Recognizing the value of a simple headlamp, I committed myself to getting one for each of the health care providers I had the privilege to work alongside while in Zambia. Easier said than done. I have spent the last three months writing and calling companies in hope of securing a donation of solar power headlamps. And not too long ago, I received the last ‘sorry we would love to help you…but we can only support projects in alignment with our mission, like helping women become more active outdoors – you know, hiking and camping’. I laughed the first time I heard this response. My attempts at explaining how the women I met hike to the water pump or how village life is sort of like camping have not impressed folks to action. But lo’ and behold, the last corporate response included a personal note that my story was very moving (not moving enough for them to help), but maybe enough to pull on your heartstrings this holiday season…
And since it is the season for giving, perhaps you would like to give the gift of the light – in the form of solar power or windup headlamp (batteries are very hard to come by in rural Zambia) J I am not much of a fundraiser – as noted by the previous paragraph – and I don’t like asking people to donate to my causes. However, this one is more near and dear to me than most – and I control how the money is spent (only on headlamps – you have my word!). My current goal is to raise $500, which would cover the cost of around 20 headlamps – or one per health center.
How can you help? Donate just a few dollars (right corner) – the equivalent of that beer you were going to buy me the next time you saw me. A team from Venture Strategies (organization I worked for over summer) will be heading back to Zambia in late February and I hope to send at least 20 headlamps with them.
“If you educate a girl, you educate a nation”, I read on the front of a school as we made our way out of the rural village in Zambia. I remember laughing at the irony. You see, I was well into my second month of traveling from one rural village to the next, assisting in the implementation of a maternal health program aimed at reducing maternal death from postpartum hemorrhaging with the simple drug misoprostol. I had met countless women since arriving in Zambia - incredible, courageous, intelligent women. But not educated.
At first they were too young to safely walk the long distances to school. Then they were too old to not be married. Somewhere along the way, the possibility for these girls to be something more than a mother was...just...forgotten. So there I was, deep into the Zambian bush, trying to safeguard the one thing they could hold onto - motherhood - using education as my only tool.
I will probably never view pregnancy and childbirth quite the same either. In the US, pregnant women ‘glow.’ They go to the doctor for regular checkups and pack a bag to prepare for the delivery - all well before the due date. In most of the rural areas I worked in, it is very surprising to see any woman above the age of 17 without a protruding belly and another child strapped on her back; no one asks these women how far along they were or if it was a girl or boy. If these women packed a bag, they were packing soap, clean cloths, and an umbilical clamp because these things are not provided by the health facility (however, most women don't get to pack bags at all. It is estimated that 50-75% of women in the rural communities don't even make it to a health facility. They give birth on a dirt floor, perhaps with someone to help if they are lucky).
Postpartum hemorrhaging (PPH) attributes to over one third of maternal deaths - a striking fact since PPH is such a basic complication of childbirth that it's practically unheard of in our world. The deciding factor? A drug called misoprostol that can be easily taken orally immediately after the birth to prevent PPH. For women delivering at home, having the equivalent of aspirin tablet in misoprostol is a life-saving factor.
My last site visit this summer was the weekly antenatal (pre-birth) clinic at the health center. Nearly thirty women were waiting to meet with Sister Hilda, the only trained provider, and I was told this was a "light" day. On average, Hilda will counsel 50 women a week. Now, thanks to the efforts of groups like Venture Strategies, misoprostol education is included in the antenatal sessions. Simply handing out tablets without the education would be pointless. Now, after their individual appointments and screenings, women are given the choice of taking Misoprostol home with them. An overwhelming number agree to do so, tucking the packet into the corner of their chitenge as they leave the facility.
As we seek to empower "half the sky," it's important to remember that it comes in many forms, and always starts with education itself.
Out of breath and sweating in the waiting area for South Africa Airways at Lusaka International Airport, I thought about how my subconscious defense mechanism against teary-eyed goodbyes is packing and leaving for the airport at the last possible minute. This way – I am so overwhelmingly stressed about missing my flight that I do not realize I am actually leaving.
In the case of departing from Zambia, I decided that I needed to leave for the airport at 11am, which to me meant putting off packing until the morning of. After a couple of glasses of wine with friends the night before, I had a later start than expected the following morning. Then I quickly learned the 9 hand-woven baskets I bought were not going to fit in my carry-on bag and I needed to get something to transport them in. I decided I would run to the market and get one of the plastic carriers that all the Zambians use. Most of them are decorated with Winnie-the-Pooh or Disney characters. However, I did see one with the Zambian flag on a previous visit and was hoping to find that one. Although, the thought of showing up in Boston, with a huge pink bag with Winnie-the-Pooh painted across the front was also appealing.
The usual fan club cheered me on as passed them running to Kamwala. Several stall owners were very willing to help me find the Zambia bag as I reached the market. However, I was down to my last kwachas and refused to pay more than 10 pin ($2) for the bag. Musungu price is always quite a big higher – especially for something that could be considered a souvenir. My helpers were quickly able to find a bag, but would not go lower than 20 pin and claimed no one would. I turned down the offer and was about to go buy Pooh, which was selling for 6 pin, when I decided that I might be able to negotiate better if I tried on my own. I ditched my helpers and took off, weaving through the many aisles of the market. I found the bag and used my hard-earned skills after three months in Zam to negotiate the right price . As I sprinted out of the market, now running quite late, I shouted to the helpers, “I got it for ten pin…hahahaha”. They shook their heads and laughed. I could hear murmurs of ‘what did she say’ and then someone mimicking my response, even down to the accent.
The next hour was a whirlwind of making cds for the staff people at the backpackers, shoving what I could into my backpack and giving away the rest. I may have learned to negotiate in the last three months, but I still had learned African time. My friends were due to pick me up at 11am and of course did not show up until 11:30. How could I have forgotten that you have to tell someone to be there at least a half hour before you need to leave, if you want to leave on time? Then we stopped at the bank and for gas. As we entered the midday traffic, I was in total panic mode. I heard, “Stop chewing your nails off” from the back seat and turned to see my friend sipping on a warm beer, probably left from the night before, and smiling, not a care in the world.
When I arrived at airport, I needed to drop off my camera at the Proflight office. I was giving the camera to my friend in Mfuwe and needed to send it through a flight attendant he knew. The airport was very confusing and I left my bags near the security area, as I could run around in search of the office. I found the office, stuffed the camera in an envelope and then was off again. But by the time I returned to my bags, there were three security guards staring at them. “They are mine….they are mine”, I shouted as I ran towards them. The one guard replied, “Madam you cannot leave your luggage alone”. I smiled and said, “Oh I am sorry, I didn’t know that”, the whole time thinking about the States and the constant code orange warnings that are announced every 15 minutes in the airport.
After making it through security and immigration, I was able to make all the last minute phone calls to say goodbye. I was feeling very proud that I survived without crying. Just as we were boarding, a final text message came through from a coordinator that I spent a week driving from clinic to clinic on the worst roads in Zambia… ‘I will miss you my daughter. Safe journey’. And suddenly, I was no longer so brave.
Just a week ago --- I told my mother I was ready to return to the States. But now, with just a few days left in the country, I find it hard to sleep and wake up each morning with racing thoughts. The work is far from done, but is it ever really done? While being faced with a rather impossible ‘to-do’ list contributes to the anxiety – the main culprit is that in three days I will have to say goodbye… Goodbye to friends in Lusaka…goodbye to colleagues at the MOH… goodbye to the many Zambians who have touched my life over the last 11 weeks.
I have been incredibly fortunate to visit 20 rural health centers, staffed by some of the most committed people I have ever had the honor of working alongside. Equally amazing have been the women who have opened up their lives and shared their stories.
I have seen long queues of people waiting for treatment and providers working into the night to ensure all patients are served. I have slept on the floor of health centers, with the hum of villagers singing lulling me to sleep. I have crossed rivers in dugout canoes to reach a clinic and watched the sick transported on oxcarts down long dirt roads. I have seen extreme suffering and pain, only matched with overwhelming courage and strength.
And it is this courage and strength that will remain with me long after I leave Zambia…
With most of my time spent in rural areas, it made little sense to rent a flat in Lusaka. I instead opted to stay at the Chachacha Backpacker. The nice thing with backpacker living is that you can always find a friend to share a beer and a conversation. The bad thing with backpacker living is that those friends always leave you. Getting left is usually worse than leaving.
Of course there were a few other ‘lifers’ like me. There was Tom from Australia, working tirelessly to set up a school in Misisi Compound. But he left me at the beginning of July. There was Reck, who intended to travel throughout Southern Africa for 7 weeks, only to leave Lusaka for Malawi after four weeks gone. And then Lisa who was interning with the UNDP, but she also left to chase Reck to Malawi. And finally there was Doc, who after four months of living in at tent at Cha, took off for the Congo.
So in my last week at Cha, it was suddenly just me. Well not exactly….30 high school girls from London filled the gap. And boy did they fill it…
I was struggling to find conditioner and a razor. Meanwhile, these ladies came equipped with blow dryers, hair-straighteners, and the biggest offense of all…ROLLER SUITCASES. Um…it is called backpacker for a reason. While I tried my best to inculcate them with the beauty of simple living…they had a different idea of beauty. I returned from a run to find the room cleared, but a stack of Cosmo and Glamour magazines on my bed with a post-it…”You should read these”.
A certain degree of sacrifice is necessary when spending three months hopping between rural health centers. Although, I am typing this from my laptop,inside a tent with an attached bathroom… Nonetheless, sacrifices are made.
Take for example when I ran out of conditioner. I lasted about two weeks without, but then decided I was losing far too much hair trying to get a comb through the rats’ nest that was developing. I went to the store in one of the rural towns and decided on “Big Love”. Big Love advertised that is was suitable for all hair types….except apparently mine. Instead of just a rats’ nest, I acquired sticky coating to protect the knots…and this coating attracted all the dust and dirt Zambia could spare. Mmmm.
A couple days after chucking the conditioner in the trash, I lost my razor. I returned to a similar store in search of a ‘stick’, as this is what I was told it was called. No one was aware of this so-called stick, so I demonstrated shaving my legs. My charades routine failed…not a big surprise since leg-shaving is probably not a priority in such rural towns. I then acted out shaving my face…which they understood, but they looked at me strangely for wanting to shave my face. The store owner gave me a blade and it was my turn to be confused. What was I going to do with just a blade? He noticed my confusion and said I would have to learn to shave like an African. He then came over to me and tried to demonstrate how to use it on my face. I thanked him – and then tried to once again explain it was for my legs….I couldn’t bear to leave the store with everyone thinking I shaved my face. But then again, they would probably think it was even stranger that I would take the time to shave hair off my legs…
Prologue
This entry could have easily been called TIA (This is Africa) Part II, but WWJD seemed more appropriate. While as you will see, God does make his way into this story, the ‘J’ in this WWJD stands for Jon (not Jesus). Perhaps because my first real travel experience (and many to follow) was with Jon or because we manage to have crazy adventures without ever stepping onto foreign soil or because he is my most loyal blog fan (sorry, Mom), he often comes to mind when I get myself in precarious situations. I wonder, ‘what would Jon do?’ Sometimes I take the path less traveled, as Jon always does…and other times I say, “oh, hell no” and stick with the tarmac. On Friday, I found myself thinking WWJD on more than one occasion, and consequently ended up back on the road with the man size potholes.
WWJD?
After the last epic trip to Mfuwe, I vowed never to return…at least on public transport. But one weekend in the smog of Lusaka made me anxious to find an alternative, especially with only two weekends left in the country. Since Petauke, the most recent and last site visit, was just four hours from Mfuwe, I decided to give it a second chance.
Finishing up my site visit in the morning, the first two hours of the journey were simple, as I hopped a bus to Chipata. However, the only option to get to Mfuwe from Chipata was on the back of a lorrie, filled to the rim with potatoes, beer and mattresses. WWJD? That one was easy…he would take a lift with the cargo.
Turns out I was not the only person with this plan. After an elongated period of packing (and actually the worst packing job I have ever seen, including a piece of rebar jutting out from the back, with the smallest piece of scrap plastic indicating it was there), twenty people appeared out of nowhere and started clambering to the top. It was the shit show of all shit shows. I ran to the truck, threw my remaining backpack to the top and someone how squeezed into the last remaining spot on the vehicle. Fortunate for me, this was on top of a mattress and not a sack of potatoes.
We didn’t even make it out of town before we were flagged by the police. All of the passengers were kicked to the side of the road and the vehicle was impounded for carrying passengers on a cargo truck and overloading (see video). On the side of the road, the other passengers and I debated what was to happen. Would the drivers pay the fine and come back for us? Would the vehicle be released? As nightfall crept closer, I decided action was necessary. WWJD? I conspired with two other local men I had been chatting with and we grabbed a hitch back into town and to the police station. We were informed the vehicle would not be released until morning and we should find a place to spend the night. With only two nights in Mfuwe, sleeping in Chipata was not an option--- I had to leave that night. The driver said that he did not have money to refund us until the morning and my new friends seemed to think the situation was helpless. However, still committed to reaching Mfuwe, I threatened to go in and tell the police and made it just a few feet away from the station door, when suddenly the money appeared. ‘But only money for the madam…’ So I had to once again put on the mean face and demand my new friends get refunded as well.
With our money and packs, we took off for the road, hoping to find a hitch. Unfortunately, it was already dark and no one seemed interested in picking up three strangers at this hour. A taxi driver did pull over and offered to take us to Mfuwe for 350,000 kwacha. Not an entirely bad deal since the 130 km dirt road drive was horrible, but the price was a little steep for the group and my budget would not allow me to make up the difference. However, we decided that if we could shove a few more passengers in the car, we would be set.
At this point the rest of the passengers were following our lead and making their way back to the police station. Two were willing to join our mission, but again we were faced with the task of refunds. The first man left his wife behind to collect the money in the morning (typical). However, the additional woman could not afford the taxi without her refund and she really needed the taxi ride because she had to be at work at 7am in Mfuwe the following morning.
Again my co-conspirators were ready to give up. WWJD? I quickly changed from enraged musungu to charming volunteer and made my way to a police officer. I asked to use the bathroom and as the officer escorted me, he asked how I was doing. At this point, I retold the story, tugging at the heartstrings. He fell for the bait and took on my case. Unfortunately, the driver wasn’t lying this time and really had no money until the morning (his boss had take the stash and ran). To everyone’s surprise, the policeman pulled out 40,000 kwacha to personally refund the woman, so she could get in the taxi with us. He said he would deal with getting the money from the driver in the morning. The entire group looked at me in shock...apparently policemen are typically as corrupt as the drivers and this was completely unheard of. We didn’t waste another moment and ran out the station, hugging and high-fiving, as we piled into the taxi.
The taxi driver drove like a maniac, and the music was blaring, but I didn’t care…we were going make it to Mfuwe! Two of the men only need transport to a village about halfway to Mfuwe. Three of us were left in the taxi. We only made it another 20 km, when the taxi driver began fighting with the two in the backseat. At first, I had no idea what was being said, but quickly deciphered that he was demanding more money. I looked at my cellphone…no service. I looked out the window…pitch black. Shit. WWJD?
I started out with reasoning. He wouldn’t reason. I resorted to yelling. He wouldn’t budge. (Side note: I have never yelled so loud and I even shook my fists). Then I tried to play on guilt…bringing his mother into the conversation. Finally, in a very dramatic finale I said, “In your mother’s eyes, in God’s eyes and in MY EYES…you are thief, a cheat, and a HORRIBLE person.” Then I got out of the car, took a picture of his license plate and said I was walking to Mfuwe, at which point I would report him to the police. The other two passengers looked at me in disbelief. I slung my bag over my shoulder, not knowing what I was really going to do…a huge lump growing in my throat. Within minutes the taxi was trailing me and the driver was pleading for me to get back in. We paid the original price and we sped off…the music once again blaring as we continued to Mfuwe. Ten minutes later, the taxi man had the audacity to ask if he could be my friend. After laughing uncontrollably for a few minutes (I was still calming myself down from the earlier episode), I took the opportunity to explain to him how friends treat each other. As it turned out he didn’t have a lot of friends (at least trustworthy ones) and was orphaned at a young age (which explained why the mother strategy was not effective). By the time we reached Mfuwe an hour later…I probably was the closest thing he had to a friend. And there is no doubt in my mind that Jon would have been too…
Epilogue
My friend, a safari guide in Mfuwe, not at all entertained by my stories, refused to let me take public transportation back to Lusaka on Sunday. He somehow organized a ‘resident rate’ ticket on the one plane leaving Sunday afternoon. And since I did not have to show ANY form of identification at the Mfuwe International Airport, no one seemed to know any better.
Although I love public transportation adventures, I was ecstatic to spend more time with the wildlife and take a one hour flight at the end of the day, instead of a 13 hour multi-leg bus ride.
