james June 2, 2008

“We have received a baby,” Royce stated when I answered the phone.  I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, I say, stopping in middle of the sidewalk.  Certainly, in the 3 hours I have been gone from the farm, running around Livingstone, we could not have taken in another child.  “We have received a baby”, she repeated.  Hmm, turns out that we did.

 

Pushing work team members into the car (this was the same day as my run in with the police, by the way), I speed back to the farm as fast as the potholes will allow.  Sure enough, a 7 pound, 2 month old baby boy is waiting at the children’s home.  He is small but doesn’t appear critical.  James.  The newest member of our family.

 

Here’s where the story gets really fun – the baby was sent with a note.  That’s right, a note from Social Welfare.  No call, no discussion, definitely no visit, just a note.  It went something like this: ‘Mother died… grandmother unable to care for him… please assist us with this matter… regards, Social Welfare’.  For real, I couldn’t make this stuff up.  Despite James’ cute little monkey face (I think that malnourished babies tend to resemble primates), I am livid.  Social Welfare has really crossed the line this time.  Who seriously thought that it was acceptable to pin a note to a baby and send him along to us without so much as a heads up?!?!  Afraid that I might fly into a blind rage if I am actually able to reach our social worker on the phone, I resolve to confront our communication “challenges” another day.

 

James quickly settles into life at the orphanage as Moses loses his place as the ‘baby’.  He is always on an auntie’s back or in someone’s arms.  When he is fussy, I take him for a walk around the yard, singing and bouncing.  Though we met under circumstances that were less than ideal, babies have a way of capturing your heart.

 

Tuesday morning arrives with an urgent message from Royce; James is not doing well.  Arriving at the children’s home, I see that he is severely dehydrated, his soft spot sunken in and skin pale.  We rush him over to the clinic where Jeffrey is able to get a line into his tiny veins.  IV fluids, oral rehydration solution, antibiotics (to fight the diarrhea), anti-malarials, juice in case of a vitamin C deficiency and lactose-free formula – this child is getting the best care possible.  Only a few hours later, he is looking noticeably better.  Aunties and volunteers sit with him around the clock.  The next day, he is appears alert and rehydrated.  We all breathe a sigh of relief. 

 

That evening, I stop by to check on James one last time before heading over the main house.  Several aunties are hanging out in his room, holding him.  They explain that he has been fussy all afternoon.  I scoop him up and walk around, bouncing and patting.  When he still won’t stop whimpering, I kiss him on the head and pass him back to the women.

 

Less than 2 hours later, there is a knock on the door.  James has died.

 

The news is blunt and shocking.  I was just there; he was okay.  What happened?  James’ mother died of Blackwater Fever (a severe form of malaria) just a month earlier.  Sal figures that it is likely she passed the malaria onto James.  Despite the medication, his body simply couldn’t fight it off.  Little babies go quickly in Africa.

 

This was my first experience with the death of a child.  I always knew that it was a possibility.  Between malnutrition, diarrhea, HIV and malaria, children die over here.  Still, the statistics can’t prepare you for the reality of losing a baby in your care. 

 

Death is never a happy event, but James’ life came to a peaceful end.  He simply went to sleep surrounded by people that cared about him.  I truly believe that he felt secure and loved during his time with us.  James has gone to be with Jesus now.  We praise God for the time that we spent with him, and we rejoice in knowing that James will be forever at peace in Heaven.

 

it’s a good thing that I always carry my prison shank May 28, 2008

“We need you to pull to the side madam”.  Argh – busted at the mobile police checkpoint erected right before town.  Coming around to the side of the vehicle, the officer informs me that my vehicle fitness sticker (one of like 14 that we have to obtain) has expired.  “Um, are you sure?”, I ask, smiling sweetly.  “Maybe it is valid for the entire quarter?”, I suggest.  Unfortunately, the traffic cop is not so easily fooled.  License and registration please.

 

What is worse than getting a traffic ticket in Zambia?  Oh, I know!  Getting a traffic ticket while chauffeuring a group of middle-age Rotarians on a work team outing.  Decked out in their safari vests and hats (requisite for all trips to Africa, of course), they are ready for lions, but run-ins with the law are another story.  As the officer gets into the vehicle to escort us to the police station where I can pay the ticket, I turn and apologize for the delay in getting to the internet café.  However, instead of being upset, the group seems excited about the adventure. 

 

Naturally, the main road to the station was closed.  “Just turn here”, the officer suggests.  ‘Here’ turns out to be a narrow back alley teeming with garbage and unsavory characters.  Remember that I am not a particularly good driver, so maneuvering the massive game viewer requires my full attention.  While I turn and break to avoid pedestrians, I fail to notice that my passengers have whipped out cameras and are giddily filming “authentic Africa”.  A flash catches my eye, and I whirl around to catch Phil mid-act.  “Put the camera away, now!”, I demand.  The last thing that we need is an offended Zambian chasing the car or throwing blunt objects at us.

 

Arriving at the police station, I park in the empty field across the street (official parking) where some town vagrants like to lounge.  Though I am wary of leaving the group, I do need people to stay and watch the car.  “Smile!”, Jane instructs, snapping a picture of me being hauled off to jail.  The officer escorts me inside.

 

The Zambian Central Police station is typical of most government buildings here.  A giant picture of the President graces the wall, but there is little else.  The paint is peeling, no more than 3 lightbulbs are in operation and there is not a computer in sight.  I am so busy taking in the sights that I don’t notice that one of the Rotarians, Mike, has snuck up beside me.  Entering the processing room, I see a handwritten list of offenses and corresponding fines posted to the wall.  My fee for the day is about $20.  I am glad to see that homicide has the value of ‘court’. In the few seconds that it takes for me to glance down and count out my kwacha, Mike pulls out his camera and attempts to take a picture – in the police station.  No, the Zambian police officers do not think that is funny.  I flash my trademark smile and come up with some charming excuse before yanking Mike out of the room.After driving the traffic officer back to her post, we are on our way again. 

 

A year in Zambia just wouldn’t have been complete without at least a little time in police custody.

 

 

 

my kidneys are paining May 21, 2008

“My kidneys are paining at night”. Well, how do you know that it’s your kidneys? “Because they are paining”.

And so it went for much of the day on Wednesday when I accompanied Sal to Kasiya. As a result of bloated campaign promises, a beautiful clinic building was built in the rural community, but then the government ran out of money, and it was never staffed. So, Sal and Renee (our medical missionaries) now pack up their Land Rover with medical supplies and operate a traveling clinic out of the building once a week. Average attendance – 150 patients. It’s a great ministry, and I was eager to check it out.

On account of my lack of even the most basic of medical training, my job was to stand in the exam room with Sal and play gopher. When I proved myself worthy, I graduated to counting out pills.

It was an interesting, often amusing, experience. Patients would come in listing symptoms like backache, headache, stomach pains and fever – for 7 months. Sal explained that they thought they would get more medicine if they inflated the duration of their illness. Tylenol and Ibproufen were certainly the most widely prescribed remedies.

There were, however, a list of other legitimate ailments. Almost every child that came in was suffering from diarrhea, a few from full-blown dysentery. The area, though not totally remote, has very few sources of clean water. It is likely that diarrhea will simply be a chronic illness for the residents. There were a few burns and cuts and an abscess or two.

Perhaps the most emotionally difficult were the HIV cases that we saw. The first woman who requested an HIV test got a negative result. When Sal questioned her as to why she felt she should be tested, her response was a very blunt “You can’t trust husbands now”. The next man who ordered a test also received a negative reading. In speaking with him, he admitted that, unbeknownst to his wife, he was sleeping with 2 other women and had concerns as to their health. And that, my friends, is the story of AIDS in Africa.

The HIV tests that are used at the clinic are quick and easy, requiring just a mouth swab. So simple are they that Sal decided I could perform a couple. Praise God, the first one came back negative. As I watched the second one develop, however, two very distinct lines appeared. Positive. Willing myself to maintain a calm appearance because the patient was sitting right behind me, I excused myself and announced the results to Sal. Have you ever been witness to a death sentence? Because that’s what it was like. The patient, a community school teacher, crumbled. Sal explained that anti-retrovirals can do a lot to expand and improve life, but everyone in the room knew how the fight would eventually end.

As the African sun set on the horizon, we finished with the last patient, re-packed the car and headed home. It was a long day and a trying day, but a really really good day. Our clinic treated 137 people who, otherwise, would not have had access to medical care. That’s why I love my job here.

pictures, pictures, we want pictures! May 16, 2008

Still no luck uploading photos to my shutterfly account (slooooow internet connections….sigh….) However, I have managed to post some on facebook. Check them out!

okay here May 16, 2008

“Ah, you are a resident. Just sign the book over there then”, says the border officer. Why yes, I suppose that I am a resident. Of Zambia.

Though I can pin point the day in January that I received my work permit/official resident status, the emotional process of becoming a Zambian has been a bit more subtle. I suppose that there were some milestones: taking the bus to Lusaka, getting through the police checkpoint by myself, knowing the words to a Tonga song at church and navigating Maramba market to end up at the chitenge stand. However, I hadn’t really thought about how okay I feel in Zambia until I left this week.

It was a short trip, just a few hours away, but officially over the border in Namibia. I went back to visit the first orphanage, Children of Zion Village, at which I volunteered after graduating from college. (Side note: the children are still amazing. It was crazy to see how some of my “babies” are now learning to read. Where did three years go?) The visit was lovely, but, after a few days, I was anxious to get back to my own kids. This place no longer felt the same. And Namibia itself had become foreign to me again. The road signs, stores, and spoken language unfamiliar.

Crossing the border back into Zambia was like a sigh of relief. I knew that I could get a coke with the kwacha in my pocket. My pals at the blue Mazhandu bus stand would get me home. Then, stepping off of the bus in Livingstone, I expertly avoided the pushy taxi drivers and went to get a coffee where I knew it was half price before 10am.

Though it doesn’t feel like home, it does feel comfortable. And that’s something.

how about 1 sock? May 12, 2008

They don’t have anything in Africa, right? Then certainly they would love my (fill in the blank with any ridiculous item you no longer want). I should send it to them straight away!

Perhaps this is what was going through the minds of the people who have donated the following items to the orphanage in the past 6 months:
- used underwear
- half a bar of soap
- sheets of toilet paper in a Ziploc bag
- a homemade sports’ bra
- coloring books that have already been colored in
- Japanese novels, written in Japanese
- torn sheets
- 1 sock
- needles with saline injections
- oven thermometer

It sounds funny, doesn’t it? Maybe when read in the context of my witty blog, but it’s much less funny for the orphanage Director who has to go through it all. Then, left with boxes of rubbish, she must figure out a way to get rid of it. We don’t exactly have a trash service here…

It is absolutely true that “they” do not have very much here in Africa. However, “those poor people” should not serve as dumping ground for crap from the West. Are you helping anyone to preserve his dignity by giving him clothing that is stained or full of holes? Or, are we just trying to make ourselves feel better about the massive amount of stuff we seem to accumulate by oh so charitably giving away some of the things we have tired of? Just something to keep in mind the next time you pack a bag for the Salvation Army or fill a box for bound for Africa.

And since I’ve got your attention, let me vent for a minute about some well wishers who bring us items that we have not requested under the assumption that we can pass them out to people who might be able to use them. Do we know poor people? Yes. Do we think that they might indeed appreciate some of these goods? Sure. However, are we in the business of distributing random donations? No, we’re not. And there is a lot that goes into passing out stuff. First, you have to sort and repack it. Then, you have to figure out a way to transport it all. The hardest part though is determining the best distribution scheme. If you pass it out to some people, the others will complain that they were left out. It’s unfair! We should get something too! Charity is chock full of politics. I’d rather stick to running an orphanage.

maybe if you poke it May 5, 2008

“A truck!  A truck!”, the boys chant.  Their excitement at a trip into town has them shouting and pointing.  They look fabulous, all dressed up in clean t-shirts and wearing shoes.  I’m not even sure where Royce found these clothes, but I have learned better than to question when nice things appear.  It is such a big deal to her that the children look good in public, and I can tell that she has put much effort into their appearance today.  “ Sand!  Sand!  Jaime look! A hole!  A hole!”.  Ah yes, this exciting ride is going to be quite long for me.

I’ve tried to explain where we are headed, but it doesn’t make much sense to the boys.  Generally, I suggest that they avoid crocodiles and snakes, so why are we going to see them today?  Well, this is different, I explain.  This will be fun because they are in cages.  Um, okay.  And we will stop for ice cream afterwards.  Yay! That gets them fired up.

Arriving at the crocodile farm, the boys practically jump out of the vehicle.  We are the only visitors this afternoon, so we are granted a private tour of the grounds.  Unfortunately, our guide speaks little English.  Mostly, we get ‘crocodile’ and ‘very old’.  The signs warning guests to refrain from sticking anything, like body parts, through the fence seems to make Royce a bit nervous.  She keeps telling the kids not to get too close to the fence and pulling them back by the shirt collar.

The crocodiles, though impressive in stature, don’t act very ferocious.  Mainly, they lie in the sun, occasionally slipping into the murky green ponds for a swim.  Jake asks if we can throw them some raw meat, but the guide doesn’t go for it.  Instead, he jumps in the cages and gets a long stick to poke the crocodiles.  That finally gets a rise out of them.  They open wide their jaws and hiss enough to make the boys jump back, squealing.

After our fill of lounging water beasts, we head to the snake cages.  Each has a description of its habitat and potential lethalness affixed to the outside.  A black skull and cross bones imparts the most important info to those who may not be literate.  I notice, in great dismay, that I can’t tell them apart.  Should I be bitten, I wouldn’t be able to tell if it was the dreaded Black Mamba or just a brown garden snake.  Though I suppose it wouldn’t matter much as there is no antivenom here.  Either I would die, or not.  Fingers crossed for the latter.

“Jaime, what is that little chicken doing in there?”, Wilson asks.  I glance over and notice several cute, fluffy chicks in the Puff Adder pen.  The Mamba already has a bulge in its middle.  Um….

We cap off the afternoon with a stop at the ice cream store.  The boys are too cute as they savor every bite of chocolate and vanilla.  It quickly melts in the midday sun and runs down their arms and onto their formerly-clean shirts.  I overhear snippets of animated conversation.  Adventures with a man-eater, brushes with death, all recounted in classic 6 year-old style.  Ice cream and crocodiles, it doesn’t get much better than that.  

not your mama’s missionary May 5, 2008

I think that it’s safe to say that most people associate ‘Jaime Bugaski’ with crazy heathen.  Between my religious leanings, GOP affiliation and career as an accountant, I am a regular wild child… Okay, maybe my American friends wouldn’t quite call me the life of the party, but, among the missionary crowd over here, I play a totally different role. 

I shall set the scene, a recent missionary fellowship dinner.  A monthly event, the crowd of 25 or so gathers for a potluck dinner, wholesome conversation and prayer.  Before I go any farther, I would like to preface this by stating that my colleagues are some of the nicest, most dedicated, most Africa-savvy people that I have ever met.  Some have given their entire adult lives to helping Zambia’s most destitute and sharing God’s love.  They are amazing. 

They are also not the same group of young professionals that I ran with in D.C.  I affectionately call the women the long-skirt brigade on account of their attire of choice.  The men include quite a few god-fearing southern preachers.  Outside of the kids’ table, I am the only one under 30 and one of 3 singles.  Unlike many, my degree was not granted by a Midwestern Bible College.  I talk African economics and politics and find these subjects just as important to our work as numbers “saved”.  In addition to my modern ways, my morals are a bit looser too.  I don’t shun alcohol, and I love Sex and the City.  My affinity for low-cut shirts and dancing won’t score me any bonus points, that’s for sure.  The fact that I don’t necessarily pair Hilary Clinton and the devil seals the deal.  Liberal.  Yep, that’s me. 

Our dinner begins at 6pm, sharp.  Missionaries don’t believe in fashionably late.  Women on one side of the room, men on the other.  I find myself mostly silent, having little to contribute to conversations that center on child-rearing and recipes.  I get excited when the tide turns to books because I love talking about good reads.  However, I soon discover that my aversion to cheesy Christian romance novels excludes me from this exchange too.  I guess that no one’s read A Million Little Pieces then?

I do the only thing that one can when feeling out of place – head to the dessert table. In the middle of my second helping of peach cobbler (what? Are you calling me fat?), I notice a guy who appears to have been born in the eighties standing to the side of the room.  Someone else who knows Zack Morris? I pounce. Conversation yields a business grad who has hopes of mixing sustainable development with Jesus.  A kindred spirit and much-needed ally. 

We may still be few in number, but the next generation of missionaries is coming onto the scene.  In addition to my peach cobbler pal, there is a whole base of twenty-somethings outside of town who ride motorcycles, sneak food into Zimbabwe and deliver Bibles in the bush.  Mission work is not all about church-planting and revivals anymore.  My purely anecdotal evidence would suggest that this next wave is going to be more diverse, more political and more development-focused.  We can still spread the love of Christ.  I just don’t have to do it with a Bible in my hand and a bun in my hair.

when getting there is not half the fun April 29, 2008

I remember the good ole days when a trip to Livingstone took 20 minutes.  It was a smooth journey with enjoyable sights, like baboons playing in the brush and pick-ups stacked 15 men deep.  Though there was the occasional close call with a semi missing its headlights, the drive was manageable.  I took pleasure in just sitting back and watching Africa pass me by.

Then, the rains came, and it was all shot to hell.

Lusaka Road, the main and only thoroughfare into the bustling metropolis of Livingstone proper became an experiment in how little asphalt could still merit the classification of “road”.  Massive pot holes noe lay one after another for all 25km.  One may try to swerve, accelerate, decelerate, and drive on the shoulder, but it won’t do much good.  Despite even the best attempts, one will undoubtedly hit at least 14 craters that will make all passengers in the vehicle turn to ensure that the rear wheels are still attached.

The local road crew devised a plan to fill the holes with sand.  Unfortunately, they apparently did not consider that sand is easily washed or blown away.  The gaping holes soon returned.  Occasionally, some particularly enterprising villagers seize the opportunity to supplement their incomes.  They fill in the road with stone and then stand in the middle demanding money from the cars that pass.  I don’t know about you, but I generally don’t refuse the requests of groups of African men brandishing shovels and pick-axes.  A truly excellent business plan, I must admit.

Nowadays, we all groan at a prospect of a trip in.  We stand around the vehicle, looking at one another, silently willing the others to volunteer to play driver.  Going to town has become a 15-mile test of nerves.  Between downshifting and turning the wheel, there is little room for conversation.  Passengers don’t fare much better.  Trying to spot a ‘big one’ from the backseat and pre-clenching your jaw does not a relaxing trip make.

Stepping out of the Rover, I stretch my legs and breathe a sigh of relief.  45 bone-jarring minutes later, we have arrived in town.  We have fought the mess of road behind us and won.  At least this time.

the jaime show April 29, 2008

Step right up and get your tickets for the best show in Zambia: a white girl, doing anything.  Being on display, my every move subject to observation; it’s a phenomenon that I first experienced in China.  However, there, it was usually accompanied by a shy smile and a request for a picture.  Though I was always aware of being an interesting minority, it didn’t usually make me feel uncomfortable, maybe just a little embarassed.

Africa has been a totally different experience.  From the moment that I walk out of my door in the morning, I never shake the feeling that I am being watched, studied.  And not in a particularly nice way.  Adults and children alike openly stare at me, even on the farm, where makuwas are commonplace.  If I do something culturally appropriate, like greet someone in Tonga, they laugh.  On the other hand, if I fumble around, perhaps trying to re-tie a chitenge that has fallen to the ground, they laugh.  I know that it’s not intended to be mean, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel good either.  People watch me pick p a baby, sweep off my porch and walk up the stairs.  They make comments on the way I drive, eat and carry my groceries.

The worst abuse, though, occurs when I go into town.  The moment that I step out of the car, I am bombarded by people selling everything from bananas to pirated DvDs.  When I refuse, vendors don’t hesitate to yell at me as I walk away.  Groups of seemingly idle men find it acceptable to scream, hiss or whisper all sorts of nasty comments when I pass the corners that they lounge on.  They obviously enjoy making me uncomfortable.  One particularly charming man greeted me with, “Is that your baby?  Is that your baby?  Ah, you like African men!” when I took Rachel out for ice cream on Saturday.

It’s frustrating and it’s exhausting.  I get really tired of being “on” 24 hours a day.  When you know that there are people watching you, you must think much more about every action that you take.  Blending into the crowd here isn’t an option for me either.  What’s more is that, as a missionary, I am truly trying to model Christian love and grace.  But that can be tough.  I mean, how would Jesus have responded to the stranger who grabbed my arm as I walked to the bakery?  It is difficult to wear a peaceful smile and speak kind words when it is hot and dusty and I just want to buy a loaf of bread.

I get that there aren’t a ton of young women hanging out in Zamiba, so my actions are of some interest.  I can also concede that I am an uninvited visitor who has no right to expect a welcoming embrace at every turn.  But is it too much to expect some civility, some basic respect for my right to walk down the street without being harassed?

Maybe this is kind of like being a celebrity.  Well, without the free clothes and eating disorder.