STICKS & STONES

most frequently called names in Kabwe

4. Santa Claus

3. Gorilla

2. Jesus

1. Chuck Norris

"When it starts it will spread like fire. The business of a bicycle is definitely on."

Mr G. Zulu, PTA Chairperson Twafane Community School
Closing words of the innaugural Community Bicycle Association meeting

The Veggies of Labour

Kabwe’s walls are full of artwork. Hand painted signs telling me what brand of soda to drink or cleaner to use. I’ve become quite attached to these walls: a welcome change from the giant synthetic billboards that have taken over most cities. In Kabwe, computers have yet to upstage steady hands capable of neurosurgery. The art form has even extended to local businesses: hotels, stores and NGO’s all have a title. These are my favorite as the artist isn’t confined to the scrolling C of Coke or Colgate’s color scheme. I’d like to think they take some artistic license and stray away from Times New Roman font or pick a color of their choice when placing these letters. For the last couple of evenings I’ve tried to be an architect of letters. Armed with a pencil and ruler I’m attempting to create a scroll of 52 letters across the top of a classroom. The building I’m is surrounded by a wall, which also naturally has a title. It reads: Kara Counselling Sables Drop in Centre, my home for the next year.

A centre for Orphaned and Vulnerable Children (OVC’s), Sables was originally created to address the influx of children left parentless during the HIV/ AIDS pandemic. Over its short two year history its job description has expanded. As the phrase goes, “everyone is either infected or affected” and Sables has evolved into an open drop in centre to any child in need. The children range in age from 7 to 17 years old. Children like Saviour, a single orphan who lives with his mother and 6 other children, or 12 year old Eyan who is being raised by his 17 year old brother. Perhaps most in need are ones like Mwanza and a handful of other regulars who are permanently on the streets. Sable’s mission statement is “To assist children at risk to become responsible and productive citizens”. For some it is as simple as a place to go for a game of football or the odd meal while with others the centre provides day to day essentials right down to soap to scrub their clothes. A surrogate parent in the form of a drop in centre.

At the heart of making “responsible and productive citizens” is a classroom. The hope is that the children can attend school at Sables so that when they are ready to return to a standard school they will have a foundation to build on. In principal Zambia has free universal education. Reading through the governments fancy brochure you would think every child has a desk with their nametag on it. The reality is that many of the community schools are understaffed and the teachers are underpaid. The situation means that kids who show up barefoot or without notebooks are a natural first to go when it comes to bringing numbers down. Sables is OK with exposed toes and empty hands. Most importantly we accept sporadic attendance living up to the “drop in” of our title.

Days before the start of a new term, the resident teacher Eva left for a job interview in Namibia. She was supposed to be gone for three days. Four weeks later and she still hasn’t come back. So on the Tuesday following labour day I found myself in front of a rag tag group of kids who all stood in unison and said “good morning sa” when I entered the class. Formalities out of the way we got straight to the business of correcting backwards s’s and upside down e’s. By far the biggest challenge has been the base of knowledge we’re working off of; over three quarters of the class couldn’t write their own name on the first day. Attempts ranged from long free flowing letters worthy of a Jackson Pollock painting to small ransom note letters copied over so many times they almost went through the page.

Joining us in class is Cestina, a social worker for Sables who translates parts of the lesson at her discretion, in between sending text messages to her various suitors. Lines like “Billy take the eraser out of your mouth” and “Douglas, put your catapult (slingshot) away”. Cestina also helps with classroom management. It’s not uncommon for her to reprimand the class in Bemba. The content of these rants remains a mystery to me. My gut tells me it is more than shut up as it evokes a fear that results in 0 fidgeting and complete silence.

After four weeks at Sables I have yet to use normal as an adjective when describing a day. Most glaring are the outfits my students wear. Unlike McDonalds we service no shirts and no shoes. Our dress code policy or lack of one becomes most apparent on my bike to work as I pass children walking to “regular” schools. Seas of pink, blue and green uniforms weaving through dusty roads: a sight worthy of a Tide commercial. When my students do decide to wear a shirt it gets heavy rotation. Fergus advertised as “Best Kisser” for three weeks straight. We try and curb the effects of prolonged wearing by offering soap and sinks to do their laundry which results in fantastic drying out outfits. Mwale Tembo’s ranks as one of the best: A long sleeved rugby shirt configured into a pair of pants. Legs through the arms with the neck area folded into his waist creating a spandex into diapers look. We also have showers on site which result in the occasional naked cartwheel.

When we can no longer figure out the shirts original color post-wash we have a stash of fresh t-shirts that we give out. At my first distribution 30 kids were given matching Snoopy t-shirts promoting the “Walk for Diabetes”. The short end of the stick during these giveaways goes to the smaller boys who usually get stuck with the half full sleeve/half tank top shirt that would look great on a ten year old girl. Footwear is equally sparse. Banabus’s footwear has been reduced to one ankle high dress shoe held together by a bent nail. Not a big deal considering the sole on his feet (think a black dried out version of Homer Simpson’s feet; puffy toes all the same length) would rival a pair of Doc Martins.

The “is this really happening feeling” accompanied by a huge smile doesn’t end at the outfits. It’s not uncommon for a game of ultimate to be put on hold as one of the players takes a leak a step from the sideline. Pencils clean ears as much as they write. Jackson opts for matchstick (ignition end). A mangled rollerblade provide hours of entertainment. And the classroom seems to be a magnet for foreign metal objects. Take away the wardrobes and all the oddity’s and kids are kids. They believe in magic. It takes them 1.3 seconds to notice you’ve gotten a haircut. There are quiet ones, loud ones, funny ones means ones. They all need to know they are cared for. And of course, any sound created without your mouth results in fits of laughter. A fart is universal.

When class wraps at 11:00 pencils/Q-tips get exchanged for pitchforks as the students work on a newly formed garden in the backyard. It is during the sweat drenched tilling and digging of the ground when the site’s former life reveals itself. Two years ago Sables was serving up beers and shots as a bar. Based on the amount of broken glass in the ground it was successful one too. Luckily, when it comes to alcohol in Zambia the big sellers are Chibuku (“Shake Shake”) and Mwentenke (“The Boredom Breaker”). Both are garden friendly drinks as they come in one liter cardboard milk cartons that biodegrade.

The garden is governed by one rule: if you work you eat. The line up for our first harvest includes cabbage, rape (a type of green that will grow with minimal love) and tomatoes. As of late the kid’s work ethic has dwindled. When this happens I’ve had to resort to unconventional methods of encouragement. The carrot is my digital camera. I have yet to meet an Africa child that doesn’t want “copies”. Like a dad trying to coax his reluctant daughter down the bunny ski hill I whip around the garden egging the kids on with a Nikon aimed in their direction. My laptop now stores way too many posed garden shots. As long as the sun keeps working we should be benefiting from the “veggies of our labour” and eating glass free veggies around the time church parking lots start filling with fir trees in Canada.

In addition to school and seeds the kids are provided with other essentials. Taking care of Maslow’s bottom rung we provide two meals a day. A breakfast of porridge or rice is served seven days a week along with a hearty lunch. Looking for some street cred I usually try and eat lunch with the kids. The staple of a Zambian diet is nshima; a white substance made of maize that looks like a close relative of mash potatoes. With nshima the challenge arises not with the taste (cardboard) or even the consistency (watered down playdo) but rather the process of getting it from plate to palate. In order to eat the white stuff it is rolled vigorously with one hand until it resembles a ping pong ball and then dipped into whatever oil drenched side dish it has come with. The more advanced eaters will stick their thumb in after their roll creating a shallow bowl for optimal scoop. The problem arises with the fact that by noon hour I look Mexican from the wrist out. A major factor in this transformation is the shaking of forty little hands every morning. Of little relief is the communal bucket of water intended to wash your hands with as the water’s transparency is lost after a child’s first hand dip. Every forkless lunch hour has turned into a game of Russian roulette with my stomach.

Afternoons at Sables tend to be a little more ad hoc. The schedule says sports: a term open to interpretation. Without fail a ridiculously long cord winds its way from the staff room through the building to a collection of benches outside. Propped on one of the benches is a giant stereo system that dominated every teenagers Christmas wish list in 1983. Volume dial turned clockwise to its limit the kids then partake in the “sport” of dancing. Anything from Shania Twain to the local star Chameleon makes these kids move. Now more than ever I am convinced that black people are born with more joints than any white person (excluding Michael Jackson). Right now the song that brings pandemonium is Shakira and Wyclef’s “Hips Don’t Lie”. Its catchy chorus seems to warrant repetitive play. Yesterdays tally: 8 times in one afternoon.

Thanks to a donation of discs from MEC I’ve also been able to introduce ultimate with varying degrees of success. The field where we play seems to be the perfect conduit for wind making even the most solid throws pancake into the ground. One highlight has been Hakeem, a child who has trouble stringing a sentence together but can miraculously flick the disc. Every throw followed by uncontrollable jumping and laughter.

Facility wise the place has everything for a sports complex including full basketball and volleyball courts. Although you get the odd child practicing hail marys or a 3 man game of volleyball, both courts will forever be eclipsed by the two football pitches on the grounds. I’m reminded of those t-shirts that they would sell at the Muskoka Store proclaiming that a sport or hobby “is life” and “the rest is just details”. I never bought into fly fishing or ringette being so important to one individual but can assure you that it holds true for football.*** To date a day hasn’t gone by where a game of football is not played.

When it is too hot for the real pitch they are on a little concrete field playing bottle cap football. Any male who graduated from grade six will recognize it as an advanced version of penny hockey. The game is played on a miniature pitch completely outlined with charcoal with the bottle caps acting as players. A rounded piece of charcoal is the ball and two batteries, rocks or chunks of scrap metal demark the nets. The game has everything regular football has minus head butts to the chest and announcers yelling a drawled out “gooooooal”. The current champ is Maxwell who travels with a Chibuke container full of caps. His collection features several teams, each cap fitted with colored cardboard and adorned with names like “Beckham” and Zidane”.

Bottle caps are also used for drafts or touch n go (checkers). A game you see being played on makeshift cardboard boards and slabs of scrap wood throughout Kabwe. In an effort to go beyond mere hopping I recently introduced chess, all the pieces indicated by symbols written on the inside of the cap. A few days after teaching the game I noticed that sounds were accompanying each game. Bishops made a “shhhhhhh” sound, a knight sounded like a door unlocking and pawns went “te”. I didn’t realize the origins of these sounds until a few days later when I taught the game to a new set of kids. Midway through the lesson I realized I was subconsciously using sound affects to explain the various moves. Blind man’s chess. Volume aside it is working quite well and the kids are slowly learning the carnage that a queen can cause.

When the day begins to wrap up the boys go in different directions. Many will go back to a caregiver be it a grandmother or auntie or in the odd case both parents for the evening. The kids who live on the street head to town. They usually settle in a closet of concrete behind a local bar called “Da Niggaz Den”. By 8:00 the next morning there is a small congregation of kids on the cement pitch playing bottle cap football – ready for a new day.

I failed to mention something about the walls of Sables. They are not perfect. The alphabet has hit a snag. The “S” is destroying me. No matter how many measurements I make it continues to come out flat, slightly askew. The outside wall also faces challenges. Two of the cinderblocks were knocked out of place and thanks to a worker who would make a horrible puzzler they were put back upside down. The top of the A now pierces through the R. I’ve adopted both of these as a metaphor for my time at Sables. Like the lives of children we work with things have been thrown off. Measurements have been misjudged a few bricks knocked out of place. But like the walls it’s not too late.

Paint is a forgiving medium.





***still not convinced? Google Amelia Bolanios