I will not miss...

Despite the touching and saddening previous entry, when I reflect on the reasons I’m happy to be here seeing all of this, even if it’s difficult, I’ve got to write this next one. I’ve been saving it up for a long time.
Here are a list of things I will not miss about Zambia.


I want my anonymity back. This includes:

-I will not miss being honked at, numerous times, by every taxi driver who goes by. Partly it’s because this is how taxis drivers find fares, they honk at likely people walking. People don’t often flag down taxis here, they flag you down. But my whiteness makes me a more likely fare, and thus the higher incidence of my being honked at. It becomes particularly obnoxious when I’m physically in the driveway of the shopping center, clearly walking to it (as opposed to away from it). I just want to scream out at them:
“Why the hell would I want a taxi when I’m here?! I’m clearly going here, and here I am, and just leave me alone.”
But I don’t do that.


-I will not miss not being able to walk past a bus stop without being heckled by every call boy who comes within 20 ft of me. Like cab drivers, call boys get passengers for the mini buses. Usually the get off the bus at each stop, run up to pedestrians, every one a potential passenger, “Town madam? Town?” The drivers honk wildly, in case anyone didn’t know they were already there. Sometimes their passenger recruitment is to such an extent that they will drive off the main road, onto the side streets, honking repeatedly as the call boy slides open the door and shouts at passersby, even if they clearly have no intention of getting on a bus. Don’t you want to get on a bus? Surely you do, how could you not? We’ve got one right here! And never make the mistake of getting on a minibus that isn’t full, because you’ll likely sit there at the stop until it is.


-I will not miss being stared out, hissed at, shouted at, sneered at, or even genuinely greeted, by every single person I pass on the street. I think there’s something to be said for that cold Northeastern exterior. I don’t want to know everyone on the street. I don’t want to be approached by every man and get comments like, “Hello, you seem nice, I really want to know you, give me your phone number!”


-On that note, I will not miss Zambian social norms. Here, it is completely normal to have a less than five minute conversation with someone and ask for their number. Zambians really like to meet each other. To us, who tend to be somewhat reserved in that sense, in seems super foreign. I get tired of having to constantly figure out how to tell someone I don’t want to give them my number, I don’t want to tell them where I’m staying (where do you stay means where do you live), and I don’t know how to help them with whatever business or charity scheme they are planning, no matter how genuine they may be.


-I will not miss having to retreat indoors as soon as it gets dark. I will not miss that as soon as it starts to get dark, it makes it okay for men to start talking inappropriately to you on the street.


-I will not miss having women tell me on a weekly basis that I have a stomach. Zambians are dead honest. And I’ve yet to figure out if they’re insulting me, or complimenting me, or just telling it like it is. But there’s no taboo against telling someone they are fat. I adore the nurses I work with at CIDRZ, but they sure do know how to make me feel shitty about myself when they reach out and pat my stomach for no apparent reason. I don’t think they mean to be insulting. I think they don’t realize there are. I think there’s a double standard though. In traditional culture, it’s a positive thing to be fat, because it means you have money and are well fed. But with encroaching western culture, it’s probably not a good thing. So I have no idea where they are even coming from.


-I will not miss the utter disregard of drivers for anybody else except for themselves. I don’t think it’s only drivers, I think in general there isn’t the same sense of courtesy on the street as there are in other places, but here it manifests most obviously on the road. Think of all the places where people say, “Oh drivers are crazy there!” Massachusetts drivers, for instance, who have gained themselves the nick name of Massholes. Then multiply that by 100.
At home, it’s not uncommon to see some guy speeding down a neighborhood street, and you kind of just watch them pass and feel mad and give them a dirty look. But it certainly doesn’t happen every day. Here, it’s the rule rather than the exception. People race down neighborhood streets at highway speeds as if there was nobody else there. And if they see a pedestrian or biker that could potentially be in their way ie walking on the side of the road equivalent to the sidewalk here, rather than slowing down, they honk obnoxiously, speed up and give you the dirty look. And when car accidents happen here, they are bad. People speed around corners, lose control, and fall into the deep drainage ditches. It’s not uncommon to see two back wheels and the rear end of a car sticking up from the side of the road. I try not to think too hard of what the front of the car looks like.


-I will not miss the number of drunk men walking down the street on any given day. Unemployment -> idleness, depression-> drunkenness-> spread HIV-> depression -> drunkenness. Yeah, you get the picture.


-I will not miss having people expect that because I’m white and working for an NGO, that I’m bringing them something. If I have to hear one more in appropriate request (complaint…whine) for refreshments and transport reimbursements, I will scream.


-I will not miss having to extensively greet everyone each morning, and if I don’t, being thought rude. Sometimes I’m in my zone, and all I want to do is go to my computer and start my work day without the niceties.


-I will not miss people trying to sell me things. I’ve never been a good bargainer. So when it comes to techniques that some people use to drive down prices while bargaining, I use them in a sincere way.
For instance, I’m at the Sunday crafts market, looking for something very specific. I’m examining a carved wooden bowl. It’s not exactly what I’m looking for, a bit smaller, not the greatest paint job. And the salesman keeps asking me how much I’ll pay for it. And I keep saying I’m not sure I want it. I say this because I really mean it, I’m not sure I want it. But to him, that’s my bargaining technique. He won’t even let me put the darn thing down. I have to move away from him, set it down and essentially run away to get away from him. And of course, as I leave his stall, every other shop owner wants me to enter his, “Madam, come look, looking is free!” while shoving the same old kitchy knick knacks in my face and all I want to do is run away. Being obnoxious to people doesn’t make them want to be your customer. Or maybe I’m just no good at this stuff. Businessmen are businessmen the world over.


-I will not miss the literality with which people think. The lack of critical thinking, of thinking outside the box, sometimes utterly amazes me. Or maybe I take for granted how I’ve been taught to think critically and creatively. Even some of my Zambian colleagues at CIDRZ cannot read something over, give a presentation or think about something above and beyond what is written on the page. And if it’s written, then you have to read it. Meetings can last hours longer than they are meant to, because people will take the time to read every single word of a protocol, out loud, together, rather than having prepared it before hand, or skimming it, or speaking about the gist of something.

The TB-HIV peer educators, who I sometimes love dearly, are great in so many ways, but most of them cannot think outside the box. I have redesigned my monthly reports several times to most accurately reflect what they are actually doing in clinic. And I get their feedback and input, and we go through the questions over and over again. And they say it makes sense, they say they get it, they helped me design it! And then the next month’s report comes in, and they’re still answering some of the questions not really how I wanted/expected. They take the most absolute literal meaning of the question, one I didn’t think of because it was, perhaps, too obvious. It’s a lesson for me in how to word things, at how words can have so many meanings, but I also wish they just thought about it a bit harder. If they did, they’d realized that they way they answered didn’t really make sense in the context.

I think a lot of it stems from the standard system of schooling here, of a large room full of students, repeating back word for word what the teacher says. I don’t mean to be overly critical in this respect, we have issues with our education system too, and there are surely many children in the states who can’t think critically either. But it’s a daily challenge, and time sink.


-I won’t miss being seen as the boss just because I’m white. I’m not the boss. I’m here to work with them, to learn from them. Once again, the peer educator Mary illustrates this. I went to meet with her and Dennis at the clinic one afternoon, and when we were through, I was waiting for transport to go back to the office. She insisted on waiting with me, even though she was done for the day and I told her she should feel free to go home numerous times. So I just saw it as a courtesy, really nice of her to wait. But then, when her phone rang, she mentioned in the subsequent conversation that she had to stay at work “with my boss.”
I hate being seen that way. I am here to help, to mentor, to make things sustainable for them yes, but I’m also here for me, to learn, to experience, and certainly not to boss anybody around.

But there’s no hiding from my skin color. Everywhere I go, I am mzungu, whether or not it gets verbalized (though it often does). And on some level, no matter what I do, people will never see past that and give me a chance otherwise.



So I yearn for my anonymity. The freedom to put on my hood against the brutal Boston winter wind, keep my head down, plug in my headphones, stay in my own little confined world, and not be expected to acknowledge anyone or anything, and not have anyone want anything from me, all the way from the door of my apartment, through central square, to the T, through the streets of Chinatown to my school. I want that unwritten, unspoken, separation. I want the harsh northeastern coldness, if only for a little while. Friendliness if overrated.