land of plenty

The past few days I have been feeling really ready to go home. However, after a day of feeling sorry for myself on Monday, I decided to make the most of this last week: to get as much work done as possible, to continue explore Lusaka, and to continue to learn about what it means to be Zambian. 

 Today I decided to my walk back to the HSSP office (my hosting organization) from the hospital instead of hopping on a ubiquitous minibus or jumping in a cab.  I wasn't in a hurry to get back in front of my computer, and have started to relish each moment

 here (a self monologue "why not walk back? when will be the next time you have the luxury of walking down a red-dusty street in africa?").  While I moseyed down Nationalist Avenue, a large wide street past some embassies but without many pedestrians, I found myself walking almost in tandem with a thin Zambian man in a dirty white baseball cap, dirty white pants and a dark green sweater.  He was walking at almost the same pace as me, and after a while like this, I realized that we were alone.  My inner monologue, as ashamed of it as I am, started something like this "I have a computer and digital SLR

 camera in my bag. We're alone on this street... it's broad daylight, and I've never heard of anything like this in Zambia.. but should I switch to the other side of the street?"  It didn't take long before he interrupted my monologue with his voice.  It was obvious that his inner-monologue was very different from my own: "Madame.  I am looking for employment," he said. "Do you have any employment for me?"  

He looked in my eyes. His were sad. His clothes hung on his bony frame and the baseball cap was shading a wasting face.  "I am sorry," I said. "I am leaving on Saturday to go home to America." The minute that came out of my mouth I regretted it: what kind of answer was this? What was I saying? "I am sorry you are desperately poor. I am rich. I am getting on an airplane that cost close to 2000 dollars to buy and heading home to the land of plenty."  I don't think he took it like that - instead he feigned a smile and walked ahead of me.  

I welled up with tears. I have been asked for employment here before - women have shoved their numbers at me, asking if I know of anyone who needs a housekeeper. Men constantly ask me if I want a cab - cars drive by honking as if to say "need a ride?"  I don't know why this man caught me so off guard. I know life here is hard. 

Even I complain that the grocery store is more expensive than at home - gas is almost at $12 a gallon - and even a small beaded key chain runs about $2-3 dollars.  But the statistics say that people here live on $1 a day.  How can that be? It is true however.  The manager of the compound where I live, Vin, makes 200,000 kwacha a month. That's about $75. He supports a family of five.  And there you are, less than a dollar a day per person.  He struggles every day and lives literally hand to mouth.  

(Vin's family in front of my house here)

His wife is pregnant with their fourth child - and has been having unusual pains that prompted him to bring her to a clinic.  The cost of an ultra-sound was about $20 - more than a quarter of his monthly salary- and figuring out what was going wrong was nearly impossible. When he told me his story, I gave him the money - but it is only a small band aid for a huge problem. The next week her tooth was aching so badly she couldn't eat.  Another $20 needed.   Last night, while we were talking, he said "I hate it. I hate only working for millie meal.  Life is worth more than that."  His words rang so true.  The struggle for the poor here is truly heart breaking.

And so my heart I ached for this man who was honestly asking me for employment. And for the cab drivers who sleep in their cabs, and drive me to the hospital at the wee hours in the morning with dust still in their eyes. And for the women who leave their own children alone to care for someone else's for less than $100 a month.   While here the roads are often good, and on the surface this country sometimes looks together, there is true hardship when you just lightly scratch the surface.... I don't know that I've done a darn thing to help this summer.  I don't even know what I could do.  

So I will leave Zambia with love for this country - but with sadness too.  Knowing that as I board my plane to the land of plenty, the people who have touched me will be here. Every day. Hungry. Struggling.  Asking the next white girl who walks down the street if she can give them  job.