Killing an Elephant

Yesterday was International Women’s Day.  A day to celebrate women: their rights, their role in society, as well as their potential.  In America women have got it pretty good.  I’m not saying there aren’t places or situations where women are still dehumanized, taken advantage of, and belittled.  However, for the most part, we are at a point in our history where women have as much societal freedom and opportunity as men.

In a place where women are still second-class citizens, forced to be defined by gender roles, and given far less independence, opportunities and respect as men, this is an important day to recognize.  Zambia is moving forward as far as gender equality goes. They’re definitely progressing in the right direction.  This is something I have been encouraged and proud to see in my time here. The Zambian government has declared this day a national holiday, a statement which tells the people of this country that women indeed are to be celebrated. 

I had big plans for my day “off”.  Sleep in a little, go for a run, grade the giant pile of papers that has once again accumulated on my desk, and do some lesson planning.  Truly, this was going to be a holiday- to have an extra day to just focus on “catching up” was a huge relief. 

After my run, shower, and devos I closed myself in my office and began reading and marking papers.  I don’t usually keep my door closed, but the heat was already getting to be 100+F at 10:30 AM… it was only going to go up from there.  Keeping my door closed kept the heat out, and also helped to keep me hidden from possible interruptions.  Apparently I didn’t hide too well because I had a few knocks at my door in the next hour, people asking for help asking to borrow money etc… the usual.

I’m barely through grading the 4^th paper from my stack of about 50+papers when there is another knock at the door.  I open it to find Mr. Mwaanga- an always humble, polite first year student.

Me- Hi how are you?

Mr. Mwaanga- I’m fine how are you?

Me- I’m fine, only it is very hot today!

Mr. Mwaanga- Yes it is very hot!

Awkward pause…

Me- Is there something I can help you with?

Mr. Mwaanga- Please madam, there is an emergency at the compound. (He says this with a small smile on his face and with his characteristic calmness, politeness, and humility.)

Me- WHAT?! An emergency?! What happened!?  (said with my characteristic jump into action panic)

Mr. Mwaanga- It is Mrs Handemu…

Me- Mrs. Handemu… OH! Is she ready to have the baby!?

Mr. Mwaanga- Yes!

Me- OK! I’m coming I’m coming!!

I quickly abandon my papers, lock my office, run to my house and grab the car keys, lock my apartment, run to the vehicle and shout to Elsie “Mrs. Handemu is in labor!!”  

I drive quickly to the student compound, navigating through the overgrown grass to her house.  People are mingling around and I say, “Where is she?!”  “She is in her house”  “Ok, can she manage to walk here to the vehicle?”  “She will try.”

Mrs. Handemu emerges from her house with a few women surrounding her as she slowly walks to the vehicle.  She is a shy, quiet girl only about 19 years old.  Also, she is one of our first year students who has very limited English.  She’s always struck me as a friendly person, but it has been difficult for us to communicate.

Me- Hi Mrs. Handemu, how are you?

Mrs. Handemu- I am fine.  (She says with a pained expression on her face, hands grasping her very pregnant belly, back arched over)

The other ladies and I laugh… between the cultural expectation to give a proper greeting, and her limited English, even in the midst of child birth she responds with, “I am fine.”  J 

Mrs. Sitali- She is NOT fine!! 

Me- Ok, lets get going.

Mrs. Kabayame, Mrs. Maulu, and Mrs. Sitali all assist Mrs. Handemu into the vehicle.  Mrs. Kabayame is carrying a bag of belongings for the hospital stay.  We wave goodbye to the crowd that has gathered, and drive to the clinic which is about a mile down the road.

At the clinic the nurse takes Mrs. Handemu into the labor room where she takes her blood pressure and temperature, then excuses all but Mrs. Sitali from the room so she can further examine her.

Sitting outside in the heat, Mrs. Kabayame, Mrs Maulu and I sit and chat.  I ask Mrs. Kabayame if it is culturally appropriate for me to stay, or if I should just go.  She reassures me that it is ok for me to stay.  I begin asking questions about what happens when a baby is born- who is allowed in the room etc.  We all laugh at our vast cultural differences.  They find it unusual and uncomfortable that the father is allowed in the room in America, and we all roar with laughter when I tell them that sometimes the father will feint while his poor wife is in labor.  We compare cultural notes too on whether or not the woman is allowed to scream.  Past traditions tell Zambian women that if they scream during labor then their baby will die, however like most traditions here it is fading into the past and some women do scream.

Meanwhile, the nurse comes out to tell us it won’t be long. The water hasn’t broken, but she reassures us this can happen sometimes and the baby is on its way soon.  She asks me if I want to assist with the delivery and I tell her only if Mrs. Handemu will let me.  Both Mrs. Handemu and the nurse give me permission, and all of a sudden I am asking myself whether or not I can actually DO this!?!  What if I pass out!? What if I vomit!? I don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Handemu or cause any problems!!  My hands are shaking and I can feel adrenaline and excitement pulsing through my body. 

All I had eaten at that point of the day was a bowl of cereal.  It was already 1:00 and I knew that I was much hungrier than I felt, especially since I had a long run that morning.  The heat and probable dehydration weren’t helping the weakness my body felt.  So I made the decision to rush home and give my body some food and water, figuring this will help me to have strength to make it through what was about to happen!  The nurses tell me to hurry because the baby would be there soon, I reassure them I’ll be fast.  I peek in to Mrs. Handemu and tell her I’ll be back soon, she is already writhing on the thin 2 inch foam “mattress”, hands grasping the bars of the metal frame of the headboard. 

One peanut butter sandwich, one cup of yogurt, one potty break, and 18 minutes later I’m back at the clinic.  The nurses tell me to run, so I rush into the small labor room where Mrs. Handemu is already pushing.  She is completely naked, and I felt ashamed for her thinking that they could have let her keep her shirt on.  However, I quickly learned that this was indeed a wise decision.  She is lying completely horizontally on the small hospital table with a plastic sheet underneath her.  When all was said and done she would be lying in a puddle of… well… birthing stuff. 

I ask the nurse how I can help and she instructs me to put on some gloves.  My next instruction was to be wiping sweat from Mrs. Handemu’s face.  I do this and encourage her as she bravely and strongly continues to pant, push, and groan.  Mrs. Sitali is also in the room, bringing drinking water and handing the nurse cotton swabs.  It is just the four of us.  There are no monitors, no pain medicines, and certainly nothing comfortable. It wasn’t until about 10 minutes after I returned that Mrs. Handemu was given a pillow for her head.  The other thing that is noticeably absent is a Doctor.  No Doctors for about 40 miles in fact. 

The amniotic membrane was protruding, but the nurse tells me they are discouraged from breaking it themselves.  So we all wait. Mrs. Handemu pushes.  She has her legs bent up, hands on her thighs… no hand holding… no ice chips… no husband… truly she was doing it all on her own.  It made me feel better to be able to wipe her face, squeeze her arm, and give her encouraging words and looks. Finally the sac breaks, and we all breathe a sigh of relief. 

 Within about thirty seconds the baby’s head is there!! Some excited communication to Mrs. Handemu tells her the news, however the nurse and the rest of us quickly realize something isn’t right.  Mrs. Handemu is told to stop pushing.  I think my heart stopped beating and I stopped breathing too.  The baby was obviously very blue.  Of course I wouldn’t have known the difference between how blue he should or shouldn’t have been, but I instinctively knew this was TOO blue.  With a little poking and looking we realize the chord is around the baby’s neck.

My mind starts racing with prayers, trying to ignore the reality that IF this baby is in trouble there is absolutely nothing we can do.  I watch, holding Mrs. Handemu’s arm, as the nurse very skillfully clamps the chord, cuts it, and removes it from the baby’s throat.  She did an excellent job, obviously working from experience.  Within moments the baby’s head starts moving, the color blue is replaced with the color pink, and MY heart starts beating again. 

One final push from Mrs. Handemu, one skilled pull from the nurse, and our party of 4 has suddenly become a party of 5.  There is a little teeny tiny scrawny slimy PERSON in the room! 

The nurse holds the baby up to Mrs. Handemu who is finally able to relax a little bit,

Nurse: Munsankwa or Musimbi?

Mrs Handemu:  Munsankwa.

IT’S A BOY!!! 

The little baby is left lying on the table, beginning to attempt to cry, while the nurse gathers the tools for suction.  She asks me if I want to do it, and I decline… not wanting to make a mistake!  A few sucks here and a few squirts there and WOWEEE this baby’s lungs and vocal chords work perfectly!!  We all chuckle at the loud noises coming from this tiny creature and the nurse lays him on the scale.

Nurse:  3.5 Kgs!!! Kapati maningi!  (VERY big!)

There are blankets and chitenges already laid out and the nurse carefully wraps the naked baby up.  He seems comforted for a moment to be snug in the blankets, but then continues to prove to us that his lungs work.   The weighing was the only measurements taken for the baby.  No blood pressure, no temperature, no heart beat… the only signs to tell us that we had a healthy baby was… well… there he was!  A crying, living, breathing tiny baby boy.

Me: Mrs. Handemu, he looks just like Mikey!  They are obviously brothers.

Mrs. Handemu weakly gives the first smile she has given all day J

The baby is left unattended while the rest of us help Mrs. Handemu with a few final pushes for the placenta.  A short examination and the nurse says there aren’t any serious lacerations, and Mrs. Handemu has very successfully given birth to her second baby boy!  Praise the Lord for a safe delivery!

We clean up the table, wipe down Mrs. Handemu, and she begins to put on some clothes.  The nurse asks if she has a pad.  No, she doesn’t.  So Mrs. Handemu is instructed to put some chitenge cloth in her underpants to soak up any extra blood etc.  Mrs. Handemu is standing up on her feet, and communicates that she is hungry!  She walks, unassisted, to the female ward, while I gather Mrs Kabayame to go to my house to do some cooking.  It is the family and friends’ responsibility to provide food for hospital patients.

As quickly as possible we cook up a pot of nsima, rice, hard boiled eggs, and tomato/onion “soup”.  It should be enough food for all of us ladies who had been waiting on Mrs. Handemu. While we’re cooking Mrs Kabayame tells me that Mrs. Handemu had been carrying water, washing pots, and all kinds of other chores this morning.  She had begun labor contractions sometime the night before, yet she still went about her responsibilities in the morning.  When I came to the compound to pick her up she was probably already nearly fully dilated.  It was only about 1 hour and 20 minutes between when we arrived at the clinic and when the baby was born. 

About an hour later we return to the clinic. As we drive past Rev. Habbaba’s house we shout out the window, “It’s a boy!!!”  They clap and jump and dance at the exciting news. 

Arriving at the clinic, food in hand, we find a much more relaxed Mrs. Handemu with her precious teeny tiny baby who has already discovered how to nurse and is happily sucking away. 

Mrs. Handemu gratefully accepts the food and begins eating.  After a few happy photos, the rest of us take our food outside to eat our portion. 

As we’re sitting in the shade, still 100+F, I feel the adrenaline wear off and exhaustion set in.  Although hot and tired I am bursting inside with JOY. 

Mrs. Kabayame:  Lauren!  You have killed an elephant!!

Me:  WHAT?!!? 

We all roar with laughter.

Me:  What!? That sounds terrible!!

Mrs. Kabayame: No, it is a good thing!  It means you have successfully accomplished a very big job!

Me:  Haha oh!  Wow… so I killed an elephant AND delivered a baby all in one day!?! 

We return to Mrs. Handemu and ask if there is anything else she needs.  She asks for some tea and scones, and I happily agree to bring her some. 

As we drive out of the clinic we see MR Handemu coming down the path- someone was finally able to contact him and he came as quickly as he could from the village he was visiting.  We announce to him he is the father of another baby BOY.  This photo explains it all:

The ladies help me wash dishes, bake some scones and make some tea.  In the meanwhile they share stories with me of their own deliveries… let’s just say there was so much laughter in my apartment that people came by asking to see what the excitement was all about. 

We return to the clinic and find Mr. Handemu very happily and proudly holding his baby.  My heart melts.  There is something extremely significant about a father holding his child in this culture.  It is a symbol of the shift of gender roles and expectations.  A father is now allowed to express his love for his children and help to take care of them.  This father was bursting with excitement and joy, so much so that he was dancing J

Me: Mr Handemu, you should be very proud of your wife- she did a great job.  She is very strong!

Mr. Handemu: (very genuinely) Yes! I am SO proud of her.  She is so wonderful, and I am so happy for my new baby!!

We all pass around the baby taking pictures, giggling as the little tiny person in our arms sucks on his hands and attempts to suck our fingers too.  

Someone suggests to Mr. Handemu that he needs to buy his wife a new chitenge.  A new chitenge for a new baby!  He happily agrees and skips out of the ward running off to the nearby shops. 

I give Mrs. Handemu a handful of pads, happy to be able to give her something more sanitary than her chitenge cloth.  At least for the next couple days she’ll be able to have something more comfortable.  I also hand her a little newborn outfit that I have been saving for her baby.  These are the first clothes this baby will wear J

The other ladies check the time and realize that they should be getting home to cook food for their own families, and I happily agree to call it a day. 

And WOW what a day!!! There is still a giant pile of papers on my desk to grade and lessons to plan and plenty of other things to DO.  But I can’t imagine a better way to celebrate International Women’s Day!!

On March 8^th 2013 at approximately 1:30PM I helped to deliver a little baby boy.  The Lord has known this little baby from before the time he was conceived.  He looks so tiny and frail, and he is- yet the Lord knows him.  He knows the name that this baby hasn’t been given yet, he knows his future, he knows everything.  Without any doctors, medicine, monitors or comforts, this little life came into the world simply and beautifully by the unique and perfect way that the Lord designed it to happen.  What an amazing blessing to be a witness to the messy, smelly, and yet so beautiful moment of this little life entering the world!!   

The Scarlet "L"

I had a hard time picking a name for this blog post.  A few other options were “Encounters with Corruption,”  “Most frustrating experience of my life,”  “Little Red Monster,” and “Driving failure.”  Suffice it to say that a long run at sunset and a few words with God injected enough humility in me to see the whole picture of the story I’m about to tell.

When I first came to Zambia the discussion about me getting my Zambian driver’s license surfaced, however was interrupted with my extended illness and resulting absence from the country.  The need for me to get my license was never urgent- Mike did all the driving for our missionary trio, Cindy wasn’t licensed either, and public transport is easy enough that when I needed to travel alone I could take a bus and taxis to get where I was going. 

After the Helvie’s left, it became a sudden necessity for me to get my license.  Sounds a whole lot easier said than done. 

The first hurdle I had to cross was learning how to drive manually.  On the right side of the vehicle.  On the left side of the road.  Selinda, one of my fellow Global Partners missionaries, graciously took the time to teach me.  She was an extremely patient and encouraging instructor and I am so grateful for her help.   Out on some dirt roads in the bush I learned how to shift gears, start and stop on hills, and come to emergency stops when Selinda would shout “COW!!!”  (This involved a lot of strange looks by the locals… two white girls driving back and forth in the bush… we were quite the sight!) By the end of a few lessons, we both felt fairly confident that I was getting the hang of it.  So the time came to begin the process of getting my license.

Selinda warned me that the process, like most “processes” in Zambia, would be frustrating and require many trips to the closest Road Traffic and Safety Authority (RTSA- Affectionately pronounced RAT-SAH).  Fair warning.  However, neither of us could possibly foresee the headaches to come.

Friday, January 18th – 1^st trip to RTSA.  (3hours round trip, 120KM, $46)

We pull into the gated compound of the RTSA office to a parking lot scattered with various damaged trucks and vehicles and no clear markings to know where to park.  We choose a spot, and I walk over to the RTSA building.  There are two doors.  The first door is overflowing with people waiting in “line” (more like a blob).  I choose to go to door #2 where there are a few men working at a desk.  The desk is piled high with paperwork and an ancient desktop computer (you know, with the giant monitors… remember those?!) 

Me “Hi, how are you?” 

RTSA man “Fine and you madam?”

Me “Fine, I need to take my oral examination to get my driving permit.” 

RTSA man “You mean the theory test?”

Me “Yes”

RTSA man “We only do those on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

Me “Oh… Is there anything I can do today to begin the process? I live far away and it is difficult for me to come.”

RTSA man “Sure.  You will need to begin some paperwork.  Go to the first window in the next office.  Also, you will need one of these Highway Code books to study.  You can’t pass the test without studying it”

Me “ok, how much does it cost?”

RTSA man “It costs 10 Kwacha.  ($2)  But for you, you can have it for free.”

Me “Thank you!”

After a few more polite words I head to the other office where the mob is emerging.  It only takes me a few minutes to realize that almost every person in the mob is a taxi driver who is taking care of various paperwork.  They are all men, and all in their 20s-30s.  In other words, I stick out. (more than usual)  I make my way into what seems to be the correct line, and put on my “patient” cap for the wait that ensues.  The “patient cap” gets shoved off a few times when the taxi drivers push past me to cut in front of me.  After what was probably only 15 minutes I’m at the counter. 

There are three separate booths with employees and computers at them, protected by a wall of plexi-glass.  There is only a slot at the bottom of the plexi glass to pass papers, no hole to communicate with the person behind the scratched plastic.  So after some shouting, I manage to communicate with the lady and she finds me one form for personal information then sets out on a mission to find the “medical clearance” form. 

RTSA lady “I’m sorry, but we are all out of the Medical clearance form.”

Me “oh… so what do I do?”
RTSA lady “You can try at the Choma Hospital.  They should have them there.”

She points to a sign on the wall that tells me the days and times for the theory test.

In the next few weeks I spent some time reviewing what was written in the “Highway Code” book. I had several moments of laughter when I read road rules about ox-carts and wheelbarrows, situations you could only find in a place like Zambia.  I also had several more laughs when I reviewed the hundreds of road signs listed in the book- probably only about 10% of these signs can actually be found in Zambia. 

Monday February 4^th (2^nd trip) (3hrs, 120KM, $46)

The first thing I needed to do this time in Choma was receive medical clearance so that I could get my permit.  I went to the doctor’s office which we have used regularly for malaria concerns, the same office where I was misdiagnosed regularly.  They took the RTSA form for me and began an extensive physical exam which included weight, blood pressure, height, tests for color blindness, eye-exam for reading from a distance, questions about drugs and alcohol etc… I was then charged K100 ($20) for the doctor to sign the form giving me clearance to drive.

After this I made my way back to the RTSA office where I waited to take the exam.  Selinda had told me that the theory test was a simple oral exam where they only asked you a few questions and then you’d be good to go.  Well it quickly became apparent that my short oral exam was actually going to be a long written test.  

Crammed into a small room with 3 other test-takers, computers, chairs, cabinets, a mini-fridge, and a copy machine, I was given a 4 page written exam.  Within a half-hour I had answered MOST of the questions to the best of my ability.  I felt pretty good that I got about 80% of the test correct, which seemed pretty good to me seeing as how I hadn't been prepared for such an extensive test.

The other gentlemen in the room were scrambling between the pages of their Highway Code book, copying answers.  Cheating.  We were completely unsupervised.  Not gonna lie, I felt pretty tempted to do the same… but decided to have some honesty and dignity about the situation.  They were surprised when I climbed over their laps to leave the crammed room to see that I had finished so quickly, and didn’t even cheat!

I leave the room, wait in a line not so patiently, and find the person behind the plexi-glass, sound proof wall that I’m supposed to give my test to:

RTSA man: You’re done already?!

Me: Yes.  What do I need to do next?

RTSA man: You need to come back in a week to get your test score.

Me: Can you please grade it now?  I live very far away and a trip just to pick up the score would be very expensive and difficult.

RTSA Man: No, that is not possible.

Me: Ok… can I schedule my road test?

RTSA man: No, you cannot schedule your road test without your test scores. How do I know you haven’t failed?
(At this point, both of our temperatures and voices were rising.)

Me: Please you can just look at my test, you can see that I’ve written the correct answers.

RTSA man: No, that is not possible. (obviously irritated with me)

Me: I’m not trying to be difficult, I just don’t want to have to come back simply to pick up my test scores.

RTSA man: NO YOU JUST WANT TO ARGUE WITH ME.

I honestly don’t remember the exact words of the rest of the conversation, but I know it ended with me huffing away angry and irritated. 

Thursday,February 14th (3^rd Trip) (3 hrs, 120km, $46)

Doing what I was told, I took another trip to Choma simply to pick up my test scores from the RTSA office.  Walking into the office I do the usual navigating to figure out who is the right person I need to talk to.  Finally I find a man who pulls out a large ledger book.  He writes my name on a slip of paper along with the number “30”

Me: What does this mean?

RTSA man:  It means you got a 30%.  You failed.  You need to take the test again.

Me: (Heart drops into my stomach, blood starts boiling, steam starts coming out my ears) There is NO way I got a 30%.

RTSA man: That’s what this says.  You’ve failed.

(I glance at the ledger page and see that my fellow test takers, who cheated, have passed with flying colors.  I am certain that the man who I argued with failed me out of spite.)

Me: I want to see my test. I want to know what I got wrong.

RTSA man: That is not possible.

Me: What do you mean it’s not possible- it is MY TEST.

RTSA man: It’s not possible.

Me: So in other words you threw it away, and I have no way to know what I got wrong? (OR RIGHT!)

RTSA man: It’s not possible. Unless you speak to the manager.

Me: Fine. Yes.  I’ll speak to the manager.  Where is he?

RTSA man: He’s busy.

Me: Fine. I’ll wait. 

I sit down in the chair right next to him, cross my arms, cross my legs and put on my best “I’m angry” face.  I believe the correct word is “fuming”. After a few minutes the manager, who was in the next room actually listening to our heated conversation, comes out.

Manager: What is the problem?

Me: They say I’ve failed my test. There is no way I got a 30%.  YOU KNOW I did not get a 30%.

Manager: You took the test?

Me: Yes, and they say that I’ve failed.  There is NO WAY that I got a 30%. I’ve been driving in America for 9 years. This is ridiculous.

Manager: You have an American license?
Me: Yes. (pulling out my license)

Manager: Alright, come with me.

After a miracle of a conversation, a few bits of paperwork, and K62.25 ($11.92) later, I finally have my Zambian Driving PERMIT.   

Me: Can I schedule my road test now?

Manager: No, you need to come back on Monday to schedule.

Me: Please, I live very far away. I can’t just come back to schedule an appointment.

Manager: sorry, but we can’t do that. Your permit needs time to mature.  (In other words, no good reason at all)

Not wanting to push my luck, I give in to this ridiculous requirement and leave, thankful to at least have my permit. 

Monday February 18th (4^th trip) (3 hrs, 120KM, $46)

                After giving my permit four days to “mature” I return to RTSA to schedule my road test.  Without too terribly long of an impatient wait in lines getting shoved around by my taxi-driving friends, K42.80 ($8.23) and 20 minutes later I leave the office happily scheduled to take my official road test on March 1^st  at 11:00AM. 

Friday March 1^st (5^th trip) (3 hrs, 120km, $46)

          Pulling into the parking lot, I jokingly said, “Back to my favorite place in Zambia!” I arrived at RTSA early, around 10:00AM.  There was NO way I was going to be considered late for my test.  I was thankful that I arrived early because the long line of taxi-drivers was exceptionally long today and it again took some time for me to navigate who it was I was supposed to talk to.

                Finally, a man with a neon yellow RTSA vest on, about 5’5” and weighing no more than I do, came out to begin our tests.  He takes my papers and compares it with his schedule book.

Tiny RTSA man: “You’re not in my schedule book, you will need to come back another time.”

Me: What do you mean I’m not scheduled, I came here two weeks ago to schedule. You can see right here on my papers that I’m scheduled for today at 11:00AM

Tiny RTSA man: It doesn’t matter. If you’re not written in my book, then you’re not in my schedule and I don’t have time to test you. You will need to come back another time.  Let me write you into another day.
Me: (Once again fuming) There is NO way I’m coming back.  I live very far away and it is very expensive for me to travel here.  I did EVERYTHING I was told to do. I scheduled my test TWO weeks ago.  Just because someone in your office made a mistake doesn’t mean I should have to leave.

 

People were gathering around us observing the obvious evidence that I had in fact been scheduled…

Tiny RTSA man: Sorry, but maybe you can wait and if someone doesn’t come then I can test you.

Me: So I need to wait all day for you to have free time, even though I came on time for MY TEST.

Tiny RTSA man: Sorry, but that is all I can do.

Me: Fine. I’ll wait.

Storming away, with many eyes following me, I loudly tell my fellow missionaries the terrible news that we would be waiting around all day for the slight possibility of taking a test.  It took a little while for my blood to cool down, but I finally calmed down enough to return to wait at the office where I would be in plain view of Mr. Tiny RTSA man so he would know that I was in fact waiting for him.  I waited in the 100+F heat for 2.5 hours, watching Mr. Tiny RTSA man come and go with other test subjects, and also watched him do a few vehicle inspections.  For each test subject he took on the road, he posted a giant red “L” to their front and back bumper to indicate they were “Learners”.  After watching him awhile I started to pity him.  He was doing the job of about 5 people, and as far as I could tell there were only 2 other RTSA employees at the office processing paper. 

At his lunch break, we decided it would be good for us to get food too. We drove out of the parking lot behind him and down through town… I counted at least 3 driving errors that he made in the short time we followed him. 

I had peeked in his notebook to see that his next scheduled appointment was at 2:30, so I rushed our meal to make sure we were back by 2:00.  Maybe if we got back before his appointment, he would let me take the test. 

Back at the RTSA office at 2:00 I notice his vehicle had returned; a little glimmer of hope.  I walk into the other office and ask if he has returned, and decide to wait right there with the other employees.  The men communicate with Tiny RTSA man in the other room in Tonga.  I know enough Tonga to know that they said, “The white girl has come.”  He calls me into the other room and instructs me to put the Red “L” signs on my vehicle- he would test me in just a few minutes!

HOORAYY! Answer to prayer.  A few minutes wait later and we begin our test.  I try to be as polite as possible, and drive as carefully as possible while he instructs me which way to go etc. He takes me over a railroad track, tests me starting and stopping on a hill, then to some back roads of Choma. He answered his cell phone a total of 3 times while he was testing me.

RTSA Man: Please make a U-turn, we are going to return back to the station.

Me: I’m sorry but I can’t make a U-Turn the road isn’t wide enough.

RTSA man: You need to turn around, we are going back.

Me: Ok, do you want me to pull into a drive way or do a k-turn?  I don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.

RTSA man: Its part of the test.  We are turning around now.

Confused by his cryptic words I safely pull into a driveway, stop, look both ways, not a vehicle in sight because it’s a back road, and reverse out into the road.

Back to the station he brings me to his office to give me the results.  I felt pretty confident about it, the only thing I knew I had done wrong was I stalled once, but quickly recovered. (Still not fully confident with manual, I was just happy it was the first time I stalled all day!)

 RTSA man: You have failed.

Me: (heart sinking) I did?!

RTSA man: Yes.  The first thing I always test for is whether or not the driver checks the engine.  See this list here, it is a list of all the things you must check before driving.  A good driver would check all of these things.  (The list includes everything from oil levels, water levels, battery, lights, horn, and tire nuts etc.)

Me: Oh.  (Do you think I would have driven the 1.5 hours here if I thought my vehicle wasn’t in shape?!)

RTSA man: The other mistake you made was that you reversed into a main road.

Me: What?! (I’ve been driving for 9 years and have never been the cause of an accident!)

RTSA man: The Highway Code says very clearly that it is not safe to reverse into a main road. (Points it out in the book) 

Me: You mean that back road where you had me turn around?  That was a MAIN road?! There wasn’t any traffic coming at all. (AND in ten more feet, the road turns into a DIRT road!)

RTSA man: It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe.

Me: *Nodding my head, biting my tongue*(The entire main street of Choma is lined with about 40 perpendicular parking spots.  It is impossible to park in Choma without reversing dangerously into oncoming traffic.)

RTSA man: I didn’t take off any points for your stalling.  Other than those things, your driving was perfect. (He says with a knowing smile) You will need to schedule another test for another day.

Me: (Do I give in and give him a bribe or do I stay honest and not give into corruption…)

Choosing the high road, another K42.80 ($8.23) later, and I am now schedule to Re-Test on March 22^nd. 

My students who were traveling with me, after hearing the story, all agreed that he was just anticipating a bribe. 

The Scarlet “L”

This experience of getting my license has been immensely frustrating.  And long.  And I can’t believe it still isn’t over.  Throughout this process I have seen the ugliest side of myself: the angry, irritable, entitled, pushy, impatient, little red monster side.  Perhaps it is justified anger and frustration.  However, the entitled “get-it-done” American in me, isn’t going to have any positive influence with the slow, non-confrontational, relationship-focused Africans I am interacting with if I am pushy and bossy and angry and... need I go on?  The Lord called me to love and serve in Zambia.  He called me to be a witness here.  And you can guarantee that every person I interact with KNOWS I am with a church ministry.  What kind of a witness am I being to Mr. RTSA man?  Somehow, the entitled American attitude needs to be pushed aside and stifled so that Christ’s love is reflected to the person in front of me.

After each of these frustrating experiences I have felt embarrassed.  I've felt rude and mean and like the worst missionary EVER.  All eyes are on me.  And what did they see? I’m pretty certain they saw someone careening through life without giving any kind of care or concern for the people she bulldozes.  (I can only HOPE this is an exaggeration of what they felt… but maybe not!)

I’ve decided that what I need is one of those giant scarlet “L” posters hanging on my front and backside.  That way everyone who sees me coming or going knows that I’m a “Learner,” guaranteed to make mistakes… but hopefully with the ultimate outcome of learning something. 

Somewhere on the other side of this lesson is a stronger, less ugly Lauren… Lord help me to choose to persevere.  Help me to love and forgive and hope.  AND PLEASE, Please Lord, help me to finally get my driving license!!!

Another Day...

                Most of you have a general idea of what I do here in Zambia- teach at a Bible college, training students and their wives for ministry in the church.  If you keep up with my blogs or emails you know some other things like my regular dealings with ants, other animal visitors, and whatever other little snippets I’ve written about.  If you keep up with my Facebook posts you know when I’m sick or see some funny cross-cultural experience of my day.  You see some cute pictures of kids or animals or bugs.  But I want to tell you more about the nitty-gritty details of my day to day life here in Zambia.

                My morning starts at 6AM when my phone alarm goes off.  The sun has been up for a half hour and the roosters have been crowing for 2 hours.  Dusty, my cat, is snuggled next to me in bed. She refuses to get up and I often feel the exact same way.  (Not a morning person!) I give her a nudge, she purrs and rolls over. Envying her laziness, I stumble out of bed and hope for electricity and water to take a shower, hope there is hot water, hope there is water pressure… hopefully all these things last long enough for me to get out of the shower clean.  Get dressed into my below-the-knee skirt. Eat breakfast, make coffee, drink coffee, read Bible.  Listen to the sounds floating across campus of the men praying in the dormitory.  Take a deep breath in the moment of peace and ask the Lord for grace, wisdom and energy for my day.

                 7AM and someone is inevitably knocking at my door handing in a paper, asking to use my stapler, or the occasional emergency need for money to travel to a hospital or funeral…  Between 7 and 7:30 I hope the power is on so I can use the photo copier to make copies for my classes, the copier will inevitably jam at least 3 times depending on how much moisture is in the air and how temperamental it wants to be.

                Around this time students begin descending on the campus and I’m greeted with chipper, bright “Good morning, madam. How are you?” I greet every person within 10-15 feet of me, or whoever makes eye contact… if there is anything you can do in the African culture to create a relationship it is to simply and genuinely say “Hi, how are you?”  It is even better if I can fumble through some Tonga “Mwabuka Buti?” or for the few Bemba students “Muli Bwanji?”  My student’s cheerful smiles so early in the morning infuse life and joy into my spirit.  The clear blue sky and African sun sink into my bones and wake up my body.

                7:20 and its almost time for devotions.  Paul, the student time keeper, rings the new siren.  The siren was graciously donated by a former student who is now serving as a pastor. It is always a blessing when local churches support the Bible College out of their poverty.  He even came with his own electrician to install the siren. It's purpose is to signal when classes are starting and ending, but I’m certain one of these days it is going to summon the fire brigade. 

                7:30. Time for devotions.   A small student cohort has already gathered and started singing a worship chorus in English or Tonga which echoes across campus calling us all to worship. We gather in the chapel.  Dusty has emerged from her slumber and she roams among the students saying her own morning ‘hello’.  One of the second or third year students manages to preach an entire three point sermon in 10 minutes, followed by Rev. Habbaba the Dean of Students giving the announcements for the day.  “So and so is sick, so and so’s child has gone to the clinic. We will have prayer meeting on Thursday.  So and so has traveled to a funeral.  Please come to devotions on time…” Followed by prayer.  Followed by, “We may greet each other.”  Every morning of every day of the week I shake hands and greet the same 32 people.  Each one greets me a different way.  Each one trying to elicit a smile or laugh from their ‘madam’.  Each one is successful in starting my day knowing I am loved. 

                7:45 go to my apartment to wash the fellowship off my hands, grab my teaching materials, lock my apartment, go to the first year’s classroom.  Ask Luka to pray for the class. In his prayer he includes kind and genuine words for the lecturer that she would “teach with wisdom from above, and be protected in body and spirit.” The lesson proceeds.  This period I am teaching English where we have been learning how to write a research paper.  For the 176^th time I explain what a bibliography is, the purpose of writing citations, how to write a proper introduction… Dusty hops through the window happily bringing a half-dead lizard to my feet and distracting the whole class. 8:20 and the siren warns that class is almost over. (Or that a tornado is coming… I’m still not sure) More questions are raised and I fumble through defining words like “centralization” and “deified.” 

                8:30 Escape to my apartment where I have a ten minute break which is interrupted by more knocking at my door with “can I have…” and “can you help me…” questions.  8:40, time to teach the wives English where we navigate through understanding each other. This class is full of laughter. It is especially funny when Mrs. Hamilila chooses the verb ‘to swim’ in her sentence and I look at her shocked and ask her “where are you swimming around here!?”  9:07 and a 4 foot Green Mamba (that’s a snake, not a dance) has been found on campus and all the men are gathered throwing bricks and stones and jumping and yelling (that’s the part that looks like a dance).  Everyone is excited to see the snake and Mr. Lweendo brings it hanging limply on a stick into our class room, ladies shriek and run to corners giggling and spurting out Tonga phrases of excitement.  Only Mrs. Maulu is brave enough to touch it.   The dead snake leaves and we settle back to our lesson, however the babies are getting unsettled and hungry. Breasts are pulled out for nursing.  Baby Melody is crawling around the room pulling everyone’s notebooks off their laps and desks.  Junior plays peek-a-boo with me from under the table, his little mischievous grin melts my heart.  Baby ‘Love’ looks at my white face in terror.  Siren rings.

                10:30 and another 10 minute break.  More knocks at my door with “can I have…” and “can you help me…” 10:40 siren blares and I head to the second and third year students class room to teach Discipleship.  Our discussion rabbit trails to intense debates about predestination or the difference between salvation and sanctification. (The students are certain they can solve these problems in our 50 minutes of class) I am once again astounded at my student’s memorization of scripture and apt application of it to our discussion.  They navigate the Bible in a way that puts my use of it to shame, indicating the many hours they spend indulging their hearts and minds in the wee- hours of the night reading.  The siren rings and I do my best to pull my little rampant rabbit brains back onto the main path for our last few minutes of class.

                11:30 ten more minutes to breathe.  Quick run to the bathroom, wash the chalk off my hands, answer the “can I have…” and “can you help me…”s.  Back to the first year class room for New Testament survey where I am teaching a course that I have never taken myself.  I pass along information which I have only learned the night before in my research and attempt to answer questions as we are all discovering together the fascinating history of the New Testament era.  This is the hardest time of the day to teach.  The temperature has jumped about 20 degrees since the morning began and we are all hot and tired from four hours of class.  The students are drifting to sleep and their minds are wandering to their lunches. Most of them don’t have enough food to eat a breakfast meal.  I sympathize with their exhaustion and hunger and let the class end early.  Another morning of teaching complete.

                12:30 and I finally get a break.  I make up some simple meal for lunch and sit down to eat.  As I sit down I watch Obby, one of the single students, walk slowly by my apartment carrying his Bible.  He is headed to “The mountain” to spend the lunch hour praying.  He is one of several of the single students who do this.  It is partially a forced fast due to minimal food, though I also know his heart is one passionate for prayer.  I eat my lunch, evermore thankful for food, in front of my computer.  Battling the slow internet, I check Facebook to have my 15 minute connection with a world that is becoming more and more distant.  Another friend has had a baby, someone else is engaged.  I read about things happening in the political world of a land called "America", check up on someone who has been sick, try to write little notes to reconnect with friends.  Then I turn to my email where I’ve received at least one or two notes from my mom. She writes to me about the happenings of her day, what is happening in the extended family, or what new trouble or trick our dog Rosie has learned… mostly she writes me words of encouragement and lends a supporting ear to my venting.  She prays for me all day and all night long. I am so thankful for her walking each step of every day of this journey with me.  I give myself a moment to feel the heartache of missing my family and closest friends, but only a moment because if I linger too long I know I’ll get lost in a sea of emotions.  Respond to her email with a quick note of reassurance that I’m alive, tell her the excitement about the snake in the morning, and then move on to any other emails that call for my attention. 

                1:30 and I decide I better clean up the apartment a bit.  Mrs. Munsanje and Mrs. Tilimboyi will be here shortly to do their bi-weekly cleaning job, and I better have the place tidied before they come.  Electronics, money, extra clothing, and food all get tucked away.  1:45 and they’re knocking on my door 15 minutes early, ready to start cleaning.  Melody is Mrs. Munsanje’s 22 month old baby and I have been blessed to watch her grow for 15 of those months.  I take her from her mom and get to work at preparing some instant oatmeal, mixed with some peanut butter for protein.  Though a doctor has not diagnosed her, we suspect Melody has cerebral palsy.  One of the problems this presents is her lack of ability to feed herself.  I expect someday she’ll be able to, but for now she manages to get more food on her body than in her mouth.  So I spoon feed her the oatmeal while she claps and shakes her head and squawks out Melodyisms that I have learned are all expressing sheer delight. 

                The ladies have eyed my browning banana’s and make a request that we bake some banana cake to share at the end of their work period.  I eagerly agree since it will give me someone to share the banana muffins that I had already wanted make, and set to work at measuring sugar, flour, melting butter on the stove, and mixing the batter with my hand-beater. 

                I hear the ladies giggling in the other room and they call “Laureen! Laureen!!” I go in to see them looking at a small advertisement on their bottle of wood polish.  There is a photo of a white lady in a wedding dress and they are pointing at the picture of my friend Melissa on her wedding day and saying, “It’s the same person!” I burst out laughing with them.  A knock on my door draws me away from the excitement.

                Mr. and Mrs. Kabayame are asking to meet with me in my office.  They follow me over and I manage to unlock the door on the third try, and we are all relieved by the cooler air of the enclosed cement box that is my office.  Mr. Kabayame, following the formality of his culture, begins our ‘meeting’ with prayer, and then very politely presents their concerns regarding their daughter Chipo’s school fees for grade 10.  My heart is humbled that this couple, in their 40s who I have grown to respect and admire, feel they have to come to ME with such a level of humility and respect. I yearn to be able to meet all of their needs.  Chipo is one of a small handful of students who has passed her grade 9 exams and is awaiting placement at a boarding school somewhere in the country.  Her faithful and loving parents want to do everything they can to support her education but are incapable of paying the $150-$250 per term school fees.  I reassure them that I have contacted a sponsor and ask them to write a letter expressing their requests and pride for their daughter. 

                Back in my apartment Mrs. Munsanje has removed the muffins from the oven since she could smell they were about to burn.  Melody, who is becoming ever more mobile, is dumping Dusty’s cat food all over the floor and putting pieces of kibble into her mouth.  My bedroom is a mess of beds and boxes and desks since the ladies decided it was a good day for a deep clean and are getting the dust and bugs out of every nook and cranny.  I ‘babboo’ Melody to my back with a Chitenge to get her out of trouble and she is entertained by watching me wash dishes and giggles when I touch the wet sponge to her bare feet that are hanging at my sides.

                I then remember the students who are down the hall practicing computer skills on the 3 laptop and 1 netbook computers that have been donated to the school.  I head down to check up on them and they express their frustrations of this new venture but smile the whole time at the privilege they have to learn.  I encourage Brian, who is already skilled in computers and is ‘supervising’ the learning of his peers.  This is a program I am proud to have initiated, I leave the room with a smile on my face to see it in action.

                On my way to the apartment I pass the ladies who are now carrying my garbage out to the garbage pit to burn.  This is my cue that they are done cleaning and it is time to start cooking.   I put the electric kettle on to heat water for their tea, and begin the process of making eggs the way they like them.  I’ve decided it is essentially a milk-less omelet.   Two eggs each, two pieces of bread, one of the banana muffins, butter, jam, milk and sugar for tea.  They arrive and sit down and eagerly dig into their food.  I think on the days they clean they don’t eat lunch because they know I will feed them.  They express their gratefulness, and we chat about campus happenings with their limited English and my much more limited Tonga.  Mrs. Munsanje writes their work time in their log book and says, “Let’s go baby!”  Melody lifts her arms to momma, momma pulls her onto her back and ties her up into her babboo.  I send them home with some very ripe tomatoes that I know I wont eat in time and my empty recyclables that their children will play with. I grab my broom and sweep up the crumbs from their meal, of which there are many since they are unused to eating with utensils.  Dusty slinks her way into the once again quiet apartment.

                It is around 4:15 and I now have some time to grade a few papers and do lesson planning for class tomorrow.  Thankfully my schedule tomorrow has less hours in the classroom so I only have two classes to plan for.  I do enough planning and grading to ‘get by’ but am drawn outside by the distant sounds of “my” kids playing.  The student compound is full of life this time of day and I walk up to find little bare bums of children running around escaping baths, yells of “Ba Auntie!! Ba Auntie!!” put a huge grin on my face.  Little feet and little legs scamper from every direction and little arms wrap around my legs.  I lift up 2 year old Joanne who grins and giggles as I wrap her into a bear hug, and soon Ji, Joseph, Junior, and Love are all reaching for ‘up’.  More little people emerge from different corners and we begin some silly games.  The older children are eager to practice their English with me, while the younger children become bashful when I ask “how are you?” The older children scold the younger children for getting Auntie dirty, and the younger children carefully wipe the dirt off my skirt.  Bibbi, the campus dog, comes running from some unknown place, prances into the mob of children who scatter with shrieks and giggles.  The sun is setting and I better get home before it is too dark, so I pull myself away from the children who mimic my “bye bye!” with a little wave.  I am half way home before they stop yelling “Bye Auntie!”

                On my walk home I walk past the library which is adjacent to my apartment.  There are several students inside and I can see that they are hard at work.  The time of day, now around 7, indicates that most of them have skipped dinner to get some studying in.  With a sudden idea I go inside my home and set to work at making a big pot of popcorn on the stove.  Thankful that most of it didn’t burn, I march into the library with the hot popcorn and declare “Study break!”  They all look up surprised but someone exclaims, “Praise be to God!”  And they mean it.  7:30 and my pots and bowls are returned, time to wash dishes.  7:55 and Brian is returning the school laptop, with 5 minutes to spare before my 8:00 deadline.  I step outside and call Dusty who comes trotting up to me with a sweet little meow and we head inside.  One more check of email, pajamas on, lights out.

                 A few candles next to my bed are lit so I can read a bit before sleeping.  The peaceful night coming through my window is mixed with sounds of frogs croaking, bugs buzzing, and students “studying” next door in the library.  A baby is crying in the distance and cow bells are ringing as their shepherd boy leads the meandering beasts back home.  Dusty and I settle underneath the mosquito net. The candlelight flickers and sizzles.  I am reading the autobiography of Claudie Peyton, one of the first missionaries in Zambia in the 1930's.  She writes tales of lions and loincloths, her near-death illness, the many orphaned children who became her own. She writes of places and villages that I frequently visit.  Her tales of struggle and hardship are inspiring and I thank the Lord for her faithfulness to bring the Gospel here.  She has laid the foundation for what I did today. 

                Next I turn to my Bible and I’m drawn to the following verse, “Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm.  Let nothing move you.  Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” 1 Corinthians 15:58

                As I blow out the candles I also breathe out a sigh of relief.  Another day done.  Another day full of interruptions and decisions and tasks that are far beyond my ability.  Another day full of smiles and laughter, desperation and pain.  Another day of life in Zambia.  Another day of JOY.  

JOY to the WORLD!!

Merry Christmas!!!

Although I have been missing my family back home, I have been so blessed by many Christmas celebrations with my Zambian family.  I have been staying at Zimba mission during this school holiday.  On Christmas Eve I went to the Zimba Mission Hospital for a candlelight service for the patients.  The photo below is from the pediatric ward where several young children were facing HIV related problems as well as several severe burn injuries.  The light of the world has come and that light shines in the darkest of dark places bringing hope, joy and peace wherever it goes!! 

On Christmas day we woke up to a delightful steady rain.  This was almost as exciting as waking up to snow on Christmas since many areas of Zambia, and also nearby Zimbabwe, have not been getting enough rain. It was really a Christmas blessing!  However, it also meant that we would be walking the three miles to the village church in the rain, through streams and mud… but it made for a great memory and adventure as we sang songs like “Oh the weather outside is frightful…” and “Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!” and “I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas”

 When we arrived at church we spent the day singing many praise songs, including Silent Night, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, and Hark the Herald in Tonga!  The day’s celebration ended with a delicious meal, including my first taste of cow intestine and liver- YUM!  And- “Nsima roasting on an open fire… houseflies nipping at our toes…” J

I was sad to not be with my family for Christmas this year.  It was my first Christmas away from home.  But as much as I missed them, I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas than worshiping through song and dance to celebrate Christ’s birth.  The removal of all the consumerist-focused traditions replaced by Christ-focused worship was immensely refreshing.  To be in a part of the world where getting coal on Christmas would be a very generous gift makes me so grateful that Christmas is not about the toys and gadgets, but it is about the fact that GREAT JOY has come to the WHOLE world!  THAT is something worth celebrating J

We were blessed with this beautiful Christmas sunset :) 

The Tales of Titus the Tortoise

One rainy day at Pilgrim Wesleyan Bible college... 

Titus the Tortoise went for a walk.

Titus really likes to go for walks!!

Titus has to be careful of monsters who live nearby.

There are many dangerous monsters at Pilgrim Wesleyan Bible College!

Look out Titus!!!

Hide!!!

One sunny day at Pilgrim Wesleyan Bible College...

Titus the Tortoise went for a walk.  

While he was on his walk, Titus made a friend!!  

Her name was Tilly the Tortoise.  

Titus told Tilly that she was the most beautiful Tortoise he had ever seen.  

This made Tilly a very bashful Tortoise. 

Titus protected Tilly from the scary monster!

When they were safe, Titus gave Tilly a delicious ripe mango!

Titus and Tilly lived happily ever after :)

The End. 

(No animals were harmed in the making of this story)