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His job is very diverse, from developing a health education program to cover topics such as AIDS and how to ensure clean drinking water, to building projects, and managing the people and supplies within the medical clinics. Describing a journey like ours over e-mail is as challenging as trying to capture a magnificent sunset on film; it is impossible to do it justice. How can you begin to describe the deliciously warm air and sunshine, which is so comfortable, yet mysteriously can exhaust you when you spend too much time outside. Or how do you explain the feeling of rough hands that spend hours in fields, but that meet your naïve, white handshake with such vigor, love, and welcome. Or the spray of rain that is uniquely propelled upwards from the mists of Victoria Falls; or the panic of wondering whether you will ever get air into your lungs again after your whitewater raft flips under the humbling power of the Zambezi River. How can you describe the feelings that encompass you when 20 Zambians in the choir in church (a mud hut with a tin roof and a cross on the outside wall) are praising God with a cappella voices that knock you backwards and bring tears to your eyes. They may not have shoes or know whether they will be able to feed their family in six months, but their worship is from the nucleus of the soul where the Holy Spirit so mysteriously resides. A humbling perspective results when you feel so touched by God while sitting on a wooden slab on a dirt floor beside people who feel so joyful that they pop off their seats to dance to the choir’s music. What about
the feeling of entering the local clinic and being handed 3-inch syringes
by a native doctor and being asked to inject its DPT contents into the
thighs of 30 tiny babies. And then puckering the little lips to drop
in the Polio vaccine. And squeezing the little biceps in search of
the muscle in which to insert the Measles shot. The sweat that covers
you is due to so many factors: the heat, the fans that randomly stop working,
the pressure of getting the needle into the right place, and the sheer
grief that floods over you when a baby’s coo becomes a wail due to the
discomfort of the needle. And the independent internal conflict of
not believing in vaccinations which must be silenced because you know this
is the best option for these infants.
Or a New Years celebration that includes the privilege of eating goat. A certain nausea results from watching two goats castrated and having their necks sliced open and bodies hung from a tree to drain the blood. And the horror of peeking through cupped hands as the guts are removed, and secretly wondering whether God is hinting at a life of vegetarianism. The end result was quite tasty and not unlike lamb. But the visions of the slaughter did not leave the mind’s eye during the consumption, which was somewhat disconcerting. Along with the goat (and all other meals we had with Zambians) was the staple food of nshima, which is ground maize and water stirred into a thick porridge-like consistency. It sits on your plate in a heap, allowing you to pick up a handful, roll it around, and then use it to pick up the other foods on your plate (we had it on separate occasions with chicken, beans, cabbage, etc.). It got all over me, but as a novice I am okay with that. The taste is delicious. The after-effects are not as pleasing, as “nshima-pain” and “nshima-constipation” became regular explanations of extended visits to the bathroom. There is the
excitement of picking mangoes fresh off a tree and eating it for breakfast.
The vivid yellow meat of the fruit has the sweetest, most succulent flavor
that makes you want to close your eyes to savor the moment as the juice
drips down your chin.
The shoes, clothes, bed linen, etc., at the markets comes from the West. When westerners donate items to organizations like CARE, the items are sent to Kenya where they are bound extremely tightly into bundles by category; ie, shirts in one bundle, shoes in another, bed spreads in another, and so on. Then those bundles are sent to Lusaka where the local people can buy a bundle and sell the contents in their market stall. This system is more effective than simply giving away the donated clothing, because it allows the natives to earn a living as opposed to being dependent upon the West. Very often in Zambia you revisit that timelessly wise teaching: catch a fish for a man and feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime. This is relevant to many aspects of western influence on Zambian life, from health education, farming, and the buying/selling of goods. I visited a witch doctor at Soweto Market to see what it would be like. Considering my studies in complementary medicine I wanted to see if there was any relevance. There wasn’t. But if you need a love potion or to put a curse on someone who stole your bike, I know where to send you. How about the delight on native children’s faces as they are invited into Jason’s living room to watch “The Fox and the Hound” on New Year’s Eve while the adults are chatting around the bonfire. Or the look on their faces as they try Kool-Aid for the first time. There is so much going on in their heads that remains a mystery to me. Their mud hut homes are the size of our UK bathroom, so what are the children thinking when they enter Jason’s three-bedroom, two-bathroom, large ranch-style home? Or when they see lights, toilets, and running water? The children are eminently polite, so quiet and well-behaved, sometimes even curtseying during introductions. On New Year’s Eve as the kids became tired they did not whine or cry or pull at their mothers chitengas (large pieces of cloth worn as skirts and also used to carry around babies), but rather they all curled up together on the straw mat beside the fire and slept. They took care of each other – six-year-olds carrying around their little brothers and sisters on their backs in their own little chitengas. How do you describe Mrs Chindalo, a kind-hearted villager who has a field called the ‘orphan field.’ The field supports AIDS orphans. Parents die of AIDS and leave children behind. Children may then live with their grandparent(s), but then the two most vulnerable pockets of society are left to care for each other. If children need to work all day to feed the family, then they don’t go to school. If they don’t go to school they have little chance for a future. So the ‘orphan field’ helps by producing a crop; this year it is soybeans. Many people contribute their time and energy to make the field succeed. When the crop is harvested a portion goes to feed the families of the orphans, and the rest is sold to raise money so the orphans can go to school, get a uniform, buy school books. The people take care of each other, and it is beautiful. We have so much and are ungrateful. They have nothing and exude graciousness. The seven of us helped to plant soybeans. With handmade hoes. Now we pray for the rains that are already tardy. If the rains don’t come there will be a famine in six months. But if the villagers are worried they don’t show it. Throughout the trip was the undercurrent of sharing new experiences with people that were once strangers and became good friends. That pleasure is not to be overlooked. A huge personal accomplishment was managing all of our vaccines as well as Malaria prevention with homeopathic remedies. The only shot we got was for Yellow Fever in case they asked us for proof of inoculation. But all the others (Tetanus, Diphtheria, Hepatitis, Meningitis, Typhoid, Polio) I read up on and got the remedies in the UK. I came up with a schedule of when to take what, plus I got numerous immune system strengtheners like garlic pills and Echinacea. We were a walking pharmacy of holistic remedies, but we didn’t get sick at all. It feels really good to put my teachings into practice and have us come out of it with positive results. And incredible memories. To contact
Dhara Click Here
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