My host family in Chongwe

"Oh great spirit in the sky, please help me to always remember, that if my brother does not always follow in my footsteps, perhaps he marches to the beat of a different drum." - Cherokee Proverb.


The game of life has its highs and lows, costs and rewards, securities and insecurities. We begin life following orders and being told what to do, how to do it and when. Eventually, after many lessons, trials and tribulations, we gain our independence and are able to call the shots for ourselves. Independence is a spoiling luxury, and once you're out on your own, able to control your life how you please, going back to the latter can be a difficult concept.


After arriving in Country, meeting all of my peers, and experiencing first site visit, it was time for us RAP'ers (rural aquaculture promotion) to jump into an intense 11 week program entailing a rigid language course and Fish Farming program that would essentially prepare us for volunteer service in the bush. All whilst living with a host family that would better accustom us to the cultures and traditions of Zambian life. All 34 of us were on a bus on our way to Chongwe, a small city outside of Lusaka that would host our PST stay and training. We had with us the majority of our belongings, a rough outline with some basic language survival phrases and knots in our guts the size of softballs as we waited in fear and anxiety to be dropped off at our host familie's doorstep. It was entertaining and nerve racking; we navigated down a series of rugged dirt trails that were so beat we felt that the bus would fall apart at any moment. A few times it sounded as if the road had claimed a muffler or some other necessary mechanical part as payment for navigating such a large, ill prepared vehicle down such and uneven keel. It was off-roading...in a bus. At each stop a name was called, a trainee would gather their belongs and we'd all recite a little prayer for the trainee silently as we witnessed them exit the bus to make their introductions with their host family that they'd be staying with for the next 11 weeks. I had only been able to see a few people face their music as I was one of the first few to find out who my host family would be.


We pulled up to a half grass, half dirt yard with 3 huts; 1 large and 2 smaller with a large fruit tree in the middle and a decent sized farm surrounding the premise. Outside was a Zambian women hand washing cloths in a few large tubs who appeared to be in her mid 30's. She was surrounded by a hoard of e'ways(small children) that had all paused their fun and games to glare at the bus full of Muzunguz's(white people) that had just appeared our of nowhere on their front lawn. Similar to my first business transaction, I approached her and completely stumbled over the basic vocabulary that I had studied on the ride over (nerves always concur). She seemed amused and familiar to the routine and showed me to one of the smaller huts. I was surprised that she knew English, though not very well, yet it was much better then my slurred attempt at Nyanja.


My new living situation went from a hotel to a mud hut, about 8'x10', with no running water, a dirt floor, a tarp ceiling that was about 5 feet tall (yes, lots of squatting and hunched over living), a thatch roof (grass), a reed mat (my carpet) and a single light and Zambian outlet (which I was lucky to have, as most other volunteers did not have electricity at all). It took me some time(a few weeks) to find an adapter so I could use any of my American electronics. My bed was a full sized mattress on top of an old twin sized bed frame that was on top of a few mud bricks, with no box spring (so my mattress sunk into the frame and I felt like a semi-wrapped hot dog while sleeping). I also had a small wooden desk and stool for studying, and a half dozen candles that were put to frequent use during the power outages that occurred on a daily basis. Despite the dramatic shift of my new living situation, I couldn't have been more thrilled with my accommodations. It was all I hoped for with a touch of electricity. Eventually I made the place my own and liked referring to it as 'my little hobbit nook', which seemed appropriate given the shortness of the ceiling and the earthen foundation it was built from and upon. I hung pictures of my family from home, my mosquito net above my bed and nestled all of my fung shui around the one inconsistent light source (aside from my solar charged lantern and candles, but studying via candle or solar light adds a whole new challenge to focusing and concentration whilst studying). It was like college dorm living all over again but African style.


I was living with an immediate family of five, yet on the first day, I was constantly being introduced to various brothers and sisters, amai's (mothers) and atate's (fathers). I was overwhelmed, and couldn't narrow down who my real family was (immediate) until dinner that first night. My Atate was probably around his mid thirties, and worked as a maize grinder at the local hammer mill. He operated heavy machinery that grinned maize into the local staple food source that I'd soon be getting very accustomed to called nshima. An almost pure carbohydrate corn meal that resembled the result of leaving cream of wheat in the microwave too long, but with more lumps. He spoke 4 languages and was even very clear in English. An avid Manchester United fan, and had a very jolly laugh that could be heard from quite a distance. My mother was a homemaker, farmer, vegetable dealer and mother of 3. She was a very strong women, capable of handling red hot charcoals with her bare hands and of stirring the thickest batch of nshima like it was nobodies business (and believe you me, that shit was thick and a workout to prepare). After seeing her run through her daily routine a few times, I gained a tremendous amount of respect and fear for rubbing her the wrong way. She came down like a hammer whenever the children stepped out of line and was poised enough to never let stress or an overwhelming situation get the best of her. She was a seasoned stone faced general commanding the troops on the home front in a dominating strategic way that I soon became apart of.


I had two brothers and one sister. The oldest was Jr., and he was around 7, liked soccer, spoke a bit of English, and was enthusiastic about starting school in the following few months. He was quiet, well behaved, did a fair share of household chores, and very thankful and gracious whenever I gave him sweets or gifts despite how small or petty they were as It seemed he wasn't familiar with the concept of receiving. Beth was the middle child, somewhere around 4. Here hair style changed frequently and I was constantly mistaking her for other children. One day she was bald, the next she would have braids down to her shoulders. She was just starting to learn the language and was constantly singing songs and expressing herself the way a child would as they experiment with new phrases and sentences. She was very sweet and liked to hold my hand and walk me home whenever she saw me in the distance arriving back from school. Last, but not least, was baby Issac, the youngest who was currently undergoing the terrible-two phase. Issac was my favorite as well as my number one antagonist. He was notorious for sneaking in my hut and tampering with my belongings(which he in fact is doing as I type this blog). He was especially fascinated with my role of duct tape (which I constantly retrieved from him cover in mud), my soccer ball (which is now torn and deflated courtesy of his fascination with sharp objects and balls), my small packaged food supply(which are all coated with dried saliva), and my mouse trap (which nearly claimed his fingers on multiple occasions). Despite his mischievous behavior, I grew quite fond of him without a clear reason as to preciously why. I speculate that it could be the fact that I have never lived around young children his age that I can remember or possibly because of the innocence of his youth. I think that as we grow older our creativity is suppressed by the sigma of being wrong and corrected so many times, and baby Issac was at an age were he has yet to experience that suppression of his true character. His bold behavior was, at times, a pleasure to witness. He never failed to make me laugh and always entertained me beyond satisfaction during dinner by his unpredictable behavior, pure creativity, playful attitude and rebelliousness. I have to admit that my fondness of children has been escalated (somehow) due to living with such an amusing two year old such as him.
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My days would begin around six in the morning as my Amai would knock on my hut door with a small tub of warm water for me to wash my face with. I'd sweep my hut, eat breakfast (always 4 slices of bread, peanut butter and tea) and start my day by either biking to language class or biking to the school center for technical/ cross cultural studies. I'd return home for lunch to find nshima and rape(the local vegetable green that closely resembles kale), then head back to school for the second session of training. Id return home once more for the remainder of the evening, play some guitar, kick the soccer ball around with Jr., and then study language or technical all the way until my bath. Id bathe outside among the stars with a tub of hot water and a mug that would act as my shower head. We'd usually eat dinner as a family sometime around 9 and I played the role of an active listener during family conversations and try my best to keep up with the dialogue. The only questions I consistently answered was what I was doing the following day, the time I had to be to school, and If I needed a packed lunch or not. My language skills eventually picked up after some time and I began reciting simple phrases and descriptions about my days and other activities. Occasionally I would use my English and bond a bit with my Atate by watching soccer highlights after dinner. Yet valued my retreat back to my hut when he'd initiate his cellphones music player and narrow song selection (which was either Kenny rogers, or the Titanic theme song over and over and over....and over). The communication barrier, though inherent, each day began to crumble little by little as my language skills began to improve and I became capable of comprehending their conversations. I developed a fondness with all of my family members and slowly began to feel like Chongwe was a place I could call home. The differences that I initially held for my family began to slowly dissolve and what grew inn its place was recognition of the similarities and the common humanity that we in fact shared.


I am currently half way through my PST experience with my post and swear in ceremony(becoming a volunteer) on the horizon. I've come quite a ways since arriving in country in such a short amount of time and give lots of credit to the PC program for driving us to "Keep the fire burning" as they would say. From having the fearful softball knot and riding on the unstable bus to bathing under the stars and having the softball knot replaced by 5 nshima lumps a meal, I'd say that my acclimation into Zambian life is developing quite well. Though I long for independence and the luxury of sleeping in, and cooking my own meals I will never forget the kindness, generosity and patience that my host family has displayed. Its not easy accepting a foreigner into your home, especially when he's so unfamiliar with basic day to day living standards. I imagine that on more then one occasion I have butchered a basic phrase that had already been slowly repeated a dozen times before, or that my aim was rather off in the chimbozee (bathroom) and I created a mess that could have been avoided with better technique. Yet with all these shortcoming and burdens that I have undoubtedly caused, they have remained caring and friendly without any sign of animosity or reluctance towards my stay. They have been prime example of how generous and giving the people here in Zambia are and I feel as though I will never be able to express my appreciation and gratitude enough for all they have done on my behalf. Despite our origins, unique cultures and differing drums beats that we may follow, there will always be a place for the Luvwala's in my heart..