I am in Livingstone today with Mark and Jocelyn. Today and tomorrow are public holidays so we decided to make one last trip to Livingstone. Yesterday, we went white water rafting on the Zambezi River. Since this year hasn’t been adventurous enough I decided I wanted one more thrill. It was quite fun. I have never white water rafted before but I definitely hope to do it again in the states -- partly just to compare safety differences. I do not know enough about rafting to know if it is common in the states for beginners to be doing level 4 and 5 (out of 6) level rapids or if it is common for beginners to get tossed out of the boat or boats to flip. Both of which happened to me. Both were momentarily terrifying as I was suddenly immersed in water and had little control of what was happening or was trapped under the boat. However, after the initial panic I regained composure and realized that the life jacket was keeping me afloat, I could breathe, and a safety guide in a kayak was coming in case I needed help. After that realization it was actually more fun to be out of the boat than in. In fact, later, when our guide told us we could swim through some rapids (there were no whirlpools at these places) I chose to abandon ship.
Last Saturday was a day I will always remember from my time in Sikalongo. It began like any other day, but after lunch as I was going back into the school there was a man in a wheelchair on the road. So I pushed him in to the station thinking that’s where he was going. Turns out he was going well past the station out to a little village. I pushed him there (took like 45 minutes). Meanwhile, Mark had arrived in Sikalongo and was wondering where I was. Anyway, when I got to the village of course they wanted me to stay for a while. I really thought I should be getting back to find Mark, but I knew it would be culturally inappropriate to just leave so I sat down and pretended to know Tonga. None of them spoke English so I just smiled and shook my head a lot (come to think of it, that’s what I do even when I understand what’s being said to me). They ended up giving me a bag of groundnuts (peanuts), 2 eggs, and some tomatoes. (I was hoping for a live chicken…just kidding).
Unfortunately, the experience was sort of spoiled when one of the men in the village called me over and started asking me for money. He too couldn’t use his legs and needed a wheelchair. He had a very nice one, complete with bicycle tires for off-road driving. He finished by asking me for money. They called over a girl who knew English well enough to translate for this part. Maybe I am just mean-spirited, ungenerous, and cold-hearted but it made me angry. I had just pushed this man’s brother[?] over a mile to his village and instead of thanking me he tells me how poor he is and asks me for money. I am not saying he wasn’t poor and I am not saying I did the right thing by not giving to him. After all, if I am not willing to help a man who can’t work because he can’t walk, who am I willing to help? I am not saying I did the wrong thing either. What I am saying is that I am tired of being asked for things just because I am white. (This was not the first time, and I am being asked for things more and more as my departure approaches) I know that here it is not culturally inappropriate to become friends with someone with the hope that they will help you financially or materially. While to me, someone who just wants to be my “friend” because they see me as a walking bank is offensive. I also know that just like many North Americans have a view of Africa that is at best incorrect and at worst offensive, so too, many Africans have an incorrect view of North America – a utopia where everyone has more money than they know what to do with. I wanted to tell the man that there are people who are poor in the States and that he shouldn’t just assume that I am rich. (Side questions: Am I rich? Does it matter?). However, I reminded myself that it’s just a cultural misunderstanding and as politely as I could, I told him I had nothing to give him – meaning I had nothing with me to give him.
Later that evening Mark and I went to have supper with my Headmaster’s family. This provided quite a contrast to my village experience earlier that day or even my experience as a whole. They had a more North American style home (although still definitely Zambian). We didn’t eat nshima. Instead we had rice, potatoes, chicken, fresh fruit, and cake. Also, when we got there, “Pimp My Ride” was on TV, which made me realize there are some parts of American culture I don’t miss…haha. Through our conversation, the contrast was heightened when I realized that here was a Zambian who really understood me and where I come from. I think that not being understood has been the hardest part of the experience. I don’t just mean not being understood as when my students don’t understand the words I am saying or when villagers mistake me for a bank. I am talking about not being understood on a deeper level. Like when someone asks me if I have enjoyed my year. If I were brutally honest, I would tell them that, by and large, no I haven’t. It has been the hardest year of my life. I can’t say that to most Zambians because they would not understand that I am not insulting them or their culture but only commenting on how hard it is to live by yourself in a different culture. Most have never had a cross-cultural experience and indeed looking back at my interactions with international students at Hesston and Bethel, I couldn’t relate to them on much more than a superficial level either. Thus, I have to smile and say something like, “It has been nice.” or “Zambia/Sikalongo is nice.” However, for the first time since I have been in Zambia, that evening I could tell a Zambian, or rather a Zambian told Mark and me, why SALT is hard. For the first time, a Zambian understood and supported the SALT (and IVEP) program if for no other reason than it helps to break down those cultural stereotypes (see above) held by both the SALTer and hopefully those held by the communities in which they “Serve and Learn”. For the first time, I could tell a Zambian that I am really sick of nshima, that I hate public transport, and that I miss my independence without offending him. (We talked about other things than what we don’t like about Zambia/miss about home, but that was the novel part of the evening.) For the first time in a long time, I was glad I chose to do SALT.
Well, this is my last post. I want to thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers throughout the year. I look forward to seeing everyone soon.
--Tyler

I only have a little over three weeks left in Sikalongo. (I leave Sikalongo for the last time on July 17, fly out of Zambia on July 19, back to Hutchinson July 25) I am beginning to realize that this experience is going to end. The past weekend I was in Lusaka for a farewell party. It is the last time I will see several MCCers.
At school, computer lessons are going well. Interest has wained a bit, but there are still several very committed teachers. A couple teachers even typed their own mid-term exams which they wouldn't have known how to do only a couple weeks ago. It is nice to feel like I am making a sustainable contribution after the frustration of teaching science all year. (It is also nice to be understood when you teach...ha)

The highlight of the month was going to Kafue National Park with Mark and Amy where we saw a cheetah. It just casually meandered across the road right in front of our truck. We also saw a male and female lion.
Other than that, the month was pretty dull. At school, my class load has tripled from 2 to 6 classes. Meanwhile, I am still the school secretary, although I am trying to teach teachers to do some things themselves so they can do it when I leave. Nonetheless, I am busy. (In fact, I probably wouldn’t have time to do everything if I still made lesson plans. I am getting better at just winging it and some lessons I have taught already.) In the afternoons, I tutor pupils for an hour and hope to start teaching the staff computer lessons. MCC recently donated 5 computers to the school. I must admit I am a bit surprised by the amount of enthusiasm of the staff. Hopefully, it will stay that way.
It seems hard to believe that it is summer back home. Here it is getting much colder. It gets down to around 40 degrees which is no colder than it gets at home but at home we have insulated houses and heating. However, it is not too bad at night. I have plenty of blankets. What I don’t like is trying to take a bath in the morning. Every morning I am forced to make a decision between dirt and cold – usually I choose dirt. (I do wash my face and hair.)
I had an interesting conversation with a drunk guy on a mini-bus from Choma to Batoka. I think he offered me one of his daughters. They crammed 5 of us into the back seat of a mini-bus and the guy next to me (more on my lap) happened to be slightly intoxicated. Unfortunately, he wanted to chat. After greeting and introductions, the conversation went like this:

Gilbert: …yeah, me, I have 11 babies.
Me: Oh, that’s good.
Gilbert: All daughters.
Me: Oh really.
Gilbert: Yeah, those two up there (points to front of mini-bus). They mine.
Me: I see.
Gilbert: You, how many babies?
Me: I don’t have any.
Gilbert: Two?
Me: No, I don’t have any. Zero.
Gilbert: Oh. [pause] I give you one of mine.
Me: Oh, thank you.
Gilbert: Next year.
Me: Yeah, next year would be better.
Gilbert: Yeah, you come stay with him. [meaning her, he didn’t know that him is gender specific]
Me: Okay. But next year.
Gilbert: Yeah, she’s in 7th grade.
Me: [trying not to laugh, and trying to figure out if she will be my daughter or wife] Oh, that seems young.
Gilbert: Yeah its young. But you stay with him next year…

April was a good month. My family came and I went to Zanzibar (not at the same time). It was weird to have my family here, especially in Sikalongo. I realized that I have gotten fairly used to sticking out because of my skin color to the point where I don’t really think about it anymore. However, traveling with 4 other Muzungus once again made me conscious of my skin color and the stereotypes associated with it.
My favorite moment from my family’s visit was when my host father remarked, “You have onry boys.” My dad started to make a comment about Taylor being especially ornery when we realized he meant, “You have only boys.” Haha.
It was a bit of an adventure to get to Zanzibar. First, we took the bus two hours north of Lusaka to the train station. We boarded the train on Friday afternoon. Everything was going smoothly until Saturday evening when we stopped. When we woke up on Sunday morning, we were in the same place. Turns out the train in front of us had derailed or something like that so we were stuck. Luckily we found a South African who spoke Swahili and he helped us board a bus to Dar es Salaam. The bus ride was also an adventure as we were traveling at rather high speeds through the beautiful Tanzanian mountains. Part of the bus ride was also through a national park where we saw Giraffes, Zebras, and an Elephant.
We finally got to Dar on Sunday night. We slept at a YWCA and caught the first ferry to Zanzibar in the morning. Once in Zanzibar we did what people do at the beach – nothing. Okay that’s not entirely true. We did go snorkeling and I tried “spearfishing”. Spearfishing is in quotes because it should have been called “Snorkeling while holding a speargun.” Our “instructor” was a local man who showed us how to shoot and then said, “5 meters” and held his hand out wide to tell us how far apart we should be. Then he went off hunting by himself. Neither I, nor my fellow spearman, was able to catch anything. The water was about 10 feet deep so we had to try to swim down to the fish while keeping the rope from being tangled. Even if successful in this endeavour, one still had to aim – something that I apparently could not do adequately. Our instructor did spear 4 small fish, although I think a couple of them were probably protected species…haha.
Other highlights of Zanzibar include reminiscing about Hesston College with my friend Cortney (who went to Hesston with me and is currently a pilot in DRC), eating fresh seafood and fruit, and not eating nshima.
But alas, all good things must come to an end. So now I am back in Sikalongo waiting for school to start on May 5th. I would like to ask for prayer as I decide what to do when this experience is over and also that I don’t leave too soon. I don’t mean that I might come home early, but I am starting to leave mentally (i.e. losing focus/purpose).

Every third or fourth Friday of each month there is an ex-pat supper in Choma. Since I am isolated out in Sikalongo, I have only been able to go to one of these events. So in for the March supper, I decided to ride my bike the 40 km (about 25 miles) to Choma after school on Friday. It only took 2.5 hours, which, as my host mom pointed out after I got back,"Oh, that only took half an hour longer than the public transport."
However before I went, several Sikalongans were skeptical that I could do it. My host father thought it would be okay if I went on Friday and came back on Saturday, which is what I did. (Mark attended also and we stayed overnight at Ron and Erma's) My host mom however, was not as convinced. She didn't come out and say it, but I could tell she didn't think it was a good idea and Cliff just flat told me, "You can't manage." haha. That was all the motivation I needed. Several other teachers have been surprised that a Muguwa (white person) could cycle all that way. haha. Anyway, the ride was well worth it as the food was fantastic and I also really appreciated singing hymns IN ENGLISH!

On April 3rd, I completed my 23rd revolution of the sun. To celebrate, Siggi and Mark paid a surprise visit to Sikalongo and my host family bought me a piece of birthday cake and sang Happy Birthday to me. I really appreciated this gesture because for the first time I felt like a part of the family.

Well, I just wanted to give a brief update as I am in Lusaka waiting for my family to arrive this evening!