During Games week last week, I was in charge of planning the sports. It was tiring but fun. I haven’t done this much running around in a while. I also discovered that a whistle works wonders. Before, I would try to yell over the kids, but my lungs are no match for the lungs of ten kids all yelling over each other at the same time.
Then Samuel and Luka tried to help me, yelling over the yellers.
I have one more month here. I don’t want to go back to the States. I'm going to have such a difficult time leaving these beautiful kids, these beautiful people, this beautiful country. There are things I miss, but I love it here. I don’t miss the plague of busyness and coldness that the American culture suffers from.
And, yes, Lord willing, I don't plan for this to be my only visit to Africa.
A little over a week ago, I went into Chongwe, which is the nearest town. It’s only ten miles away, but it takes a while to reach. First, we have to go on the bumpy, dusty dirt road, which we have dubbed “Torture Road.” The road workers have made good progress on it, and they have paved a large section so far. This town is comprised of some shops and open air markets. At least, that’s what the section we visited was like.
As some of the other short-termers and I walked, I took in everything. There was a small shop that only sold fabric for wrap skirts and dresses (chitangas.) There was a lady selling tons and tons of fish, most of them smaller than my finger. A woman sold odds and ends of chickens in clear plastic bags—chicken legs and feet, looking as if they had been plucked off a chicken. Intestines. I walked over to get a better look.
“Five kwacha,” she said.
I smiled, thanked her, and moved on. I wasn’t feeling quite that adventurous.
There was the butcher shop. I didn’t stay in that one very long. There was a cement room that felt a bit like a small warehouse, where women sold produce. Over the door, an old T.V. played the World Cup game very loudly. The market was divided into sections: there was a clothing section, shoes and clothes lying around outside. There was a furniture section, which was quite interesting. Men sat or stood, bent over, finishing beautifully carved doors and furniture.
Walking through the streets, I saw men playing checkers games with a board and bottle caps.
On the way back to the village, we stopped at a roadside market to buy some produce. I got out to take pictures. The market exploded with a brilliant burst of colors—the bright greens of the melons, the rainbow of chitangas the women wore, the reds of the tomatoes, the fiery orange of the orange. Produce was laid out on tables. I snapped pictures, trying to capture the warring colors. I also took candid shots of some of the people. A man motioned to me, asking me to take a picture. So I did of his family. Then he tried to sell me a chicken. I declined. Then he asked me a question that broke my heart and made me desperately want to help.
“Please, can you help to sponsor my kids to go to school?”
Two-and-a-half weeks ago, I went to dinner. I had heard that we were to have fish. I was thinking like an American. The fish would be cut, right? Wrong! I sat at the table, noticing a mixing bowl on the table. I looked in and saw tomatoes. The fish must be in there, right? Then I spooned some on my plate and looked in the bowl again. I had completely missed the fish—whole fish, head, fin, eyeballs, and all—lying across the top. I gulped, staring down the glassy-eyed dead fish. I couldn’t eat that.
“But you’re missing out on a cultural experience,” I scolded myself.
The other part of my brain was being stubbornly American. No thanks.
“You don’t eat fish?” Mama Rosa asked.
That settled it.
I took a fish and put it on my plate, trying to be brave. I don’t eat much fish in general, and this was completely different than the fish I ate once in a blue moon.
I ate my nsheema and greens, then glanced at Mama Rosa. To her amusement, I asked how I was supposed to eat it, and what part I was supposed to eat.
The fish was good, but I shuddered upon encountering the vertebral column and gave the fin and head a wide berth. At a nearby table, some of the boys were eating the eyeballs and playing with the brains. I didn’t have the guts (pardon the pun) to do anything remotely similar.
Here are some pictures from Chongwe:
The order got messed up.
I just thought this looked cool: they're legumes.
This lady was selling fish.
This was in the furniture section.
This blog post just wouldn't be complete without a picture of the butcher shop.
This is the only picture not taken in Chongwe: this was a roadside stand on the way back.
