It is officially rainy season. Let me translate. Maria is officially stressed out. While rain has never bothered me in America, I also had a solid roof and a gutter system to work with. Things are a little different here. I had heard the horror stories of leaky roofs and flooded bike paths, but nothing could prepare me for what was coming. I not only found myself splashing in puddles inside my hut, but I found myself in my first real Peace Corps rut. They call it the "mid-service crisis". You start to wonder exactly what you're doing here, or better yet, what you're not doing? The month of January seemed to bring a slew of its own problems, but let me assure you, the sun always shines after a heavy rain and now I'm feeling motivated and excited for the next 15 months here.
I'm sitting here at the provincial house with my feet propped and a cup of tea. I don't plan on going anywhere for the rest of the afternoon. A nasty foot infection has kept me out of my village for the past week while I've been hobbling about Lusaka and Chipata, our provincial capital, visiting with the Peace Corps medical staff. I've had a lot of time to think, and like always, the happenings of the past few weeks are much funnier in retrospect. So I've decided I'll share a story with you that at the time made me cry, and now just makes me laugh. Isn't that typically how life works?
So it was the first Tuesday of 2011. I had an early start to the day and boarded a bus from Lusaka to Petauke (my nearest "town") at 7AM. I had just traveled to Livingstone to visit Victoria Falls for the holidays, and was ready to return to the village swing of things. After a five hour bus drive I was in Petuake. Easy peezy. No stress. I call one of the taxi drivers that goes back and forth to my village each day and he says he's taking off at 2 o'clock. I typically bike to and from town, but due to the rains (see, all my problems starts with the rain), I've been biking less because of the muddy bush paths and sporadic thunder storms. Let me explain Zambian transport to you. First of all, the vehicles themselves would be in junk yards in America. They are dilapidated modes of transportation, but are regarded as a sign of status and have saved me from long bikes in the past so I can't completely knock them. Still, they're far from luxurious. Next, they pile in as many bodies that can fit. More passengers means more money. Of course. So there are usually five or six people sitting on each other on the back bench, and they usually let me have the front seat to myself. I know, I know, that sounds horrible and unfair. But they always insist, and while I love having Zambian babies sit on me for hours, they don't use diapers here. Catch my drift? So the car is loaded with people and products to sell in the village tuck shops, and we take off for home.
About thirty minutes into the ride, you guessed it, we get a flat tire. Not a major problem, right? Put the spare on and off we go. Well, life in Africa is never that simple. So two of the seven passengers jump on their bicycle and desert the scene. They had the right idea. I'm left with the driver, Mr. Phiri, and three Zambian women. Three Zambian divas. One of them is a teacher at a community school a few miles down the road from my house, and teachers have a stable salary, so they're regarded as a higher class than your average villager. They have no problem making you well aware of this fact. The teacher was with her two sisters. Two of them had faux fur coats on. Floor length coats. Do you know how much fake fur that is? Keep in mind they live in the village. Super practical. So they are strutting around the car, their high heels sinking into the muddy road, clearly unhappy with the situation. I'm in the front seat, the one place in the car where there is no door handle (remember the state of the cars here). I'm trapped.
Some strangers passing by stop and help with the tire -- God bless Zambian friendliness -- and off we go in the rains. Well, we don't make it very far. Not very far at all. Maybe a mile down the road we pull over. We're in a village now, a village full of men excited to help and children excited to stare at the white girl in the car. I watched from my perch in the front seat as the storm clouds crawled overhead, the sun set, and nighttime fell. The numbers on the digital clock danced as the hours passed. Seven o'clock. Eight o'clock. My fellow passengers paced around the car, battling the soft ground with their stilettos, arm extended into the air searching for cell phone network. Their only concern was talking to their father. My only concern was getting to my warm and safe bed. To each their own, I suppose. Still, it was quite a sight. The tired muzungu ("white person") fully equipped in her quick-dry camping gear, and my new friends, in skin tight dresses adorned with fancy belts and again, the coats. While some would say I look more prepared to take on the village, these women are actually from the village and know much more about it than me. Obviously their laundry skills far outweigh my own, or else they wouldn't be brave enough to have a fashion show in the bush.
It's nine o'clock. I haven't been in my hut for weeks -- I have a pit in my stomach about what I'm going to find there in the dark. You never know. Finally the men emerge from their work station with what looks like a salvageable tire. We start rolling, inching along, but at least we're moving. Relief floods through every part of me. Progress! Let's just say, what we saw by the glow of the headlight (only one worked, naturally), confirmed my reasoning for tucking into my mosquito net as the sun is setting. We saw more field mice than I could count, three black snakes, and one harmless toad cross our path. Zambia has made me afraid of the dark. Now you know why. We pull up to my hut after what feels like eternity to find that I have left my home with zero source of light awaiting me. Probably because I usually arrive home while it's still light out. Probably because it does not usually take eight hours to travel the 20 miles home!
With trembling hands I replace the batteries in the headlamp my mother sent me. I kid you not, I look like I'm ready to go cave mining when I wear this thing. (REI is a new concept for us Ohioans.) I secure this piece of equipment on my head, flip the switch, and I decide in a matter of moments I should probably head back to America in the morning. Termites have devoured my bookshelf. Half eaten books sit there, pathetically. The PEPFAR bag from my AIDS training is half gone. All that remains is the wooden male reproductive part that's for condom demonstrations. Thank goodness they varnished that guy! The plastic shielding my roof from the rats and other visitors in the thatch is down and my floor is a maze of puddles. Yes, when it rains outside my house it also rains inside. I cry for about five minutes, crawl into my bed, shut my eyes, and assume that I can deal with all of these problems in the morning.
Exams and traffic jams used to stress me out. Now it's termite mounds and thatched roofs. Who would have thought? I've learned a lot though. Don't keep anything made of paper or cardboard near your walls. Rain coats and chacos are indeed more practical, regardless of fashion. And just be ready for when the rains come, because when it rains it pours.
(Since this tragedy occurred, I have cemented my walls and found a way to laugh at the roller coaster ride that is Zambia. What's next? Only the weather can tell.)
