The sun was beginning to set on the horizon. I could see the
reddish tinge of the sun set against the powder blue-grey sky. The early dusk
chill began to settle into my bones as I walked briskly across the native
grasses towards Old Jim.
“Hi, could you tell me how to get to Old Jim”, I asked
briskly to a fellow commuter peddling on his bicycle.
“It’s that way, but you . . . “, he quickly glanced at the
slippers casually strapped to my feet. “There’s a stream – you have to cross”.
I nodded, thanked him, and plodded on.
The stream was actually a small creek, but my anxiousness to
get across before the dark descended quietly onto the valley’s undulating
landscape made the creek appear more ominous. To my eyes, the river gushed
rather than gently rolled downhill, and as I crossed, I was too careful in
balancing on the moss covered stones, which formed a trail across the gurgling
water. I almost fell into the chilly water.
Once across, it occurred to me suddenly that there might be
poisonous, dangerous snakes laying in silence between the tall, native grasses.
I prayed quietly, feeling vulnerable in my slippers. I hoped the shuffling of
my feet wouldn’t awaken any if they were indeed present.
The shortcut turned out to be winding, dirt trails that
eventually took me back to the main road; the shortcut turned out to be
unnecessary, after all, as I got to Mr Banda’s house in more time than if I had
used the proper route. Moreover, the roads after the turn off to get to his
house all looked alike that I began to worry that I was lost – but then when I
arrived at a small intersection, I looked to my left and saw the familiar hump
and garden adjacent to his neighbor’s house signifying that I was in exactly
the right place.
When I arrived, he was just coming around his main house.
Mr. Banda is building, using his meager monthly income to incrementally buy
nails and bagged cement. He used the soil around his house to mold the bricks
that would serve as the structure. He and his wife greeted me as a imposed on
them.
“Oh, hello, Camille.”
“Hi Mr. Banda”, I greeted, using the formal way to address a
stranger in Zambia. I handed him the plastic bag of vegetables I purchased from
the market stalls on Lundazi Road. Tomatoes, kale, the usual items purchased by
poor, Zambian households. “I wanted to make sure you got these. Sorry about not
buying the cassava – I was sick the last few days and wasn’t able to get back
to the Saturday Market”.
The real reason was that my memory wasn’t functioning well;
the flu had done me in and I was bedridden for a couple of days. Three days
later, my mind was still fuzzy and I had trouble keeping track of my days.
We bade each other farewell, as I did my other colleagues at
the Council, and promised to meet up if I ever returned to Zambia.
The walk back to Chipata Motel didn’t feel as long. I
returned to my room just as the last rays of sunlight sank into the red, dry
soil of Chipata Valley and resumed packing, in preparation for my departure
from Zambia. This day was my last in Chipata.
When I parted from Mr. Banda, I began to feel a little sad
about leaving Zambia all together. It had been my home for a year, and even
with all the aggravation that periodically migrated into my heart, I had
discovered a home in Chipata and settled into the life there, somewhat, having
developed friendships and acquaintances. Here I was again; having lived the
full experience, I (as usual) recognized the familiar nostalgia that always hits
me (to paraphrase an old cliché) like a ton of bricks as the end of the
experience comes to a near.
As a volunteer funded by CUSO International, I cannot really
judge my work at the Council by interpersonal relationships, alone. Because the
funds supporting my service were partially paid for by Canadian taxes, I have
to judge my work also by what I accomplished for the Council based on the
targets that the planning department had issued to me.
In reviewing this past year, I would assert that the year
was a success. The integrated development plan was written and I fit the format
to the specifications of the Regional Urban Planning Act as well as the wants
of the planning staff. It had become clear to me that the planners wanted an
urban planning guide, so I fashioned the language and the format of the IDP
according to the needs of the planners so as to make the planning process as
painless and uncomplicated as possible.
Secondly, I completed the draft sectoral plan for unplanned
settlements, which grew out of the local area plan written to upgrade the Magazine
Squatter Compound. If everything was on my timeline and in my control, within a
year, I would have signed the consent to legalize lands and started allocating
land for community gardens, and worked with the social planners to develop a
3-year plan to saturate the houses with vegetable plots. As this was not my
reality at the Council, I settled for a completed grant for building the market
shelters, GPS coordinates of most features in the Compound to facilitate the
mapping of the area, and the beginnings of a health outreach and food security
program. It must also be pointed out that the work on the Compound had to bode
well with the schedule of the other planners. Admittedly, I was a little
selfish as far as pushing to get things done there.
In addition, I managed to include a few trainings into my
otherwise mundane planning work load. The trainings helped to add spice to my
professional life at the Council.
If I was unsuccessful in this placement, it was in failing
to navigate through the politics of local government of Chipata District, which
replicates the politics of governments everywhere. If you want to know what I
mean by this, watch CNN or the local news coverage of your governments at all
levels. Whatever you learn about in the news coverage also plays/played out in
Chipata District.
The difficulty for me was the balancing of political
interests with public ones. I’m not sure it this skill is one that I will ever
perfect. I prefer simply planning and letting the more skilled people to
politic, while I play the puppet master in the wings, pulling the strings.
Another year, another experience well spent. Thank you, CUSO
International, VSO Zambia, and Chipata Municipal Council!
Another fundraising reminder –
I will continue to raise money for CUSO International until
my $2,000 goal is met. Hence, I will keep this blog open until I’m told by CUSO
that the goal has been reached. Please continue to send in your $10 donations
through the link to the right of my blogs or by check/money order. The
instructions are written on the fundraising page.
On that final request, I leave my readers with my favorite
images of Chipata. These photos should explain to readers my sudden attachment to Africa. Thank you for staying tuned all year!
Posing with Naomi's children |
Another photo with Naomi's children |
Fish from the day's catch in Nkhata Bay, Malawi |
Residents bathing in Lilongwe River not far from Mabuya Lodge |
Musungu fruit - native to the Eastern Province (i think) - sweet and succulent. In a word, delicious. |
A view of Lake Malawi from the Big Blue Start Backpackers |
The Cewa Village in Katete from one angle |
Children residing within the vicinity of Chipata center - eating a vsimbi fruit |
One of Marco's students studying at his school in Magazine |
Ngonis rehearsing for the Nc'wala Festival, which just passed |
A scene of grain vendors taken when road tripping through Malawi |
On the last leg of my return trip to Chipata from Nkhata Bay, Malawi |