My final trip to the refugee settlement (at least under the name of the UNHCR project) was a compilation of joy, elation, fear, sadness, melancholy, pride...My first little tale didn't even take place in the settlement, but on the drive up at a stop to collect supplies:
I had one of the scarier experiences I've encountered a few days ago. As usual, we stopped in Kaoma to pick up foodstuffs and groceries. Alice joined me on this trip, and it was awesome to have another intern with me since she is normally in the other refugee settlement, Meheba. Anyway, I had left Alice and a few other people with the purchased food in search of wine. I walked down the road with one of the Zambians we work with, Mutale, and after successfully completing our mission he helped the other guys load the bus full of drinks, and I walked the 500m or so alone back to Alice. Let me mention that it was broad daylight, 2:00 in the afternoon, the main road through Kaoma, I had a camera in my hand (a sign that read “power boozing” was too great to let go undocumented), and about $1500-$1800 worth of kwacha in my backpack when I was a moderately nice looking man walking towards me. Sporting a t-shirt and a blazer jacket with jeans, he even seemed more well-dressed than the haphazard, thrown-together look so common in Zambia (ummm, do you think these kids know who Franz Ferdinand is? Because I saw one wearing their concert T). Walking towards each other nothing seemed out of line; he was staring, but that's nothing new to me here. Then, just as we were at the point when one person veers slightly to one side, and the other individual to the other, he kind of stopped, then moved toward me. Hmmm, a little more strange, but I've had guys here block my way, stand in my way, place themselves in front of me before. Annoying? Yes. But normally I just give a little eye-roll, purposely walk around them, and give a wrist-flick or a drawn out “Iwe!” (which means “you” in Nyanja, but is used synonymously with “hey!” or “come onnnnn” or “give me a break!”). When I made my side-stepping move, he followed into my personal space (which is a tiny box that gets smaller and smaller the more time I spend here). I backed up a touch, and he lunged toward me, grabbing my shoulders more forcefully than friendly, and I'm not sure if he made a move to grab my backpack, but that's what was first on my mind. I shot back, keeping my eyes on him, throwing my half-empty water bottle at him, and shouting at the top of my lungs, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!” My flipflop came off in the process. I didn't even care and barely noticed. I swear, I know cognitively what adrenaline can do to you, but it's been a long time (if ever) since mine has been pumping like that. I was focused and determined, ready to sprint, knees bent, perceptive but concentrated, ready to react. Once enough space had been established and he began to turn and walk on, I spun and half-walked, half-ran to the grocery store where Alice was waiting, unknowing of what had just occurred. Some old men sitting called out, “Don't worry, he's crazy,” looping their fingers in circles at their temples, the international sign for insane. Right, he's crazy, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he grabbed me. Or that hypothetically he could have hurt me or stolen from me. Once my breath caught up to me at the store and I saw Alice, I couldn't help it - I released the panicked cry and jagged tears that follow an adrenaline rush. Along came the shakes too, and she sat me down, instructing me to “breathe” just as I was reminding myself to do the exact same thing. After some water and a few minutes of respite I was fine, and once safely on base – like a childhood game of tag – I didn't feel threatened, scared or even all that mentally panicked, but my body was still reacting in the opposite fashion which is an interesting predicament to be in. Not an experience I'd jump to repeat, but one that taught me that I can deal if faced with it.
Second bizarre situation that occurred in the same day? After getting to the settlement Alice and I went for a dip in the river. As we approached, a bunch of young girls I had made friends with the trip before ambushed us yelling, “Max! Max! Max!” smothering me in wet hugs, topless, some with breast buds starting, oblivious to the North American preoccupation with privacy and certain forms of bodily exposure. We swam, hung out, they braided the front of my hair, and as we were sitting with our legs soaking un the refreshing-yet-deliciously-warm water, one of them just grabbed the triangle of my bathing suit top, pulled it aside to expose my boob, then put it back over to tuck it away. It was as though she said to herself, “Yup, her boobs are just as ghostly white as the rest of her.” I didn't really care, it was just funny and totally unexpected.
* * *
I am a murderer. Of something with a real nervous system (mosquitos don't count). I'm a chicken-killer! I've witnessed chicken killing before in Vietnam and aided in the plucking, watched the gutting, ate the bird and felt that I had participated, but this time it was me, taking the knife to the chicken's throat myself. We had forgotten to buy meat for ourselves in Kaoma, so we got a few village chickens for ourselves in the camp. Alice had also killed one her first trip to Meheba, and I kind of feel like it's a rite of passage. And totally necessary if you're going to be a meat eater. Wings under one flip-flip clad foot, feet under another, head in my left hand, knife in my right, the neck took more back-and-forth motions than I expected were needed to pierce the skin. The chicken seemed to die in stages: first it fought, then succumbed once the blood started flowing liberally, the in twitched angrily and involuntarily as I kept cutting. The blood slowed, the chicken relaxed into the ground, and with a final last gush of blood, some last twitching, relaxation and a final succumbing to death, to the earth, (to my stomach...too soon?). It was cool though, and surprisingly easy. And then totally ironically I was given a chicken about 30 minutes later as a gift!
* * *
Francis – one of our coaches – invited me to his house and I jumped at the offer. I mean, when else will I get to be in a refugee's home? Through paths, past huts, seeing children playing with toys made from empty plastic drink containers, watching women cooking, until we arrived at his hut. Surrounded by a straw fence, it was two rooms but, sported a straw thatched roof and mud walls. Him, his wife and I sat on chairs and benches, talked (or rather, mostly Francis talked – that man can talk forever!), and played with his adorable children. He offered me a chicken as his guest, and in proper Western culture I refused, or thanked him and denied. I didn't realize what a big deal that would be, how insulted and upset he would get. He explained that neighbours would talk if they saw me leaving empty-handed, that in their culture they needed to give guests a gift. Sure then, I thought, I'll take a chicken. He grabbed a big fat one and I brought it back with me to Lusaka on a public bus – how Zambian! One of the funniest parts of the encounter? Walking back with his 2 ½ year old son holding my hand, Francis asked in their language, “Do you know what her name is?” “Yes,” his son replied, “Mzungu [white person].” That's what I'm perpetually known as. Although now it's my name. Oh well.
* * *
It was difficult saying goodbye to many of the coaches; our UNHCR grant is up at the end of the year and unlikely to be renewed – the Zambian government which is in charge of the settlements is trying to shut them down, so the are essentially kicking out all NGOs. They claim that they don't have the resources to sustain their own population, never mind a population of refugees. There might be some validity to that, but in the same breath how can you expect people to repatriate to Congo when people are macheted to death and shot there daily? The GRS program gives these refugees some purpose, some goal, encourages education and inspires them to push themselves further. It's such a shame that they're forcing us to end it and frustrates me to no end.
