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