Ngombe compound - unfortunately the women who run it weren't there - it was Sunday morning and all were in Church - and the school wasn't open, but i nevertheless got a good sense of what the project does. Esther was there and showed me some of the bags that the grandmothers weave from plastic bags from supermarkets, amazingly sturdy creative bags, for your grocery shopping or for your notebook, pen and mobile phone - yes, complete with little mobile phone pocket inside!
The terrain used to host a bar with a brothel behind it, and man, the place must have been dismal. Tiny little shacks behind the bar in a cramped back alley, one next to the other, tiny little cement rooms with wooden beds - it must have been a filthy, disease-ridden, nasty place, with women selling their sexual services to drunk and dirty men - just the thought of it made me nauseous and ill at ease.
And to now see it as a community centre, a school, a playground, an home to orphans and single mothers, and a means for grandmothers to come together and generate income for themselves and their orphaned grandchildren - i tell you, it does something to you. If you have a young daughter who wants to take a year off and do some volunteer work, these are the kinds of projects that we need to send them to. If we do some advertising or importing and selling of handicrafts from Africa with a charitable story behind them, these are the projects we need to bring forward.

All in all, a very lovely and inspiring day.
The mental-emotional fog that had me chained to darker moods since leaving Holland had lifted after breaking the contact/no contact rule, and i was able to fill freed-up mental space with the details of the day and surroundings at hand. Finally back in the Here and Now. Phew. It felt good.

Then today is a whole other story. Meetings to make decisions with senior figure of Zambian health institutions, i was pleased and inspired to meet with such dedicated and strong leadership; over lunch learning about encryption technologies and forging ways to support a nascent open source developers community; in the afternoon being sucked into the final preparations for the Web2forDevelopment conference which is quickly approaching - sucked in never to reappear. The Here and Now completely lost to the Very-Far-Away and Soon, with all the frustrations of sustained lack of access to work mail and ever-growing follow-up and preparatory task lists drowning out the immediate contact and surroundings..

... today's african sunset i did not witness, but it's all good.

Beautiful Luangwa
My friend Gareth's brother Patrick is another one of those talents that is living The Life.
For all the years I have been coming to Zambia, I have been told about the incredible beauty of the Luangwa Valley. For the same amount of years I have been wanting, yearning to go. But havent yet made it.
Recently plans came up for 'Loosje the Longboard Lion' and me to save money, lots of it, and make our way to Zambia together and finally into the valley and its camps. The dream remains with me.
Patrick's blog showing what he encounters almost daily, seen through his lense and craft, has only reinforced this desire. Longing. Yearning.
Apparently going Jan, Feb, March of next year would make staying in the camp financially feasible, no pipe-dream. Will we still have the plan? Will we make it happen?
Look, indulge, enjoy and wonder.
Beautiful Zambia. Beautiful Africa.

Web2forDev - Sparking a Movement?

Cross-posting from our corporate blog...
Sounds a bit promo, but the enthusiasm is real ;) Nice when you can write about your work and it comes gushing out easily. Never mind the additional workload and the pushing out of mental sight all the things that I am neglecting to do because of picking this up.
Roma.. Pippa, Dom and Beanie - Vengo!

Spent a very entertaining morning at the Chawama Youth Project who have just openend their community recording studio in Chawama Compound (township) in Lusaka..

Check some Flickr pics, but also the following Blip.tv videos! :)

Click To Play

Click To Play

Chita staff part II
so i just had a drink at the bar at Chita, and when i started to walk back to my room to do work and prepare for tomorrow's workshop, one of the girls who serves food linked into my arm and started walking with me to my room.
during previous trips she used to work the breakfast shift, starting my day with friendly joyful chatter, recounting her struggles with further education in a chirpy manner and updating me on the latest gossip of Chita staff and Chita management. The first day that i came back this time, she slid up to me and told me in a conspiratorial voice that she had to tell me something.. aah.. but not now, eyes shining and a secretive smile on her face.
I had forgotten until she walked me to my room, waited for me to open the door and came in with me. 'I'm pregnant', she said. With a smile on her face, averting her eyes and not saying much else for a bit. I noticed I wasn't sure how to react. A stream of questions started racing through my head - Was she happy? Was it planned? How óld is she anyway? Was she going to ask me for money? Would she still be able to work? Would I give her money, and if so how much? Was I going to give some structurally, put aside some every month to help out? How did I feel about her going to ask me for money, we had always been so friendly, girly confidantes, open and sincere, how was this changing how I felt towards her? If I gave her money, what would happen with the other staff who I have been friendly with over the years, and who have sick/illiterate/old dependants or babies and equally as miserly salaries?
So I started asking her some of them.
- Wow, that really is a big bit of news, uhm, was it planned?
- No, no. It just happened... so what can you do.. keep it.
- How far along are you?
- Well the doctors they say that the date is end of June, but I don't know.
- What date is the end of June?
- When the baby is coming!
I looked at her belly through the thick winter jacket and saw a small protrusion, but she definetely didn't look 8 months pregnant..
- Are you sure?
- (laughing). Ha, that's what I said! But you know the doctors, they started saying, you don't believe us? we are professionals! you think you know better than us? You know what doctors are like, they can Scream at you, although the nurses are worse..
- so.. are you happy?
- (silence) guess so (smile)
- and.. what about the father?
- yea, he's around. (silence). but I'm not going to get married..
- No?
- No. I don't want to. Definetly don't want to. Maybe in two or three years, but not now.
- And what does the family say?
- Ah, they didn't say anything..
- No?
- No. My parents are no longer alive. I grew up with my sisters. Now I live with my auntie. She fell sick and had no one to take care of her, so I came down to Lusaka to care for her.
- So do you have people to help you? To show you what to do?
- yea, but i don't want that. It's my baby, so I don't want people telling me You must do this and that..
- and are you still going to be able to work here?
- hmm yea, but after four months or so.
- who is going to take care of the baby?
- i dont know, I'll hire someone, a girl, and then when i come home from work I will take care of her. Anyway, I want to go back to school. You remember last time you were here, I was at school and finished first level. I passed, so know I want to go to second level.
- that's great. so you'll be working, going to school ánd have a baby?
- (smile) yea, in fact, people keep telling me that I should stay with the baby all the time, but I don't want to!
- so, how old are you now?
- ... twenty-two (smile), and in fact, the guy keeps saying we should get married, but i don't want to.
- why not?
- ah, me - i don't trust men.
- no?
- no. and i don't want to get married because there will be a baby. Maybe two or three years after, but not now. Then when there will be trouble, we will say, ah we only got married because of the baby, and i don't want that. marriage.. no, not yet. i see so much trouble.. i don't want to be dependant on a man. me i want to be independant, it's my baby, and i want to care for it and make the decisions.
- do you know if it's a boy or a girl?
- no, but i think its a boy.
- how do you know?
- (smile) i don't know, i just think so. if it's a boy, the boy is going to give him the name. if it's a girl, I will give her the name. I'm still looking for names, I don't want anything ordinary, I want something special. I've got three names now, but I'm still looking. And then i want to give her a local name too, a name from my tribe, people keep saying I should give her a local name.. but i will only give it as an initial! (smile)
- is there a naming ceremony? I mean traditionally, like if she is born on a certain day she has to have a certain name? Which tribe are you?
- Lozi. and about tradition, me I don't know. I don't know what they do in the village. Me - I've never been in the village.

We went on for a bit, and she never asked me for money...

Some first impression from the days spent here..
The conversations on the first night back brought me back to what life is like in Zambia. Snippets of those conversations, usually with Prince behind the bar at the lodge, other underpaid but lovely lodge staff, the regulars imbimbing their double whiskeys, and the taxi drivers, make a big impact on me when i hear whats happing in normal (read: non ICT4D) Zambian life, but then other conversations and work take over and the nuggets of reality fade from my focus.

Learning to read
Prince for example, the young barman who has stuck it out at Chita Lodge longest of all, who has turned into a friend over the years, sharing stories and questions, discussing life in 'the West' vs life in Zambia, romance, books and family matters, was telling me about his struggles in sustaining not only himself and his little daughter, but also his brother and his brother's wife who he has been putting up at his house. We were talking about his daughter who seems to be lagging behind in school. With Prince being caught up at Chita all day and night for work (under inhumane working hours and inhumane salary conditions), and the mother of the child no longer being in the picture, there hasnt been anybody to help his daughter with doing her homework and studying after school.
'What about your brother's wife?'
No, his brother's wife is illiterate, she doesnt know how to read or write. She has recently come from 'the village' to the city, and doesnt have any means of income. In the city if you can't read or write, there is little you can do. You cannot even read the signs all around you, the names of stores, the paper, you name it.
'Since your daughter is in grade 1, wouldn't it be a good opportunity for your brother's sister to learn how to read and write along with your daughter? tracing the letters, doing the excercises..'
No, she doesnt seem to want to learn. Plus, with the hierarchy here in Zambia, elders dont want to be seen as knowing less than the youngsters. Loss of face. In fact, she wants to go back to the village, she doesn't like it in the city, she doesn't do anything.
'Why doesn't she go?'
My brother doesn't want to. He feels that life happens in Lusaka, not in the village.
'What does you brother do?'
Nothing. He drinks and watches TV. He can't get a job, doesn't even try. Stays out and doesn't come home at night, and drinks a lot'
'How does he pay for it?'
I don't know. In fact, just yesterday i got really angry with him. He stays in my house, he and his wife are my dependants, and he does nothing. But he doesn't want to go back to the village.

of Poison & Gangrene
did I hear of Andrew's sister dying? Yes, Yese told me on the phone. He also told me that she died under strange circumstances..
Yes, her liver and her kidney apparently stopped at the same time, she was dead within 4 days.. Now how does that happen? it can't be a natural death, still nobody knows. People say she was poisoned, i never trusted that husband of hers..
You serious? Would her husband really do that?
You know men here in Zambia.. she was doing quite well professionally, was very independent, went her own way most of the time. And he wasn't doing very well, jealousy and consuming too much..
I'm so sorry for Andrew.. it must be hard..
Yea, but then life is like that, a few weeks, months and you forget. Well, you don't forget, but..
Sas, you were hear when my mom passed away right?
Yes, i heard.
Well, she died and i was sad, but after a few weeks, well maybe four months, i don't think about it. Only in the beginning did she come to mind, mom - oh no, mom is no more. she's gone.
How did she die Prince? I've never known..
Ah you know.. we don't quite know. what is it called? Gangrene or something? I think thats what it was, i'm not a doctor.
Gangrene? Like the infection in the feet spreading up through the blood?
Yes, we tried to get her treatment, but the doctors didn't do anything. I took her to see a few doctors, but nothing was done (knowing Prince's miserly salary, this must have cost him fortunes).
One day she was feeling really bad, so i put her in a car to take her to UTH (University Teaching Hospital), i knew we had to hurry, i could feel it. On the way there I looked back and there she was in the backseat, dead. Her eyes just staring and her head leaning against the side window (he imitates the position of his dead mother against the taxi window on the back seat).

[Comment from other guy sitting next to me, who has been listening in on the conversation] yea, gangrene, and what's that other one that people are suffering from more these times.. gout? Yea gout, Zambians eat too much red meat.. ha ha..

Prince and other guy laugh about Zambians and their love for eating meat, I am silenced by the reality of these diseases, and the incessant unnecessary deaths that permeate life here.

Words and Pictures bring forgotten Zambian grandmothers to Ireland
by Sir G

Gareth, of A-Land-Just-Short-of-the-Sun fame, has had his words and photographs published in the Irish Times weekend Magazine, so so deservedly so.
Congratulations Gareth, may the good work done by the project recive bountiful goodwill and support through readers' responding to your words and pictures.
Don't ever stop.

in a fundamental way

her name was theresa
she would float into me,
crawl into me in the water
and i would melt.

i poured a bit of water on her head,
i told her she was a flower and now she could grow

with every bit of water i sprinkeld on her,
she stretched her little body and grew
with every time she emptied her small watering can on my head, i grew

we grew and grew, and didnt tire
her softness - in word, skin and demeanour - touched me in a fundamental way

Lore of the Snake
The image of the snake has arisen in my life recently and set me to wonder about its symbolism. Thus far I didnt get much further than the practical Tuareg/Niger interpretation that when you meet a snake on your path, or should you be bitten by one, it indicates that a child is coming into your life, or that you might fall pregnant in the near future (hoping that the snake bite wont be the end of you..)
My current favorite reading gave me a lot more the other night, in Ilan's words, it appears the book is coming to meet me, meet my needs..
Follow me to the lore of Africa and Australia, and let me know any (symbolic) association you have or know of with snakes.. my comments box is eager for your thoughts!

"In Nigeria, in many countries of Western Africa, in Mozambique, Namibia, and Natal, there is a story of a great serpent that brougt the Earth Mother to this world, and how that snake was shooting rainbows out of its body. In Western Africa they say that the Godess travelled through the world in the mouth of a great rainbow serpent, creating mountains and valleys and stars. The serpent is sometimes depicted as a great Python. The Vedaps of Northern Transvaal say that it was this python who first taught men and women how to make love.
You see, sir, it is very different from the book of Genesis, in Judeo-Christian culture, where the serpent is the principle of evil (and i think they don't like sex very much either, sir, if you dont mind me saying so). But in African Mythology, making love is one of the greatest of blessings, and so we say that the serpent is the source of blessings, not of evil. He is called Nyoka, 'the instructor'; and so the serpent is identified as an 'expert', the one who knows what is going on, what the truth is.

Likewise I know that for the Australian Aborigines, there is a great rainbow serpent who is often encircling the Earth or bringing the people special blessings, and i also know their sangomas,who are called 'clever men', ride on the back of this serpent, or climb up on rainbow serpents to enter the heavens or the upper realms (Footnote: Such serpents, called brimures, play a very active role in Australian shamanism and may be introduced into the body, or extracted, and are important in initiations).
So in the legends of of the Australians too the serpent is a very benevolent creature, and not at all to be equated with anything evil. "

(p.155, Zulu Shaman: Dreams, Prophesies, and Mysteries; Chapter 6: The Common Origin of All Humanity)

Here comes Ghana (in the words of the sports commentator)
What a night - Bob Marley's birthday and the Ghana-Nigeria game..
and Frieda's birthday, and the start of lady dee's birthdat across the other side of the world.
so many reasons to celebrate, the births of such wonderful people, the stars are promising in this alignment and one should congratulate any new lucky parents :)

after a hot first half that didnt bring home any goals for either side, the great dreams that my temporary fellow countrymen had for the greatness of the Ghana Black Stars did not look promising. 2-1 was the prediction, Sherif had seen it in his dream. I wasn't going to go see him for any sangoma practices..

while swaying gently to some liberation rhyme and rythms, watching denise network her way into the jamaican ladies club, suddenly the first cries of joy of the second half. many raced to the tv screen, the jamaicans stayed put. chatting. not long after another cry, perhaps louder and more sustained. and then more again!
Ghana 3 - Nigeria 0.

~ yoepieeee Ghana Black Stars ~
~ yoepieeee bob marley ~

the thick bass continued to throb, the melody carrying us higher, and the score better than anyone had been expectin.
Laryea Kingston 50min, Sulley Muntari 53min, Junior Agogo 60min made it 3-0 for the stars. Taiwo Taye pulled one back for Nigeria in the 65 minute through a penalty kick, before substitute, JoeTex Frimpong, put the result beyond doubt with a fouth goal in the 74min.

What a night. What fever for the Africa Cup of Nations which Ghana will host in January 2008. I have seen the transformation of the dusty town of Tamale, with it new stadium towering in the bright sunlight high above any other building in town. Ghana, January 2008. Block your calendars. It'll be hot.

Oh and of course, its Ghana @ 50 this year!!
Happy Birthyear Ghanaaaaaaaaa!!!!

Presby's Makin it Work

Up front: What I'm about to say is not founded in thorough research and not meant to inflame the usual heated debates around religions and streams within same religions..

But a conversation triggered me to ask more questions to myself, read up a little more on something I knew nothing about, and kept me intrigued since.

So I will share my intrigue publicly, or well, with my captive audience, since this isnt quite the CNN or Al-Jazeera website..

I was having lunch with staff from a Ghanaian organisation that we work with, which is an association of church-based development projects. They asssist church stations, often located far from district towns or urban centres, who in trun work with rural communities to improve agricutural practices, health services, social services and the like. The association is open to all church-based development projects, and thus has a variety of members - some catholic, others evangelical, other methodist, others presbyterian and so on. Not being familiar with the many differences between the various streams - some significant, others less so - I wondered whether this hub could see whether any of the streams or denominations were more successful at their development programmes than others.

Suspecting that this was a tricky question to ask, i nevertheless wanted to know. So asked it. (I'm an Aries, don't blame me..)

I could tell by my partner's hesitation that there was something to tell, but he was reluctant, understandably so. My one lunch partner subscribes to the catholic church, the other methodist.

The catholic admitted that he could see a clear difference, at least when it comes to the agriculture/livelihoods programmes.

The Presby's take the cake.

The level of professionalism and success of their programmes stands high above similar programmes set up and managed by other churches.

Hmmmm. Now. Why may that be so? What is it about the Presbyterian church?

I don't know the first thing about it, so your thoughts are very welcome!

Some excerpts from the great wikipedia might point to some root causes, although I'd have to investigate all the other streams and compare them in these stances.. (triggers those Phd juices in comparative belief systems again..)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presbyterian

Local congregations are governed by Presbyteries made up of representatives of the local congregations, a conciliar approach which is found at other levels of decision-making. There are therefore no bishops in Presbyterianism. The office of elder is another distinctive mark of Presbyterianism: these are specially commissioned non-clergy who take part in local pastoral care and decision-making at all levels.

Presbyterians place great importance upon education and continuous study of the scriptures, theological writings, and understanding and interpretation of church doctrine embodied in several statements of faith and catechisms formally adopted by various branches of the church. It is generally considered that the point of such learning is to enable one to put one's faith into practice; most Presbyterians generally exhibit their faith in action as well as words, by generosity, hospitality, and the constant pursuit of social justice and reform, as well as proclaiming the gospel of Christ.

Could the inclusion of non-clergy from the community in the council of elders, and the focus on community well-being aspects that are not necessarily a product of faith in the Christian church (generosity, hospitality..) have anything to do with it? How is this then different from traditional forms of governance, where such council of elders do include persons to represent different aspects of community life and their general common objective is the socio-sentient well-being of the community?
If these are conducive elements in the Presby structure and objective of the church, and they are not or less present in the Catholic, or Methodist, or what-have-you churches, and if these elements are comparable to traditional governance structures.. then can't we assume that working in a similar fashion with traditional societies could have produced similar results? I'm cutting many corners I know, but I am always wondering to what extent the imposition of Western religious (or now non-religious) structures on traditional ones is necessary to achieve what we aim to achieve.
And so i keep going round in circles.

An interesting small book to read about relationships in traditional communities in West African (Dagara) society is this, reminding us that relationships are often not chosen by ourselves, but rather brought about by spirit because the combination of two people have something to offer - not just for ourselves, but for the community, for the world. this relates not only to partners we chose, but to our friends, our family, our working relationships etc. Next time you wonder why on earth this person came into your life and stayed, think back to spirit. I'm not sure what the Presby's woudl think of that though. Unless spirit is god and god is spirit.
I'll stop here.

heard while in a taxi to chita lodge, my home away from home:

When I asked my 12 year old daughter to do me one more favour, she said Sure mommy, what is it?
I want to ask you to go for VCT (voluntary counselling & testing) , if you want to that is, to know your status. As hard as it that was for me to ask her, so lightly and easily she responded: Sure mommy. I'll do that. I would be proud to be just like you. Positive. I hadn't expected her to respond like that. It moved me deeply. What's more mommy, I know now what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a doctor. Then I will be your doctor and care for you.

all I could do was look out of the window on the passenger side, breathe deeply and hope Soko wouldn't say something to me that required a response. I wouldn't be able to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and the big chunk of emotion that blocked and pained my throat.

(note: the picture is of Mercy, a Zambian girl that Ilana found, and that was lost to our joint care shortly after when her mother left the shanty town they lived in, and took Mercy with her, leaving Ilana no forwarding address)