A GRS record?

Mayukwayukwa again. As I wrote on my Facebook status,

"Destination: Refugee Settlement

Goal: 700+ people tested in one football/netball VCT tournament

We'll see how it goes..."

And go it did. Not without any hitches, but by now I realize that's to be expected for these big events. But maybe I should start at the beginning.

* * *

It was nice to come back and know things a little bit - pulling up in the dark, past sunset but before complete blackness shrouds the scenery, I knew what lay immediately beyond, what to expect, how the basics work; give people hugs, shake their hands, remember their names. I went for a run my first morning and heard someone say, "Hi Max!" I stopped and gave the young woman a hug - she wasn't one of our GRS coaches but maybe a netball coach. I had no idea what her name was, but she clearly knew me. The day after that I was walking with a few of our coaches and thought I heard some kids call out "Maxime! Maxime!" I must be hearing things, I thought. They must be saying something else. I turned to our coaches and said, "Wait, are they shouting my name?" "Yes, of course they know your name!" Ummm, what? There are like 10 000+ people who live in Mayukwayukwa, and granted this kids were close to where we stay, I still thought it was amazing they knew or remembered my name when I had only been there once before for five days. Talk about feeling like a celebrity. The best part of that run though? Just towards the end, 4 minutes from the chalets, three small kids no older than five years old sprinted towards me at full speed, recklessly and without abandon. I expected them to stop a cautionary six feet away as most others do, but no. They charge at me, to the point where if I hadn't stopped running I would have punted them down the bumpy dirt road. Without a second to reflect, they ambush me with hugs and giggles, giggles punctuated by nervous hiccups, becoming slightly shy after acknowledging their brazenness. I started my run again and looking over my shoulder I waved as the girl in the pink princess dress continued on her skipping jaunt.

* * *

This trip was punctuated by great conversations, feeling like I could ask the coaches questions since we were already friends, and being comfortable with all the guys I was traveling with. One of the best and most comical conversations? A totally organically grown sex talk with 9 Zambian men. It stemmed from the question if there were any "safe" days to have unprotected sex with a girl, which evolved into me giving them a rundown of what happens anatomically during a woman's menstruation cycle, and then the conversation just exploded: question upon question, some probing for knowledge that I take for granted (does having sex in different positions make it more or less safe?), others complex and long-winded (how come female circumcision is not allowed in the US?). Lazzy - our fearless leader - took it upon himself to be the moderator, assigning a speaking order and ensuring that everyone who wanted to had the opportunity to put in their two cents. My VagMon girls would be so proud.

* * *

I'm going to leave out and miss so much of what I want to capture and convey from all of the talks with coaches that I had this trip if for no other reason than because there's too much information, too much that's worth sharing, too much that just rocked me to my core, more that I thought it would. On my second day at the settlement I took a walk with three of the refugees - two coaches, Dominic (Angolan) and Francis (Congolese, I think?), and a former coach now GRS employee, Felix (Congolese). Some of our conversation was just shooting the shit, but other parts were so deep I couldn't believe they were sharing such stories with me as casually as talking about when the mangoes would be ripe. It began with me timidly asking Dom how he got here, what his background was, and if he minded sharing his story with me. His wasn't particularly appalling: his parents heard rumors of fighting elsewhere in Angola, so they left all they had - their farm, bags of maize and rice, vegetables, animals - to hop on a boad and cross the border in to Zambia. That was back in 1967. Dom was born in Mayukwayukwa. Then he started talking about some of the newer refugees: a woman from Congo arrived a year ago, only 18, gang-raped by 5 soldiers while she was trying to escape, now here in Mayukwayukwa alone; men with missing limbs, former soldiers, hands, arms, feet, legs cut off by the unforgiving blade of someone else's machete; stories of crossing borders in the nighttime, traversing jungles where the threat of death-by-vicious-animal is not only possible but also probable; sister and mother macheted to death in front of one of our Congolese coaches, and him beaten to the point of unconsciousness, only alive because he miraculously ended up in a church, he doesn't remember why or how he got there; more tame stories like Dom's where people leave everything in the middle of the night because they hear of the threat of attack; completely terrifying stories like one from the Congo where mothers are told, "Pound your infant to death in this hole in the ground otherwise we'll kill you." And they do it. I can't even fathom being put in that position, never mind the selfish or selfless decision to be made.

The coaches were curious, so curious, about what life is like in Canada, in the US. They complained about the difficulties of being a refugee, how the Zambian government wouldn't recognize them as citizens even after 10, 20, 30, 40 years of living in this country, after birthing generations of children here. They wanted job opportunities, educational opportunities, "basic human rights" - an easy catchphrase that they never elaborated on, but I kind of assume is the golden halo of hope that they assume Canada, the US, Australia and Europe provide. I asked them what they wanted. If they could have one wish, if I were magical, what would they wish for? More industry and job opportunities here? Work and school i Lusaka? Peace back home? Resettlement abroad? Despite long rambling tangents, this is what I deduced: school and work opportunities, the chance to really provide for their families, a place where they're not constantly looked at as outsiders, a place where they can live without the fear that they could be kicked out at any moment, and last but possibly the most movie-tearjerker-inducing is the chance to tell their story. At least five different people asked me to share these stories with people at home. So I'm honoring their request and sharing them with you. I hope I do them and their stories justice.

* * *

975! I fuck you not (pardon my language). The number of people who got HIV tested on Saturday was 975. Our target? 700. Last time in Mayukwayukwa? about 650, Rumors of the highest in GRS? Eight-hundred-and-thirty-something over a two-day long event in Malawi last year. But this is huge. There's nothing like the elation after a completely exhausting, draining day when you find out that not only did you succeed in whatever way, shape or form you were trying for, but you surpassed what you hoped for. It's like your body is finally able to relax, your mind can't process what's happened, and you're left in a sort of peaceful, dumbfounded shock. With a little sleepiness and a lot of joy thrown in the mix. I feel personally affected by this success which is silly because there were so many people who did so many things to make this event happen, but I guess I mean to say that I'm proud of what everyone did and I would have been pretty upset if it hadn't gone well.

That's not to say that there weren't major challenges, there definitely were - there wasn't enough buffer to go around (which is essential to do the test with the instant Determine HIV kits) so some counsellors started over an hour late (we solved it by going around and administering saline solution to them by using syringes); we ran out of reporting forms and hand to write form after form after form by hand; early in the day at about 11 AM we finished the 700 Determine kits we had brought ourselves (!) and had to get about 300 more fro the local clinic. However, because they report to the government we needed to handwrite a second form to indicate the age, name, address, result, etc. of those tested. I'm also worried about the follow-up for those who test positive - will the clinic really follow through? What kind of confidentiality is kept when HIV carries such stigma here and the community is so small? All this while I was responsible for registering counsellors and coaches, distributing lunch coupons, t-shirts, breakfast and snacks, sitting in the blazing sun, managing other problems as they came up, writing certificates of participation for the 200+ player, watching football and netball tournaments, wanting to dance and interact with the kids more than I did, and keep my cool, my calm and a smile on my face when I was either a) dealing with someone who was complaining or upset, b) talking to someone who wanted me to give them something, c) internally freaking out, or d) completely clueless on how to fix a given problem. Oh, and did I mention that because we surpassed our target we also ran out of incentives early on (we give sugar in the settlements for people who test - one of the reasons why our turnout is so high), so people were obviously upset and complaining about that. With a little bit of innovation and teamwork though, we got things done. Got things done well. The biggest surprise to me? I was able to keep my cool, go with the flow and fix the problems that arose more so (coolness-wise) than I think I would have been able to 3 months ago. Don't get me wrong, minor freak-outs occurred, but they were more internalized and pushed me to find a proactive solution. It felt different. I felt different.

Lake of Stars

I think I have PLoSD - kind of like PTSD, but instead it's post-Lake of Stars Depression. Lake of Stars is a three-day long music festival on the shores of Lake Malawi, one of the biggest lakes in Africa. Just like the Great Lakes, its waters stretch far across giving the illusion of oceanfront property, despite its central African location. Hosted every year in October, the festival features a mixture of well-known and not-so-well-known local or African artists and others from the UK too (it's co-sponsored by some Brits, I'm not sure if it's a British organization or the British government...).

Anddddddd that's about as far as I got on my blog about Lake of Stars. Pathetic, I know. Last week was crazy though; since we got home on Tuesday from LoS, we had a three day workweek and about a million and four things to do. Monday was a holiday so we didn't have work and everything was closed, and then I left on Tuesday the 26th for the refugee camp and only got back tonight (the 31st). So instead of writing a nice long, well-packaged and pretty blog, I'm going to save that for writing about Mayukwayukwa and just summarize by saying Lake of Stars was awesome, we camped on the beach, listened to music, swam and partied for three days straight. Maybe it's better if I don't go into details about it anyway. My mother DOES read this...Hi mom. No, no, I'm kidding, it wasn't anything all that debaucherous, but like I said, long blogpost to come...

Lake of Stars update coming soon, until then a sampling of pictures

So the order of these is totally messed up, but just a few pictures to give you an idea of my life the past few weeks (in case you haven't or can't look at all the pics on Facebook - they're much easier to load there for some reason...). To the left is the view from our campsite on Lake Malawi for the Lake of Stars music festival. Our tent collapsed in the wind the first day so I just slept outside. This was my morning view. Tough life. The right hand picture is on the drive back to Lilongwe. The view was too pretty, we had to stop and stretch our legs.

Before Lake of Stars I was at the refugee settlement Mayukwayukwa. Below are some pictures from my time there. I head out again on Tuesday October 26th until the 31st for a massive VCT football and netball tournament where we hope to test over 700 people!
GRS Graduates (left).

A village in Mayukwayukwa (below).

At the river before hopping in! (left)

The UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) guest house - home sweet home for the week (right).

Oh and lastly, to add to the list of awesome names I mentioned last post (Loveness, Freeborn and Besana) I have one more that I came across today while writing certificates: Fatness. Yes, Fatness. Different connotations here versus at home, I would assume.

Mayukwayukwaaaaaa!

Hellooooo!

I know it's been a while since I've last written. Please forgive my lapse in blogging, I was busy preparing for my trip to the refugee settlement (Mayukwayukwa, or as Ali called it, Mayukwawawjsrkeuwonfsoiethdfnspw%^#$), in the actual settlement from the 4th until the 9th, and then busy with birthday festivities! I don't even know where to begin organizing my thoughts so I think the best way is just to pull snippets from my journal. They'll be choppy, but hopefully they'll help to paint a picture, or at least draw a rudimentary sketch, of what my time there was like.

* * *

Driving to Mayukwayukwa. Finally making the trek. With anticipation it has been built up in my mind and I don't know what to expect apart from countryside and space. We're stopped right now in Kaoma, the last frontier before two hours of dirt roads take over, and I elicit relentless stares as I sit and write perched in the shade on a stoop. Smiling at unbelieving kids, sometimes they seem enthralled, other times terrified. Adults too, look at me communicating with their eyes either fascination or a guarded, "What the hell are you doing here?" Sounds are similar - "Closer" blaring from a tavern, the incessant repetition of a loudspeaker saying the same short sentence in Nyanja, it begins to blend with the musicality of the cars, the idling trucks, the songs, the voices shouting, humming, singing along. Sand covers the shoulders of the road hinting at beaches far, far fro here, and it surprises me that while I'm not 100% comfortable or TOTALLY at ease, I'm much more accustomed to this world, this lifestyle, that I was 9 weeks ago. It's hard to push South-East Asia and Vietnam out of my mind with its lush and plentiful excess, gorgeous in its diversity, yet Zambia presents a new sort of beauty – an excess in color and spirit, in energy and space. Different, but no more or less astonishing.

* * *

My mother always said that I came home from my first day (or week, or month) of kindergarten and when asked what I had learned, I answered, “I learned how to be mean.” Pretty powerful words for a 5-year-old. I think what I meant to say, and would have said if I had had adequate grasp of the English language, is, “I learned how to say no, and for the first time in my life people said no to me, denyed me something without an excuse. And I learned to do the same.” Being in Mayukwayukwa at times feels like kindergarten again at times – I have to be “mean” or say no, be anally strict, when I have what they're asking for. Mineral water at lunch yesterday? I had 40 bottles in my room. But not enough for all the coaches. And none would be remaining for us if we gave them away. Extra pens? Three sitting in my bag, right next to the 9 million kwacha ($1800) granted to GRS by UNHCR. I could buy 9000 pens with that. But I can't give these away because that sets an unsustainable precedent. So instead I lend out one sole pen, insist that our LPC (Local Program Coordinator) Justine, give it back at the end of the day, and threaten to hunt him down and follow him hope if he doesn't return it. I have to say no without excuses, or with excuses and explanations that don't seem fair in my mind, but I can't do otherwise.

* * *

I think you can only fully understand the demands, requests, and long-winded answers everyone speaks about in the refugee settlements after witnessing it firsthand. Even going into a meeting with our LPCs in the headspace of being patient and expecting the meeting to last longer than necessary, it still blows my mind that it took us 3 ½ hours to talk about these issues. From what would seem to be major (the suggestion of opening a GRS office in the camp, our upcoming VCT tournament) to what appears to be minor (how you will choose who is invited to the tournament as a “supporter” – and supporters get food incentives), everything is a big deal, everything has the potential to offend someone, and everyone wants to throw their two cents in. I can't say that I blame them – in a place where resources are even more scarce than they are in Lusaka, people want things they can get their hands on. Pair that with a small-town atmosphere where everyone knows your business and rumors spread like fire in the dry African Bush, and something as small as giving away a few remaining biscuits from an already-opened package waterfalls into giving away whole boxes of biscuits freely to people, without regard for who they are or their connection to GRS. The issue of incentives comes in too: since we don't pay our coaches we sometimes give them salt or mealiemeal or washing paste. But then parents say, “You're benefitting from our kids when they're not getting anything in return,” (ummm, education on how to protect yourself from getting HIV? Or ways of taking care of yourself if you are HIV+?). Or coaches complain about the incentives they receive...it's a delicate balance and I feel like no matter what people will always find something to complain about. It can be trying and tiring...

* * *

Little things here make my day: conversations with our coaches under the tree budding baby mangoes; an exchange with a hazy-eyed old woman, skin hanging off her body in drapes, rusty safety pin through her earlobe long with age; children staring unabashedly until I lift up a hand to wave and shatter the division.

* * *

There's a netball coach here with BSA (Breakthrough Sports Academy, our partner in this project) who blows my mind. I think he's from either Angola or the Congo and both his arms are amputated several inches below both elbows. Every time I see him, he greets me with such warmth and effervescent energy. When I was first introduced to him he extended the shortened stump of his arm and I had a momentary sense of, “What do I do with this? Give him a pound with my fist? Brush my hand against it?” I was thankful I had witnessed someone greet him beforehand and so I just followed suit: held the soft, tapered end of his arm and shook it despite its missing hand and forearm. What has this man gone through? What do people do to other people? What are we capable of? And how are people able to survive whatever he has survived and still be jocular, still have spirit?

* * *

Driving deeper into the settlement, seeing schools and homes and stalls on the edge of tiny sandy roads barely wide enough for the UNHCR truck we rode in. It was nice to get a bit outside the compound or area where we were conducting our training. It really was stereotypical African villages, mud huts with straw thatched roofs, circled together around a common area, kids scattered ourside, women working or cooking of handing out nearby. Whether you think it sounds overly idealistic or peacefully simple, it's not an easy life. Person after person after person expressed the desire to go to school, to find work, to make money, to get out of there. As beautiful and serene as it is out in the countryside, in the bush, there is still this desire to get to the big city.

* * *

The best names I came across while writing certificates for graduations in the camps:

Last name:

• Wankie (use your imagination...yes, I'm very mature)

First names:

• Besana (“besar” means “kiss” in Portuguese and there are a bunch of Portuguese-speaking Angolan refugees in Mayukwayukwa)

• Loveness

• Freeborn

Freeborn. That's the most moving for me, particularly in a refugee settlement. Their child was born free, when under other circumstances they may not have been.

* * *

I head back there from October 26^th until the 31^st for a big VCT Tournament with multiple football (soccer) and netball teams competing, prizes, testing, entertainment, etc. etc. Until then, a bunch of us are heading out to Malawi from Thursday until Tuesday for a big music festival which should prove to be epic. I'll let you know...

Doggy Death Wishes

So apparently our very cute puppy has a death wish: first, about two weeks after we got here, she was hanging out around the car and her leg was partially run over by the car. She limped for a few days but seemed to get over it until she was playing around some cinder blocks in our yard (there's some construction going on) and it fell on the very same leg, both bruising it and cutting the flesh slightly. She seemed to be doing okay for a solid 3 weeks in there, then was gnawing on a heavy wooden board that was propped up against the wall and it fell on her back left leg. The final blow? Alice, Marissa and I came back from grocery shopping tonight to find pools of radiant red blood all over our porch: puddles on the yoga mats, smears on the rocks, paw prints sprinkled around. It was already dark by this time so we popped out our headlamps and did some rudimentary first aid by washing out the wound, filling it with neosporin, and tying strips of newly laundered t-shirts around the gash. It was deep on her lower leg, sliced almost to the bone and bleeding long and hard. When I first wrote this blogpost I forgot to include the most comical part (if it's okay that something so serious might be comical): our night guard/watchman (whose English is sometimes indecipherable) said that the "big cat" did it. Now, there is a fat grey cat who has been seen in our garden from time to time, but if this cat was responsible for Kamba's wound, there would be a cheetah in our back yard and I'd be terrified to walk from our car to the house. After doing a little crime scene investigation we deduced that she had hit into some glass resting on the side of the house and that it probably cut cleanly though, a neat slice. We're taking her to the vet first thing in the morning, and as we speak she's sleeping soundly at my feet. Witnessing the whole ordeal made me wish I knew more though, made me wish I could do more, take action, know that I had done all that I could possibly do to remedy the situation.

The smoke that thunders

Not only does work come in waves, but so too do things to write about. Friday night a Zambian woman in our office organized a centuries old traditional performance/"educational session" involving drums, dance and some hardcore hip-isolation action which is meant to titillate and tempt your husband-to-be. In the past (and still sometime in more rural locations) the whole process was meant to last the month before marriage. These days however, women only take a night to do it, so it came across as a Zambian version of a bachelorette party. I'll save that story for vocal sharing (I wouldn't want to incriminate anyone, now would I?) and instead tackle the most recent (and maybe the most impressive) first while impressions are still fresh in my mind: Victoria Falls. The largest waterfall in the world, or so it claims - it is neither the highest nor the widest but its height and width form the largest sheet of falling water in the world (I stole this fact from Wikipedia). In Nyanja it's named Mosi-oa-Tunya , or the Smoke that Thunders. And thunder it does.

Another intern (Alice), my friend Jamie from Bowdoin, his friend Brandon and I road-tripped out there early Saturday morning and made the 6 hour journey arriving by 1ish. Splitting the driving made it easy and allowed us to sneak in some naptime, and cruising in car was so liberating. Here we were, on our own, driving in Africa, blasting music, singing along, joking and chilling out.

We hit up the falls soon after arriving at our hostel. Both Brandon and Jamie had been there last during the wet season and explained that at the time the mist was all-encompassing, obscuring the view, though the sheer magnitude and force of the falls was overwhelming. This time the stream was less, but it stretches so long and wide with a precipitous drop and moss-padded boulders crashed into by tumbling water...in some ways I'm glad it was the low season because we were able to see more. I never knew that Vic falls fell into a gorge so we were able to stand on one side and watch the other, peer into Zimbabwe, gape at people bungee-jumping from the bridge, sit in awe t the strength and capacity of those falls. I don't get it, it's just wanter and empty space, yet it takes people's breath away - including my own - every time.

The next day we hiked down to the Boiling Pot which is where the river turns below the falls, so for a little corner portion the raging water is (relatively) calm. There are no other words for what we did apart from frolic in the water and lounge in the sun. Afterwards we hiked back up and walked to the other side of the gorge where the river actually flows from. Stepping through shallow yet forceful streams, we made our way across water-eaten rocks carved deep by the powerful river to a pool of water right on the edge of the drop-off - I literally lay across the edge and peered hundreds of feet to the precipice below. My stomach flip-flopped but the adrenaline was also exhilarating and refreshing in a strangely carnal and simplistic sense.

Pie Dilemmas (and no, not whether to choose pumpkin or pecan...)

First real VCT, second big event, and whether it was coincidence, confidence, less organization needed overall or fate, I'm not sure, but it went much, much smoother than the first. Things didn't go 100% according to plan (they never do here), like we were supposed to start at 8 AM and things only really got moving at 10, but at the end of the day we tested over 300 people and maybe even over 400, so the late start didn't seem to put much of a damper on our ability. I'm getting way ahead of myself here though. Let me first explain what a VCT even is.

VCT stands for Voluntary Counselling and Testing - it's a free service whereby people are tested for HIV using kits that only require a tiny pinprick of blood and take about 10 of 15 minutes. Since GRS doesn't test people ourselves, we have other organizations we partner with that come and do the testing for us, like Tiny Tim and Friends (TTF) - a paediatric-focused organization, CIDRZ, and Marie Stopes who not only test but also provide family planning. At Saturday's event Marie Stopes only tested about 50 individuals, but they did on-the-spot IUD insertion (birth control by way of an Inter-Uterine Device...Google it if you don't know what I'm talking about), and disseminated a lot of information other forms of birth control as well as male circumcision (which reduces a man's chances of acquiring HIV). If an individual is found to be HIV positive, they're then followed up by one of these organizations/clinics and given comprehensive care, counselling and treatment.

But back to Saturday's VCT: One of our biggest challenges at these events is figuring out how to draw more parents and guardians out. We had hundreds and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of children milling around but no guardians, and children under 16 years old need a parent or guardian's consent in order to test.

The kids crack me up, and it's so weird because I never thought I was a kid person before this. Time and time again at the VCT they began to surround me, with giggles and cornrows and dust-caked clothes (some appropriate and just well-worn, others almost comical - a princess-like dress worn casually? but it's all they have...), with grins and sores and new teeth pushing through pink gums, with flies perched on their dreads and babies saddled to their young non-existent hips (siblings, no doubt), with their excitement at the seemingly mundane and their gyrating hips at a song with a heavy beat; they represent incongruous mixtures in the same single person. They are powerful in numbers - jostling and pushing to the front, creating a mob-like scene either around us muzungus (white people) or around the local Zambian pop performers - and it can be easy to forget their needs when, for a split second, you wonder if they would trample you should you be pushed to the ground...

Talking about VCTs, kids in these compounds, GRS's role as an NGO, it's so hard not to resort to cliches and to express my thoughts, feelings and beliefs in a logical, coherent way. Maybe it's because there IS no organization to them. I want to help these kids, to provide motivating role models for them, to set up the structure to help empower and educate them, to have a sense of self-efficacy even if they won't become movie stars, but in the same breath it's so frustrating and tiresome and emotionally trying when people ask you for things NONSTOP. I genuinely don't think I've ever been asked for so many things in such a short period of time. "Give me 50 000 kwacha [the currency here]," "Give me a ribbon," "Give me food." When I would try and explain that everyone else was asking for that too - how could I only choose and give to one person? How could that ever be fair? - they would just keep on pressing. I know that it makes sense, I would probably do the same if I were in their situation: if you don't have anything to lose and only have the possibility to gain, why no push for whatever you can get? Why not ask and ask and ask, one day you might get something.

Case in point: we had leftover pies from lunch (not pies like fruit pies, they're meat pies with potatos in a sort of gravy, and encased by flakey pastry. Delicious but deadly amounts of oil) and a member of the GRS staff decided to give them to a few kids who had helped move desks back into classrooms where they belonged. I told the staff member that I didn't think it was a good idea - I had already witnessed the frenzy that the kids went into when something, anything, was given away for free - but he insisted and I decided to stay out of it. Sure enough, after he had given out the pies, the lucky recipients went streaming from the room bragging to anyone who would listen, and a legitimate stampede of kids followed, elbowing their way to the front of the crowd. It wasn't fair and it was unnecessarily obvious, and then for the next hour we spent cleaning up and waiting for a truck to get there, we had to fend off children asking for pies. It's such a shitty feeling, knowing that you do have 10 or 12 pies left, that you may or may not eat them, that you definitely don't need them, yet you lie because there's no fair way to distribute them. The worst part was that I justified it in my head by thinking that we'd give them out to our coaches who had worked hard all day long and who were riding back in a truck with the tents, yet when we got back home they had all already been dropped off. So there we were, unnecessarily left with extra pies (when we have about 20 in our freezer already), we could have unfairly distributed them to a select few kids who probably would have loved them, and I just have no idea what's morally correct in this situation.

Moral dilemmas aside, the preliminary numbers tested are great and beyond that, the warmth, energy and crystallized joy that I witnessed on Saturday leaves me with positive connotations and a sense of pride that I played a real role in the planning and execution of this event.