Vomizzlers

At least once, but hopefully a few times, each month I get a package from home.  Sometimes they're from family and sometimes they're from friends, but nearly every package I get has candy in it.  I can find Twix, Snickers, and even the occasional Crunch bar in the larger Zambian cities, but specialty items like Nerds, bubble gum, or Twizzlers (the focus of this blog post) have to come from the United States.

A little while back I picked up one of these packages.  It was a great package.  Lots of different kinds of candy, a personal note from the sender, and some other odds and ends.  It was great knowing people back home hadn't forgotten about me - but what made it especially great was the family size package of Twizzlers that were included.

I opened the package and ate a few.  I then ate a few more.  Then a few more, and before I knew it half of the package was gone.  I had eaten half of a family size portion, otherwise known as what two normal people would eat.  And I had done this in one sitting.

Around the same time I discovered this I realized that it was time to make dinner.  I'm lazy though and opted for more Twizzlers.  Plus, I wanted to challenge myself to see if I could eat the rest of the package.  It's the small challenges that make life so worthwhile, right?

I can't say no to these little twisted delights.

Wrong.  I finished that package.  In fact, it wasn't even that difficult.  Unfortunately, the human body is not equipped for so much strawberry flavored goodness and just a few minutes after finishing the package a felt a twinge in my stomach.  I knew what this meant.  I raced outside to my trash pit and I vomited.  Out came a family size helping of Red 40 colored, partly chewed Twizzlers.  It was disgusting.  I felt not only physically sick but also disappointed in myself that I couldn't hold them down.  I'd wasted a completely good American candy in such a pointless way.

When asked if people should continue sending me Twizzlers after this story I respond with, "Yes, but please send smaller packages."  I secretly believe that another family size package will be irresistible to me... I just can't say no to such a great candy.

An Update on Mr. Kook

Here's an update on Mr. Kook, the chicken that I was given some months ago.  Well, he has been eaten.  For a while Mr. Kook enjoyed a fantastic life.  He was the only rooster in the village and had all the hens to himself.  However, that couldn't last forever.  Soon some other roosters grew as big, if not bigger, than Mr. Kook and he was continually having to defend his ladies.  He did this for some time, but when he could no longer hold his ground I knew it was time - his reign was over.

I shared him with a family that I live near, and one night we ate him.  He wasn't particularly tasty, but it was meat (something I rarely am able to find around the village), so I enjoyed.

This is my portion of Mr. Kook.

But, Mr. Kook's legacy lives on.  He fathered many chicks with many hens in the village and his blood lines are continuing on.  I often see small chicks with his same odd feather coloration cruising around the village.

And to say thank you for sharing him with my neighbors, they in turn gave me a hen.  I've named her Mrs. Kook and it's just too bad her and Mr. Kook will never meet.  Even though he's no longer strutting around the village his babies are and I now have a hen that will produce chicks because of him and his sacrifice to feed me and some locals.  Thanks, Mr. Kook!

The Villa at the Vill

Believe it or not, my hut here in Zambia, which is really more of a house, is a fairly comfortable pad for a bachelor like myself.

It is about 290 square feet — larger than the apartment I rented immediately after college — and made from compressed, kiln-fired bricks. The roof is composed of grass thatch and does a really good job keeping the rain away, while the floor is hand-mixed concrete. All things considered it’s home for me, and will be for the remainder of my Peace Corps service.

With an assortment of trees, my hut will someday become a forested getaway.  For now, it's home and it's not too bad.

I’ve named it “The Villa” because once in a while I have a lot of spare time to name inanimate objects, like a hut. But also because I get a laugh out of imagining renting this place to someone in a travel magazine by describing it as “The Villa at the Vill” — like it’s a trendy, remote vacation spot.

The ensuing description would go something like this — The Villa comes complete with tropical fruit trees (mangoes and guavas), an enclosed pit latrine for your private use and a chest-high bathing shelter where the user can take in the surrounding views. The African sunsets are a must from this vantage point.

The backside of my hut.

Additional features worth mentioning are the solar panel — complete with car battery to charge all your electrical needs; a mosquito net because avoiding malaria on vacation is a must for every world traveler; a hammock where passing the day away in comfort is as easy as sitting down; a garden where the freshest, most delectable vegetables are grown year round; and lastly, the locals (your neighbors) will treat you nicer than you have ever been treated before.

From arrival to departure you will be greeted every morning, afternoon and evening with ear-to-ear smiles. You won’t want to leave. This is the Africa of your dreams.

At least that’s how I imagine my rental description going, and truthfully it is pretty accurate (except for not mentioning the constant issues I face with mice and termites).

The Villa seen from under the mango trees.

The villagers near me are as nice as you’ll find anywhere in the world (they really do boast ear-to-ear smiles from morning to night) and the presence of the solar panel on my roof, which means power all day and night, is well worth the $260 I paid for it.

I’ve tried my best to make it all my own by adding HGTV-inspired touches: painting the outside a flashy hue of orange, the inside white (to reflect candle light at night better), planting a few trees, having a hammock sent from home, building a grill for the occasional barbeque and hanging up pictures of friends, family, and home.

I’m even hoping to hang at least one strand of Christmas lights from the roof in December, powered by my solar panel, of course.

If anyone is ever in the neighborhood and needs a place to stay, don’t look any further than “The Villa at the Vill.” It has to be one of Mufumbwe District’s most exclusive hideaways. It will be everything I’ve described and more. I guarantee it.

A Great Scene from the Movie Volunteers

This scene is a wonderful representation of how village meetings can sometimes go, and I've experienced everything that it shows here.  Sometimes I try and come up short.  I just shrug it off and try again, but I completely understand what Tom Tuttle from Tacoma, Washington, is going through.  (Skip to the 1:18 mark in the scene, although it's all worth watching).

Volunteers (1985)

I just finished watching the movie Volunteers, which stars Tom Hanks and John Candy.  It's about a rich kid that goes to the Peace Corps to avoid the gambling debts that he's previously incurred during his college years.  Although not exactly the same path that I, or other volunteers, have followed the movie is pretty accurate in some very important areas.  

Note: If you have never seen this movie then please do so. It's not only funny, but it's also a great representation of life here in the Peace Corps. 

Although taking place in Thailand, Volunteers is a fantastic example of some of Peace Corps' finer points of service.  

For instance, the supposed links to the CIA.  Three times now I have been accused and / or asked if I work for the CIA here in Zambia.  My answer is always the same - "Do you really think that the Central Intelligence Agency - one of the greatest spy agencies on the Earth - is really interested in what is going on in this tiny, tiny village?"  No.  I am not a CIA operative, and no the CIA, I doubt, is interested in this little mark on a map.  However, the US government is interested in this place, the people, and their livelihoods or I wouldn't be in my tiny village - and I'm thankful for that.

Next, is the goodness that is incurred while drinking pop, or call it what you will: soda, soda pop, fizzies, etc.  Sometimes drinking a Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, or even the subpar Zambian soft drinks are like Heaven-sent mana.  Especially when water has been the quencher of all thirst needs for the past week, two, or three - maybe more.

Thirdly, the character of Tom Tuttle from Tacoma (Washington).  Even though I have never met someone so hardcore as this, it still makes for a great movie character, as well as providing a laugh for me.  

John Candy's representation of "Tom Tuttle from Tacoma" is accurate of some PCVs' determination to do a good / great job.

Lastly, the community meetings that this movie portrayed are spot on.  Meeting with groups, where you don't really speak much of the language, is an incredible test in perseverance and patience.  Sometimes, even when I am nearly 100% sure that I'm speaking the local language correctly it turns out that it's totally, completely wrong.  That's just the language, not even trying to get everyone to see your point of view or coming to a similar consensus on the issue - in the movie that's the building of a bridge.

The movie is funny enough by itself, but to be here and doing the same job as the characters' is that much better.  in the end, I would like to finish with my favorite line from the movie, "I came here.  I  helped build a bridge and some fat guys touched me.  I had a full life..."

Clean Water Not Taken For Granted in Zambia

I remember when I lived in America, it seems long ago now, that I would always start my morning with a nice hot shower and a good brushing of my teeth. As my day progressed, I drank a lot of water — from the tap, public fountains, water coolers. All around me was good, clean, safe water.

Did I ever stop to think for a second if that water may make me sick, or where that water was coming from? Nope.

But now that I live in a rural African community, I have to, otherwise I may get a less than friendly visit from Mr. D (a name commonly given to diarrhea in Zambia), or something much worse — like dysentery or cholera.

Clean water is often taken for granted when it’s available and sorely missed when it isn’t. I know I took it for granted when I had it and now I miss it immensely.

Bore holes with a pump, like this, offer the most reliably clean water available to someone in rural Zambia, but they're pricey and cost about $6,000.

It is incredibly disconcerting when you’re able to see things in your water source — things like buckets, clothes, animal excrement or simple debris like logs and leaves.

Most water sources here start out clean and through a combination of disrepair, apathy and ignorance, they can become — well, just gross — and even harmful.

There are three main sources for safe drinking water here (safe is a sometimes relative term). There’s a natural spring, a well and a bore hole. Each has pros and cons, as well as different price tags for building and protecting.

A natural spring isn’t built — it’s just there as a pre-existing natural feature. For only $20 it can be protected with a barrier to keep animals out.

Then there’s a well. This is what my village has. Typically, these are hand dug with a cement apron and cement lid covering the opening to keep out animals, kids and other unwanted things. Price tag: about $800.

Some locals from my friend Caleb's village are gathered around the village to see what is in the bottom.

Finally, there’s the bore hole. This is usually deeper than a well and taps into a deeper aquifer. To get the water out, a hand pump is built and the user pumps a crank, then out comes the good stuff.

The design is similar to what you may see in a state park in Michigan. The downside is that these pumps sometimes break and, for whatever reason, aren’t quickly repaired. They still remain the best bet for clean water and they had better be for a price tag of around $6,000.

What about rivers and streams some may ask? They may be OK, but without being certain of what’s upstream and possibly flowing in the current, that’s a risky option.

A river like this, the Kabompo River, may seem a great source for water, but there is no telling what is upstream, flowing to the user.

Some volunteers actually make clean water one of their focus projects during their service. My good friend Caleb Rudow is one of them.

As soon as he got to his village, he found the local well in need of attention. The village hadn’t put much effort into maintaining or improving their drinking water source so Caleb went for it. After holding numerous meetings and organizing everyone, they got to work.

One day they built a fence to keep the local cattle away from the community’s water source. Then three days were spent clearing logs and other material from the bottom of the well (a man was lowered in every day to do this). Another day was spent building a cement apron to improve sanitation, and finally another to build the cover and lid.

This man was lowered 40 feet in this well, three days straight, to clean out the debris that was polluting the village's water source.

Now there’s a beautiful, clean well for the villagers to draw water from.

The whole project from start to finish took six months. Things move slowly here, but it’s worth it and Caleb thinks that it will be one of his best projects because clean water leads to improved health and a better standard of living.

Note: This was originally printed in the BC Enquirer on May 27, 2013.  

Voice of America

At home I always considered myself in the know as far as current events are concerned. But here I was feeling lost.

Some of my current events helplessness was remedied in November when the owners of Battle Creek’s Coney Island Café, avid readers of my articles, bought me a Time magazine subscription.

And while those help my big picture news dilemma, I was still lost on the day-to-day happenings of the rest of the world, due to the time that it takes the magazines to travel here.

So, this past Christmas my Dad sent me a radio. It was the only thing that I could actually think of that I really wanted, and needed.

My good friend Nick came to visit and every night he was with me we listened to VOA.  He's as much of a fan as me or any other PC Volunteer.

There is only so much I can get from asking locals through my broken language skills about what is going on in the world, and only so much that they can even report to me.

So when I got the radio, all my current events problems were over.

Most people know about the British Broadcasting Channel’s reputation for keeping the world and its English speakers informed, and I’ll be the first to give them credit. With their impressive accents, reports from every nook and cranny of the globe, and long history -- the BBC was started in 1922 -- it’s well-deserving of all credits and accolades.

But I’d like to talk about another station that my small shortwave radio is constantly tuned to -- the Voice of America. Did you know our federal government has an international radio station? I had no idea it existed until I came here, but it’s been around for more than 60 years.

I affectionately refer to it as my favorite propaganda. Coming over my airwaves at 5 p.m. local time and signing off at 8 p.m., its programs are full of American music, news from the homeland, global updates and Africa-specific headlines. While my Time subscription adds meat to the news stories I hear about, VOA breaks those stories first.

Started in 1942 during the buildup of the Cold War, VOA’s mission is to promote American government, our culture, and our views throughout the world -- specifically in developing nations.

Currently, VOA broadcasts in more than 70 countries, including Zambia, but more importantly to some global hot spots like Pakistan, Burma and Mali.

When VOA first comes on the air, it’s with the tune “Yankee Doodle.” I’m not making that up. Then during the broadcast there’s always an editorial from the U.S. government about our views, culture, history or maybe a mix of all three.

My favorite program of VOA’s is one called Border Crossing, anchored by Larry London. Hearing him is like hearing an old friend every Monday through Friday for one hour.

I’ve been tempted to look him up online, but I’ve resisted in favor of deferring to my imagination’s rendering, which looks something like JFK meets a GI Joe.

I couldn't resist and had to look Mr. London up.  Turns out he rubs elbows with the likes of Beyonce.  What a guy...

Mr. London takes requests for music and does the occasional interview with singers and bands, but the music is why most listeners tune in. It’s nice to hear music from home, even if it is something that I would never listen to in the States, like Toby Keith or Madonna.

It’s also nice to hear an American voice in a foreign land, which is why I said he’s like an old friend. There must be some sort of psychologically calming effect to do with that.

All in all, my radio and the three hours daily of the Voice of America make home and Americana seem not so far away.

Above is a facebook message I got about this article.  It's the little things that matter, like a 30 second long shout out.

And with Larry London continually on the air I’m not likely to pull a Benedict Arnold and jump to the BBC anytime soon. That’s a promise, and with that I’m signing off.

Note: This article was printed in the BC Enquirer on June 12, 2013.