American Chitemene

We’ve had an unusually warm and non-snowy December; Sault Ste. Marie is not overly warm, but is something like 40” short of its normal accumulation of snow. A bit of a caveat; tough to say whether a late starting winter is unusual anymore. It’s been an odd 15 or so years, but my gut tells me (and memory serves me) that our tough, “Up North Winters” are waning.

Waxing or waning, I don’t much notice the season physically. At my size and metabolism, cold doesn’t get to me much. Take today … we were in the low 30s, high 20s working outside, and I was scarce affected outside of feeling really sleepy from all the fresh air. The hands were wet, but not too cold; the activity and flexing kept them relatively warm; plus, I don’t very much feel the things anymore. Set them to work and move them as necessary.

What were we doing outside in almost winter? My father has decided to slightly expand a small clearing at our hunting camp he opened up years back, but which had been encroached on by numerous poplars interspersed with sugar maples and the occasional ironwood. Though most of the small trees he can simply plough under, the larger ones need to have their roots yanked out for fear of denting the plough blade or bending the three-point hitch on his old Massey-Ferguson.  It’s a laborious process; he stays on the tractor as he is no longer as agile on his pins, pulling the rig and bucket near to the trees, lowering the blade of the latter to the base of the tree. I wrap an old chain with a hooked end twice or three times around the base, hooking the chain to itself, and then secure the tag end in a larger hook welded to the top of the bucket. Once I step back, Dad raises the bucket; after some slightly whining from the hydraulics or perhaps some orchestrated advances and retreats, the tree bursts from the ground, a knot of clutching roots packed with sandy soil, rocks, and matted leaves. I swing the tree to the side, shake off whatever clings to the roots, loosen and remove the chain, and cast the tree to the side; then the process begins anew. When enough trees pile up, I bring up a trailer and we haul them to a pile for burning in the spring or fall.

The labour doesn’t bother us much; oh, it’s tiring and getting whipped in the face with a young branch never feels great, but we have a tractor and plenty to eat. What is simply awe-inspiring is the realization that most of the fields around this part of the U.P. and throughout much of Michigan were literally hacked out of the wilderness using little other than axes, saws, shovels, and fire … including gobs of physical labour from both beasts (bovine and equine) and man. No small wonder elder generations never lived very long; my grandfather and great-grandfather who both alternated farming in the summer with timbering in the winter, died at relatively young ages (65 and 50, respectively). To some extent, they were worn-down, broken physically from their efforts.  My father, though enjoying remarkably better health care than his father and grandfather, also shows not a little wear-and-tear from the years of labor.

I am lucky; other than a number of dings, mainly to my hands, I have escaped most of the long-term damage that otherwise results from manual labour. Still, I don’t begrudge the considerable time I have logged doing physical labor, particularly in my current situation. It gives me an increasingly rarified empathy for Zambian farmers, who typically have only their own muscles with which to wrest a living from the soil. Making a garden, digging hectares of soil, hauling water, pounding grain; none of it is fun and I guarantee that if their was an inkling of a chance to eke a living some other way, many of those farmers would chuck their hoes as far as they could and never look back (until, as some are wont to do, they actually make a chunk of money and return to the village to save money … living in towns on a standard pension is tough). The burden of farming is evident particularly with young people; rather than continue laboring away, many head for towns, where penury can at least be temporarily relieved with alcohol, female companionship, the relative comforts of Western civilization, etc.

In a later post, I’ll try to elaborate the labour involved in farming a field. In a word, it’s impressive and a testament to the toughness of Zambians. In the meantime, have a look at chitemene, the catchall phrase for “slash-and-burn” (note the quotes) agriculture in Zambia.

The question of the day, for now: How do we make farming worthwhile, an objective for a young person? Or are we kidding ourselves?  Most American farm children are or already have walked away from the farm; the average age of a farmer in the U. S. A. is 55 years! Guess we have to do what drives many youths off farms anywhere: make farming pay and make it easier. 

They Do Come in Threes!

The week of Thanksgiving was a banner one for this here blogger:

1. Michigan (University of) beat the Ohio State University for the first time since I've had a decent paying job.

2. On the 22nd, I shot my first buck (a seven-pointer) in 19 years.

That's Dad on the left. He's been hunting since 1951 or 52 (he can't remember).

3. On the 20th, I was offered the Conservation Agriculture (CA) position with Concern Worldwide!

Yes, Kelvin ... there is a Santa Claus. I'll be heading back to Mongu, Zambia (my home for the next two years) in January to take on the coordinator role for CA in Western. Excited; it will be a big challenge, but it's exactly what I've been working towards for the better part of seven years.

More later; Internet access here in Upper Michigan is inversely proportional to the number of standing spruce trees, and I have numerous emails to send.

The End ... ?

Readers -

Time, as it is wont, got away from me in the hectic pace of the last few weeks in both Senanga and Zambia; hence the lack of posts this past month.

I left Senanga on the 29th of October under less-than-ideal circumstances with regards to the state of my friends' health ... Mooto came up badly ill whilst I was in Lusaka presenting for the celebration of PC's 50th anniversary, something like a stomach flu similar to what I had experienced, though the symptoms were much harder on him. In a strange way, it was a blessing; if he had been well, he would have traveled way out to Sitanga-Manyanga on Food Reserve Agency (FRA) business with Munalula that day. As it turned out, that vehicle (one of the beastly Teutonic 4x4's that ply the deep sands) suffered a steering malfunction whilst returning from from the visit, less than 8km south of town. The vehicle, moving at a relatively high rate of speed, left the road and overturned; one man riding on the back was killed outright from the weight of the 50kg rice bags that buried him. The driver, though outwardly little-damaged, suffered from severe internal injuries and expired less than two days later. Only Munalula made it through, albeit awfully banged up: his head required a number of stitches, he lost most of the skin off his lower left arm, and his hip was wrenched something awful. Doubtless Mr. Munalula's composition of iron bones and leather skin, combined with his being the essence of toughness, allowed him to survive the wreak. To pile on all this, Timothy Malazhi, one of our most dedicated and friendly employees of the cooperative, lost one of his grandchildren on the 28th. For the first time in the year we've come to know each other, his smiling, cheerful mien collapsed; I last saw him staggering towards the clinic, shell-shocked by bereavement.

It was a sobering end to my tenure in Senanga. Other than giving money, and in the case of Munalula my spare cell phone, there was little time to seriously reflect on the events, as I was composing my last set of memos and reports for both SDACSS and Concern, preparing for a job interview with Concern the following week in Lusaka, packing to go, and of course, bidding a tentative farewell to the people I've come to know and befriend. I say "tentative" because should fortune warrant my placement with Concern, we'd be rejoined by Christmas; should it not, then it becomes more of an unknown. However, I was given small gifts from a variety of people; a handcarved pen-holder from the guys in the office, a cane from the employees, and numerous small gifts of food. I threw a quiet party for the SDACSS staff on Friday evening, ordering pizzas from a gifted local baker. The four of us knocked down six relatively tasty pies and talked the night away with stories and laughs. We hugged all around when they departed and I held back the tears as best I could; I really enjoyed working and sharing with each of them [Lingela, Mphonda, and Aka], and felt privileged to have worked with three highly-motivated young men.

There's little else to say for now, or maybe ever. I was in Lusaka for the closing days of October and he opening week of November doing my Close of Service (COS) activities, holding a series of exit interviews with Concern, and having a job interview with Concern for their Conservation Agriculture (CA) coordinator position (for Zambia). I rang out officially on the 4th of November; the next morning, I departed Lusaka for Monze to visit the family I stayed with while conducting my field research in 2009. Had a pleasant visit for two days, then departed for Choma on the 7th to see some PC friends, then the 8th to Livingstone to stay with another PC Response / Zambia RPCV, Bob Wilder. Despite the visceral heat (it reached 110F by 14:00 hrs. both days), we had a wonderful walking tour across the dry lip of Victoria [Mosi-O-Tunya] Falls and swam in the Devil's Pool on the very edge of the precipice. On the 10th, he and I took the big birds home.


And here I am, watching the sun rise over a chilly, clear sky in Gallatin, Tennessee. Some campers I knew from 10 years ago are getting married and I have been figuratively reclining in the company of good friends. There is less of a culture shock in coming home (?) these days; people who know me mostly know what I do, though the why escapes them (and to be perfectly honest me). I revel in being in the States for however long as a means of recharging my batteries, reflecting on what I've done, and looking forward to whatever the next step will be.

I pray that I get the CA job; it is, in a word, the perfect opportunity for me at this stage, a chance to finally put all the past seven years of on-the-ground experience into a role where I have the potential to positively impact thousands of small-scale Zambian farmers. However, if it falls through, I'll find something to do and will eventually return to Zambia. Though I lack the means to articulate my motivation for working in Zambia at the ground level, I know that somehow, it now occupies a central role in my existence. For better or worse, I am inexorably bound to Zambia.

And with that, dear reader, I bid you a fond adieu for now. I'm sorry this blog hasn't been a tad more relevant or frequent; as such, it became less of a means to show and to educate others [yourselves] relative to its value to me as a means of self-reflection.

Lukandalezi (we leave you with thankfulness),
Kelvin Limota
U.S. Peace Corps - Response, Concern Worldwide / SDACSS, Senanga Zambia, 2010-2011

No more hugs ...

Today was rough; one of our workers informed me that Ngenda died on Friday.

If you don't remember from past posts, Ngenda was the mentally handicapped guy who never changed clothes (he simply added new ones on top of the old), and always greeted me with a lantern-toothed grin and a shout of "MAKUWA!" or "FAZZAA!" (someone told him I was a priest). He would slap your hand as hard as possible and then give me a big hug (he was built on the tall lanky side and sort of envelopes shorter folks), patting my back and saying "Makuwa, Makuwa, Makuwa!" over and over. Immediately thereafter, he'd ask for a "pin" (K1,000) or a "fiba" (K500), and stride off happily as soon as you handed it over. If you delayed, he simply walked around with you until you coughed up (pretty effective method).

I guess someone asked him to carry something heavy Friday afternoon. He lifted it, was crossing the road, faltered and died. Just like that ... my guess is heat stroke. It's been above 40C for the past week. 

They buried him on Sunday while I was in Lusaka.

Here's the only picture I have of him:

I'll miss you big guy. Hope you're in a better place. 

Fighting on two fronts

Yesterday was one of those frequent psychological valleys development work pitches you into once, twice, or five times a week.

It started out okay ... I was packing up my rucksack to go in the field and observe/assist with an agroforestry training being conducted by our local Ministry of Ag. and Forestry Dept. guys out in Lui-Wanyau. By 7:30, I was all set to go for the appointed time of 8:00. Unfortunately, the unscheduled absence of one of our two vehicles and the concurrent lack of communication within our office meant we were short of transport. Our extension agent Aka went on a mad dash around town trying to organize a 4x4 to get out to Wanyau; I went over to our local Water Affairs and got a 3/4" pipe we're using as a standpipe threaded. Nothing had been sorted by the time I got back, so I worked on a production memorandum for our peanut butter production and marketing until 12:00. I called Aka, who informed me that no wheels could be found.

I packed up my laptop and newly-threaded pipe, and went into town to get some chow before going out to our worksite way outside of town. Along the way, I stopped at our old (FRA) office and found Mr. Mooto (my manager) sitting under the big mango tree outside. Mr. Mooto is always dressed like I'd imagine how people dressed in the 1930s ... straw hat, short tie, pants pulled up nearly to his sternum, etc. He was fanning himself with the boater, and expressed his usual complaint about the heat, which is reasonable ... you can bake bread in the FRA office once the sun comes out. He told me Patrick, Munalula, and Timothy had went up north to Situnga on the east bank of the Zambezi to purchase rice, and he was hoping this was going to be our first decent purchase. Since the last week of August, we've been trying to purchase Supa rice to fill our newly printed 1kg bag, but have only received spits and spats of rice: 1 bag here, 5 bags there, etc.

We parted company shortly thereafter. I grabbed my usual town lunch, nshima and village [i.e. unintentional free range] chicken with a small portion of boiled rape, which I liberally dosed with salt and chili sauce. I then pounded a Pepsi and about 1/2 a gallon of water in preparation for the walk out to our new site; walking at 13:00hrs. is significantly more challenging than at 7:00hrs. when the temps are cooler and the sand is a bit tighter to walk on.

After 30 minutes of traversing Katuya compound, about 100 kids practicing their rudimentary English on me, one woman commenting that I shouldn't be walking because I might die of heat (my Lozi is moving forward inch-by-inch), I arrived at the site. After chatting with Lingela and Aka about the transport issues, I started in on putting in our last 70 meters of polypipe to the office so that if our supplies request for plumbing ever goes through, Mr. Mooto can stop answering the Call of Nature by walking out into nature. It took about an hour; the fittings, though simple in principle, are notoriously cantankerous affairs that never seem to fit together right the first six time you assemble them.

In the meantime, a taxi pulled up; Munalula, Patrick, Timothy, and Mr. Mooto all got out. As usual, Munalula was dressed in a long-sleeve shirt under a sweater-vest and moving three times as fast as any five Zambians despite the 40-degree temps. I could tell by the others, though, that the news was not good. Patrick came out as I was fitting the poly-pipe to the galvanized standpipe and told me the story of the purchasing exercise: Arriving in Situnga, they had found no one had brought bags to the appointed area (as promised by the local extension worker), so they found the extension worker and went around looking for rice. One farmer (a cooperative member) had 35 bags, but refused to sell them after they had been weighed out at 49, 48, 46kgs, etc. ... We purchased raw rice by the kilogram (paying K2,000), and since the price was just under K100,000 per bag, he turned them down, wanting the full K100,000 regardless of weight, rather than K98,000. When Patrick tried to negotiate, the guy got really "crazy" and brushed them off. A number of other farmers told our crew they had rice, maybe 1-5 bags each, but that we had to go to their houses, house-by-house, and pick it up; none wanted to bother to use/borrow/rent ox carts to haul it the 500-2,000 meters to the collection point, a local school. After five hours of this, Patrick gave up and came back without a single bag of rice. As he washed up using the newly installed standpipe, he looked at me and said plaintively, "Let's just close this cooperative and move it to somewhere where people aren't crazy."

This is the same story we've heard (with slight variation) four times over the past month and a half ... our cooperative members, who in May are anxious for us to purchase rice, who set the prices per kg, and so forth, end up balking when we actually come, cash-in-hand, to purchase the rice. They want us to bring a vehicle right to their doorstep; they want higher-than-market prices; they want us to wait around in the village for at least a week while they're at a church meeting, funeral, etc. No one seems to remember all the running around we do with trainings, meetings, input distribution, developing a steady market, etc., etc. It smacks of dependency.

Yes, I'm going to finally break down and use that word. Call me what you will, but I've seen in the five years I've physically worked in rural Zambia, and particularly this past year here in Senanga, I've seen that most of the problems with agricultural diversification, agri-business, and agriculture as a whole stem partly from external contexts (i.e., economics, government ag. policies, climate, etc.). Yes, they are bad. Yes, this is Africa (TIA). However, it's not like there's a drought every year (the last serious one was seven years ago). It's not like the rains haven't happened at the same time every year. It's not like people have more or less fertilizer (it's pretty much zero anyway). It's not like they aren't bombarded with messages / trainings about soil improvement (e.g. agroforestry, sustainable ag., etc), higher-yielding varieties, improved farming techniques, etc. I realize that there is an element of farmer conservatism in every society, which is to say you do what your parents did out of aversion to risk. However, what I see in this area goes beyond that; almost to a man, people here have a tendency to curse the darkness and wait for someone else to light the candle. Sure, we'll sell you rice, but only if you come pick it up, winnow it yourself, and pay us a really good price. In the meantime, next time you come to train us in rice production intensification, bring us a couple crates of Coke and some broiler chicken, the meal you served us last time was no good.

But to quote Pogo ... "We have met the enemy, and he is us." It is not surprising that many Zambians are dependent, because it has been likely the biggest per capita recipient of non-military aid in sub-Saharan Africa, if not the world. In the 100km strip between Mongu and Senanga, it's particularly bad; it's the only decent road in Western Province, so NGOs tend to focus on the villages adjacent to the tarmac (driving in this sand is absolute hell on vehicles). When you have multiple agencies competing over the same villagers (or should I say, the select few villagers who represent the top of rural hierarchy), the agencies have to constantly one-up one another in terms of compensating the villagers (for what lost time, I'm not sure ... no one has a job). Bringing white maize meal for a training (despite farmers having / eating maize nearly every day)? No problem. Meat / white chicken? No problem. Sitting fees for attending trainings? We can do that. Bicycles for "volunteers" to monitor other farmers? We're on it. Fertilizers? Seeds? We'll bring them, but promise to pay the loan back this year, okay?

The sad part is that any interaction between an agency (either government or non-governmental) and the village-level has become laden with expectations that divert from the actual point of any intervention. An training about agriculture in any way, shape, or form, has less to do with the point of learning something than the immediate outcomes of the trainings themselves. Why does it continue? Pogo, if you will? 
"We have met the enemy, and he is us."

Donor funds must be justified, esp. in these days where unemployment is driving American youth onto the streets; there's not that much cabbage floating around anymore, and everyone's fighting for a chunk. How do you get those funds? You count as many beans as possible to justify your existence, and if it isn't enough, you go find more beans to count. It is not an atmosphere that lends itself to introspection, quality, etc.; it's more on the scope of fast, hard primary impacts. More nets? More notebooks? More tools? Hence, you read more about trainings, distributions, donations, etc. Trickier topics such as adoption or livelihood improvement are harder to quantify and usually logged under so-called success stories. One of our big challenges with Conservation Agriculture is trying to actually measure the "real" adoption rate ... how many our expanding their fields or adopting spontaneously, rather than out of a desire to receive inputs.

Sorry for the tangent, but you have to get these things off your chest. The next day, we climbed up out of the valley for a bit and did an agroforestry training in Kaeya; I pulled off my whole demonstration without giving away a single planting pot or seed, but rather leaving it up to them.  If they want to go into town, collect F. albida seeds and old beer packs to make nurseries, go through the effort of watering and planting, then we are on are way (some have). If not, try something else.

Assess the local situation hard. Present workable options. Give advice on those options. Be on hand to encourage. Acknowledge failure and alter tactics. Keep trying ... but don't give anything away.

At least the standpipe got installed alright.

The Good Life

I recently received this SMS from another Peace Corps Response volunteer out in Eastern Zambia:

It's my 7th straight day in the bush, and we have 8 hours of bush travel ahead of us, and then two more days. I've eaten nothing but maize and greasy chicken, and I can't remember the last time I slept through the night. This is *not* glamorous; it is physically and mentally taxing to the brink of insanity.

Keep this in mind before asking a volunteer about their 'adventures' overseas.

Zambia Elections ... The Day After

Today marks the effective end of Zambian elections; though Tuesday (20 September) was the official holiday, government offices effectively sit still until the winner is announced. Well, this morning at 00:34 (23:34 GMT), the Chief Justice of Zambia announced the opposition Patriotic Front (PF) candidate, Michael C. Sata, as the winner of the 2011 presidential elections.

Cheers broke out immediately across Senanga sufficient to wake its lone blogger. I switched on the office lights, turned on the state television channel (ZNBC), and called for our night guard to come in and see the news. We watched in silence for the few minutes they continued transmitting from Mulungushi House (Lusaka), repeating the news with a level of spontaneity that I'd never seen on that channel. They then switched back to the evening movie (it appeared to be Cocoon, ironic given the age of the candidates); I bid Mr. Malazhi goodnight, turned off the set, and drifted back off to sleep for a few hours to the sound of cheering coming from the market area.

I woke this morning (again) and checked ZNBC; unlike 2008, when the American media was gushing about Obama's victory, ZNBC is still showing movies. I was briefly taken aback by the lack of news coverage, but then I realized that most of the writers / news editors were MMD functionaries or under specific direction by the governments' ruling party. With the new regime, they are pretty much out of a job ... the past year has seen little coverage (other than negative) of PF or Sata himself, so I'm sure he won't keep them around.

What happens next? Well, the Zambian Constitution stipulates that the announced winner has to be inaugurated within the day following announcements; no lame ducks to speak of in Africa. As in nature, leaders abhor a [power] vacuum. Sata will be sworn in later, form a cabinet, and then the fun begins. Stories abound of him back during the Chiluba era, when Sata was the Minister of Health; stories abound of him  showing up at hospitals unescorted and unannounced to inspect conditions. Supposedly, anyone he found asleep, late to work, playing grabass to the detriment of the patients, etc., etc., was summarily fired. Hence,  the outright fear of him in recent elections on the part of government workers; even if they retain their jobs, they will be on a heightened sense of awareness of punitive consequences for poor performance.

Who knows? It's all speculation from here forward and I don't care to enter into that realm. My sole hope is that Sata does not engage in a witch hunt of the former ruling party. One of the reasons that a peaceful transition of power in Africa is such a rare occurrence is due to the fact that the sitting party is literally scared to death of losing power under real or perceived threats of persecution by a new government (note the Ivory Coast last year). Zambia has its own precedent for that; after stepping down peacefully in 1991, the first Republican President, Dr. Kenneth Kaunda was harried constantly, briefly imprisoned, and later disqualified from running for office in a constitutional amendment that forbid persons with non-Zambian parentage from contesting. (Brief aside ... I find that last one particularly puzzling, as all these old guys were born in the colonial era when technically, there was no Zambia (or Malawi or Zimbabwe)). On the Machiavellian level, it worked quite well; Kaunda's party, the United National Independence Party (UNIP) fell apart to the extent that in this election, they might have polled 5,000 votes. (Brief aside #2 ... They have the coolest chitenges, which feature a massive, multicolored torch).

So why did MMD lose? Were people tired of perceived corruption? The massive and well-publicized influence of Chinese interests on the ruling party? The progressively one-sided election coverage in the state media? The hard hitting opposition media? Tired of the same party for 20 years? Because they liked Sata and his quick wit, stances on issues, etc.? Hard to say, but likely a combination of all of them ... and the simple answer that they didn't get enough votes.

The long and short is that Zambia is standing tall on the highest hill on the Continent today; not because of President-elect Sata himself (who is in what I wouldn't consider an enviable position as President-elect of a very poor country), but because there has a peaceful, democratic transition of power from the ruling party to the opposition under a government institution. Aside from a few riots and a single death in the Copperbelt, there has been no clatter of AK-47's, no refugees, no inter-tribal or internecine violence ... Zambia retains its status as a peace-loving nation.

No matter; millions of rural Zambians (and the thousands here in Senanga) are soon to resume eking their living from the soil which cares little for man's elections. Back to work.