Paper, Pencils and Concrete…

I spent the last 10 months of my life in Room 16 at 33 Phoebe Street. With me were 23 eleven and twelve year olds. When 24 people agree to show up at 8:45am and leave at 3:45pm five days a week stories happen. The year was full of characters and events. Moments like Julia barfing on my shoe the first day of school or Dylan throwing a tantrum in the library that sent all five trays of glitter flying. Everything was meant to be documented. The memory vault was to be a blog. The title was a tribute to Javin, a grade five student from a teaching practicum who got people and places jumbled in his head. Unfortunately my hands rarely met the keyboard. Sudanhussein.blogspot.com now sits in cyberspace as a record of intention.

I’m hoping this experience will be different.

I’m in Zambia in the heart of southern Africa. Lonely Planet refers to it as “real Africa”. Although I’m not quite sure what this means I like the notion. I’d hate to think I’m spending a year with an imitation Africa (Egypt or Morocco?).

The town I’m living in is called Kabwe and it is in the Central province of Zambia. Even though the majority of guidebooks neglect it the town has a story. Kabwe used to be a prosperous mining town. When the mines closed and the jobs ran out no one left explaining the mass of people living in a town with no industry. Kabwe’s main claim to fame is that it is where Homo Sapiens first made their debut. In 1921 an incomplete skeleton of an early human was discovered which is said to go back 100, 000 plus years. Local Zambians don’t seem too impressed with this plaque worthy fact. Had a similar discovery been made in America I’d be wearing a “Kabwe Cranium” t-shirt and stickers pronouncing “We Were Here First” or “The Birth Place of Humanity” would adorn bumpers. Wikipedia, the online interactive encyclopedia tells me that the skull is often referred to as “Broken Hill Man”. Broken Hill was Kabwe’s former namesake which the site explains was named after Broken Hill Australia. An odd name for a place that is abnormally flat. A word of caution though as the same site also shows a picture of a tiny shack claiming that it is the biggest store within 10km in town which is far from true.

Even after a week I find myself making room for Kabwe in my heart. Like Arua, where I was in Uganda, it has a charm that I’ve only found in small African towns. I’m not allowed to look at “Ponography” at the internet café and the mini bus that has “No Time To Waste” written across the windshield doesn’t leave for 40 minutes. A walk through the market fuels my admiration. Bundles of t-shirts with the goodwill tag still on, rows of dress shoes that were all the rage at the 89 formal side by side with women squatted in front of tiny pyramids of tomatoes and gigantic bags of grains, beans and rice that beg you to stick your hand in. And of course the odd vendor with something that looks as though it was pulled from the set of fear factor. Be it fried rats or chunky dried out caterpillars (hold out your pinky). The former was drenched in oil and salt and served with tomatoes and onions last night for dinner. Someone who wishes to remain nameless would only try one after cutting off the front and back ends. The dirt roads kick up dust in place of slabs of concrete. People and goods are moving. Everything seems alive. “Real Africa”.

The first week has seen attempts at learning the local dialect: Bemba. My pockets are slowly filling with tiny scraps of paper with the essentials scribbled out. It is a language full of tones which to the untrained ear sound like someone who has had a stroke trying to communicate. Bemba is interesting in that it decided R has no place in its alphabet. Explaining why I make a better Mac than Mark. Q, V, X and Z also failed to make the cut. I’m OK with this. I figure unless you play scrabble on a regular basis or enjoy reading the last 20 pages of the Websters English dictionary these letters are expendable.

Linguistically I’ve made the greatest strides in the market. It has proved to be a classroom that would rival the finest language school. 100’s of willing teachers lined in stalls waiting to give you their undivided attention. Dropping your teacher is as simple as deciding you want onions instead of shorts. It is these teachers who have provided me with no fail punch lines like “wadi kosa” (you’re strong) and “ukushana bwino” (good dancer). Someone’s ability to dance or their strength now figure into at least one conversation a day.

During my free Bemba lessons I’m usually confronted with the following questions. The first is always, “How is Canada?” as though we are discussing a mutual friend. A one word answer is suffice. The second question, and the one I find a little more concerning; “What are you doing here?”. This is the one that I have been attempting to answer since my arrival.

The short answer is I’m not really sure at this point. During the last week I’ve tried to meet and visit as many places as possible to see where I might best fit. Hil on the other hand is “working for the weekends”, and then working on the weekends. She is involved with Kara Counseling, a service organization with programs based around HIV/ Aids. In Kabwe alone they run a program for street children, a hospice, a preschool for orphaned and vulnerable children as well as counseling and testing services. Although she seems to be involved in all things Kara the focus of her time is on developing a skills training centre where HIV positive people can go to acquire basic skills such as carpentry and welding. Right now, the centre is a giant warehouse type building on the outskirts of town.

I have been fortunate enough to visit the various locations where these programs are run. Each experience has left with me a lesson on the harshness of poverty and how truly devastating Aids has been on Zambia. More and more I’m realizing how sheltered I was from such truths in Uganda with Right To Play. Spending the majority of my time on playing fields and in active schools surrounded by healthy people clouds perception.

I have spent quite a bit of time at the Kara Hospice which serves several purposes. The first is a preschool for 40 plus children who have become orphans or are considered vulnerable. In Africa for a child to be considered an orphan it means they have lost one of their parents and not both as we define it in North America. The lack of resources are evident in what the children end up playing with. Imagination reigns supreme out of necessity in these classrooms. Blocks of wood are tied to little backs with sweaters and become dolls. On my last visit every kid was talking into a plastic building block which had magically transformed into a cell phone. All conversations consisted of high pitched “howru?” the one English line all children know. My favourite child is 5 year old Christopher who can’t seem to get over all the hair on my face. In recent visits he’s been stuck on the word “armpit” and raises his arms daring a quick tickle. Christopher’s mother is a sex worker. In Makalulu where they live I’m told sex workers make as little as 2000 kwacha – less than a dollar. The reality of poverty.

In the midst of all of these children are a huddle of grandmothers called the “Busy Bees” who make small trinkets out of beads and sew items to sell at the market in Lusaka once a month. 3 of these grandmothers are in Toronto as I write this to present a workshop at the Grandmothers Gathering in advance of the International Aids Conference. Each one of their stories bare witness to the devastation of Aids. Matilda, one of the grandmothers is now responsible for 11 kids at her home, 7 which are orphans. Stories like Matilda seem quite common. A whole middle generation of moms and dads have been lost with the older generation left to take care of their children.

In a separate building lie the patients of the hospice. Four rooms with beds for patients fighting the disease. I was surprised to see the flat sheets of an unused bed which appeared empty only to realize the top half contained the curled body of a child. Although no one deserves this disease it seems especially unjust to see a child suffering. The bed belonged to 10 year old Alpha. All I could think of were the pictures Time Life would show in the mid 80’s of patients suffering from Aids. A body covered in sores from an opportunistic infection.

I’ve also spent time at Kara’s street children’s program. On my first visit I was put to the test. A full fledged football game was in process and I was expected to take part. The blundstones came off and the Khaki’s were rolled up and I went from spectator to participant way quicker than I would have liked. It seems the international language of football would have served far more useful than Bemba in this case. This particular day I would have traded morning, noon and evening salutations for a solid kick. After a good half an hour of blooper reel style embarrassment the game was over. As if I didn’t need a reminder of my lack of skill on the pitch I now have a blood filled blister on my foot letting me know how cushy my feet have it. I’ve been able to visit the program a couple of times since and am working with a group teaching them ultimate frisbee which is a great way to meet some of the kids and learn about the challenges they face.

One group I have looked into working with are local community schools. Although I’m still getting the full picture, education in Zambia seems to be divided into two camps: government and community schools. The government schools are fully funded by the government while the community ones are started and run by the community. Because of the lack of funding it isn’t unheard of for kids at community schools to be required to bring a bag of cement on the first day of school to help build a new extension or latrines. A recent trend has also seen a drain in teachers from the community schools to better paying jobs at government schools. Because of the loss of teachers one particular school, with the unfortunate acronym KOCS (Kabwe Open Community School) has four teachers to deal with 400 plus students. I have met with KOCS to discuss how I might be able to assist. Their biggest problem seems to be lack of involvement from the parents. They also have no structured physical education program even though it is in their timetable twice a week. Once school resumes we have arranged to start phys-ed workshops with available parents who can in-turn cover for teachers during the phys-ed time slots.

Finally, I cannot end this post without mentioning the bicycle taxi business. As many of you know this small business scheme which was the brainchild of Hil was in the works before leaving Toronto. One of the biggest challenges will be to get the local population to start viewing bicycles as an affordable means of transportation for all classes and not a second rate way to travel. Some unforeseen obstacles have also surfaced. The other day I was trying to convince a group of the benefits of such a service. Annette didn’t seem convinced. “What would my husband think if you were taking me, people would say ‘what are they talking about?”.

The most important news regarding the business is that a test model has been purchased. After several visits to the stores in town I settled on The Humber. Its selling features were numerous. The 50’s style bike is a model of simplicity with no gears and a tiny steel wire break system no thicker than pipe cleaners. It’s crowning feature a double spring plastic seat with “Superior Quality TESTED Guaranteed” stamped into the side. The use of capitals convinced me that future seats were being tested that very moment in India by some poor worker. The final kicker was the sticker across the top bar which read “All Steel Bicycle”. All I could think of was Superman, the “Man of Steel”, how could I turn down an all steel bicycle? I was sold.

Upon arriving in Zambia from India the bicycles are assembled en masse by I’m told a crew of 20 in a town called Chipata. Words like “tighten” and “thorough” are clearly not part of the training manual for these assemblers. The first stop for all new bikes is the market where you have to pay 10 000 Kwacha (3 bucks) to get it “road ready”. Here three workers attack your bike in a manner reminiscent of the pit stops in Daytona. Within minutes two wheels and a frame served as the only indicator that I had in fact bought a bike. They then proceeded to put the Humber back together accounting for each ball bearing and tightening every last spoke. At one point during the reassembling the wrenches and hand tools were dropped for a modified sledge hammer and a piece of 2 by 4. Seeing my concern Ernest the leader of the crew looked in my direction and gave me an it’s all going to be OK nod. The three of them then proceeded to hammer out a dent in the frame. The whole process took 45 minutes.

The Humber was given its first big test this past weekend. A 16 km trip to a farm out in the country. The trip involved going straight through a small village on the outskirts of town. Had I not been perched like Mary Poppins on her bike it would have felt like the final leg of the Tour de France. Children ran out to the road to see me ride and high fives and waves were in full affect. It was during this inaugural trip that some of The Humber’s finer features became apparent. Turns out bumpy inconsistent roads are the Humbers kryptonite. The tiny black handle bars slowly revealed that they are from the sandpaper family. The “TESTED” black seat’s (made of plastic no thicker than a yogurt container) one spring crumbled to one side providing a painful pinch on my rear. Finally, the most important feature, the brakes decided to take a day off. Since the trip I’ve been able to check out some of the other bikes on the road. No one has the original seat, brakes are a luxury for a small few and if you like having a sensation in your palm you need to buy softer handlebars. So for now, it’s perfect.

The Humber is currently in the process of receiving a face lift. Yesterday I purchased a reinforced chasi that is attached above the rear wheel that allows me to take passengers. A welder has also added two foot pegs. Even with the revamps Hil the test pilot has fielded some complaints. Mainly the chuckles she is faced with at work due to the grill marks on her dress pants. A cushioned pad is in the works.

So “How is Canada?” I’m hoping to hear from some of you be it e-mail, phone or post.

My phone number from Canada is #011 260 99692335

And any mail can go to Hil’s office:
Hilary Hall
c/o Ranchod Hospice
Kara Counselling Training & Trust Kabwe Branch
P.O. Box 81257
Kabwe, Zambia
AFRICA

**Hil has confirmed that all packages will not be subject to inspection. I haven’t been able to get the same guarantee from the Zambian postal service though.

“Riding in style with a smile on…”