kumvera

Feeling full

2011-02-06T19:54:00.000-08:00

I'm starting a new job tomorrow.

Oh yah, there have been some changes since I last reported about the water outtage at the Kabwata Flats. Some things have happened.

in Sept 2010, after 3.5 years with EWB in Zambia, 3.5 years of 75 hour weeks, of living, breathing my passion, , of struggling and learning, of succeeding and failing, I had reached a point when I realised I needed to make a change. It's not that I had lost any more passion, or conviction in the necessity for more investment in business growth in Africa - on the contrary --, but it was that I found myself out of balance; I found myself no longer being able to think, to write full sentences, to analyse or process information in an intelligent way. I found myself without the energy to help others in a way they needed. More importantly, I found myself without the resilience you need if you're in the business of change.

So, I left my job with Engineers Without Borders. I packed up my life in Zambia, Malawi, and EWB. I moved back to create a life in Vancouver. I did what I never thought I would do, what women like me, who are raised on the principles of independence, ambition and professional success shouldn't really do: I moved for love. And I moved for the opportunity to spend more time with family, friends, people that matter. A much as these were the most drawing of forces, it was also not without tension. You see, in my choice to move for love, I also chose to moved away from a path of certainty in my career, to a life where I would have no job, and to a city in which agribusiness in Africa is relatively far off the radar. I took this leap with a fear that it would take me down a slow slide, and 10 years down the road, I would realise that I am part of the reason why change doesn't happen - complacency.

So what did I do after I arrived in Vancouver? I baked. I struggled to be ok to not doing anything or to not have a plan. I fought the idea that I was wasting my time by not being productive, until I let go of that notion and realised how much I needed it. After learning concept shared by a friend: to chop wood and carry water - I found pleasure in the mundane. I loved cleaning dishes. I slept in. In fact, I struggled to wake up because the sun doesn't actually rise until 8am. I yearned for the sun. I really yearned for the sun, and the heat. I realised that I no longer needed to boil water in a kettle in order to do dishes with hot water - hot water came out of the tap. I cooked, and grew a big fat gut. I scowled at the pet store down the road that offers 15 types of dog dishes. I vowed to myself I would never ever stop scowling at the excess of that, I vowed to myself that I must never forget how this life I have in Canada is merely a bubble of luxury within a world that has far less. I felt my chest tighten when I noticed that maybe I'm losing touch of that - my desire to buy white towels for the bathroom, or scented hand lotion. I felt guilty. I rationalised. I felt fear that I was sliding slowly into why change doesn't happen - complacency.

I laughed. A lot. From a place of joy. I fell more in love and feel a sense of immense fortune to have found someone who inspires me to be a better person and anchors me in the values that matter - that who you are, is more important than what you do, what a family means, what appreciating the moment means. Don and I also went through the process of putting together a home. We bought a couch, made a fir table, started a story board and have had many friends over for dinner. We had our first debate over buying jars while in IKEA. I realised how lucky I am to feel safe to have these debates because communication is the cornerstone of strong relationships. I have slowly reconnected with friends, choosing to spend more time with fewer people, and cherishing the long personal relationships that are based on things outside of what you do.

I tried to avoid the trash in the magazines lining the grocery store check out, and found myself not being able to fight the sound bite headlines - holy crap! a t.v. show on teenage pregnancy!? and yes! you're right! I do need a new phone every year. I felt a sickening feeling come on when I realised how much effort there is behind the news, the products to breed a generation of passive citizens.

I spent a lot of time with my brothers and their families, and have been re-inspired by my little nieces and nephews Izzy, Dante, Jada and Kayden who's curiosity, imagination and ever present laughter grounds me in the simple fact that potential in people here in Canada hasn't changed, even if the world around them is changing. My admiration for all my brothers and their wives grew as their parenting styles have given me hope that this potential in people will translate into responsible, engaged citizens through loving, supportive parenting based on values. And I felt fortunate to have them as role models for creating a life in which they are each living their passions and have healthy loving relationships. I got to hold my new twin nephews Max and Logan when they were just a few hours old, be amazed at my sister in law giving birth, at the support of my brother as a dad. I was also peed on as I gave my nephews their first bath as they were just a few days old, and I also witnessed one of my nephews pee in his own mouth. That is a memory I will never let him live down ( now, if only I can remember which twin it was...)

I learned to cross country ski - it is amazing when you get your body to move in a new way. I remembered how even though it is damn cold here, being surrounded by the beauty of snowy mountains on a sunny day is a gift. I spent time with my parents, and enjoyed having them come over for dinner, lunch, an afternoon. I bought rainboots, and laughed the first time I had to wear them, because it was not nearly as close to when I had to wear rainboots in Zambia. I have gotten used to using toilet seats because here, you can't really avoid them - but I still hold true to the belief that they are mostly overrated ( if you live by yourself or only with women).

I went to the EWB national conference last month. I reconnected with friends whom i have known through my years working there, and have an immense sense of excitement for what they will do - in business, in government, in leading change. More importantly, I have an immense sense of repsect for who they are as people. I became obsessed with what's happening in Egypt. I cried when reading the stories of citizenship, of courage, of a population finding their voice and demanding something better. I wondered, and continue to wonder, how I would have acted. I was facinated by the pace of change, and the power of social media. And I reminded of the bubble from which I was following the developments here in Canada, and how I want a life that is global, or where you stand up for what you believe in, and one where you believe something better is possible.

Yes, a lot has happened and this is just a sampling. There is much to share. Maybe one day, I'll take the time to write about it all, with more detail. Maybe one day, I'll write about how in order to help me think, work and start contributing again, I needed to take time to feel again, to be in the moment and to experience the things that will pass us by when we are so focused on that thing called change. Yes, maybe one day.

But for now, as I started out this note saying, I just wanted to say, tomorrow, I'm starting a new job here in Vancouver. I am starting a job that somehow is letting me work on Agribusiness investment in Africa, travel to Africa, and learn a lot - an absolutely incredible opportunity. And while I'm still trying to sort out life in Canada and Vancouver, I am doing it full of the things that matter - love, family, opportunity - and with no less ambition and passion for change, than when I took the leap back in August.

I feel like I'm the luckiest person alive.

water is life

2010-08-10T10:01:00.000-07:00

Yessssssssss.

The taps are flowing. First time in 72 hours.

What did it take? It took us to act our our distrust of the building managers ( 'no, Zesco, they're coming'), and go directly to the utilities company, ask them to reconnect it.

Interestingly, the service there was pretty good. The clerk we talked to sought out the big bwana who then put in the order for a technician to 'rush back'. The clerk also gave us his personal number to get in touch in case it didn't work. 1.5 hour later, water is flowing in the pipes, again.

I took a bath.

I flushed the toilet.

And now, I tackle the dishes.

water, is life.

it was almost like the village

2010-08-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

Update.

48 hours, and still no water.

The story is that the bill has been paid. (I didn't believe it, until I saw the receipt.) Now we're just waiting for ZESCO, the utilities company to come back and reconnect the pump.

My friend Nsangwa - who just lives 2 doors down from me - took us to another friend's place to fill up our buckets.

It was almost like going to get water in the village, except instead of walking to the borehole, we drove. and instead of enjoying the process, i was too busy scheming how to make sure the building managers felt some pain of this whole situation and enforce some accountability. We could make them come down and carry our buckets up for us. We could publicly shame them by putting posters up on the wall. We could go in and use whatever water they had saved up from their flat.

In the end of course, I ended up appreciating that I wasn't pumping my water from a borehole, or gathering it from a stream every day. And that this was more of an inconvenience than it was a way of life.

It was just fun to think about how to introduce better accountability mechanisms into this system and how you could leverage the social pressure from 16 flats to change the way things operated. And it was also somewhat fun to consider that instead of working on a report, or working on a proposal, or coaching someone on my team, I spent 2 hours needing to fetch water; funny, there isn't a management book on managing time wisely that takes these things into account.

Anyway, I didn't scheme and I'm all hot air when it comes to making the building management feel the pain of our inconvenience. I ended carrying my own water back up to the flat, all 18 L of it.

Oh, yes, all 18L. I thought i had 40L saved up, but I had less than half. Interesting how when you have less resource, you adjust.

As in, i'm adjusting to the dirtiness of my kitchen. I have pretty much used up every single pot, pan, and plate i own. Twice. Ok. maybe three times. ok ok, maybe four times?

We've been reassured that it will be on tomorrow. First thing.

We'll see about that.

prisoner's dilema

2010-08-08T12:16:00.000-07:00

Currently, the water is off in my building. It's been off since yesterday afternoon - "the pump is broken, we will need to turn it off so that it can be fixed. It will be back on on Monday".

It's not that i trusted that a 36 hour pump repair job would really take place, but if that's what they say, i guess that's what I had to go with.

So I stockpiled water, about 40 L of it. No, it's not a lot, but every single bottle and bucket, and pot was pretty much full. ( tells you a bit about what i have in my house).

And I've been managing, I've been conscious of water use - even more than normal. I've still been able to bathe, make coffee; I've made the critical decision between flushing the toilet or keeping the water for cooking; and my kitchen is starting to drive me crazy because the dishes are piling up.

Anyway, how I use water isn't really what I want to talk about. You see, I just got a knock on the door though from the building management. Every month, I pay about $8 in monthly fees that is supposed to go to grounds upkeep ( sounds fancy, but its really just some dude who sweeps every day). I didn't know that it was also supposed to go to water pump management, but it turns out that it is supposed to. It also turns out that the pump isn't broken, it's just the pump service fees haven't been paid and so the powers that be turned the pump off.

Curious.

Now, I'm being asked to pay the $8 in advance for September, so they can pay make up the shortfall in overdue fees and we can get the water back on on Monday.

So what should I do?

(Nevermind that its $8 and that's what most of you back home pay for your fancy lattes, or a single fashion magazine, nevermind that, its quite a bit of money here. And never mind, that this shortfall is the management's fault, and yet we're getting the short end of the stick. never mind that.)

(Never mind even, the fact that it probably means that they just haven't really paid the management fees so who knows what they did with the money we've all paid? )

Never mind. The more important issue is what I should do.

You see, I'm not going to be here in September. There's some dude in flat 13 who owes about 4 months fees, and a few other tenants who haven't paid up yet. I'm the only one that is being asked to pay in advance,and maybe I would do it and the water still won't come on. But if I do pay, and the other folks pay, then the water ' could' really come back on.

I'm stumped: should I pay, or should I not pay? If I pay, I'm supporting a system of lack of accountability and poor management and i might be screwed in the long run. If i pay, I might also be able to get the water back on. And all of this will hinge on whether or not the other folks will pay their arrears as well.

What should I do?

I've lived here for 3.5 years. I've learned to be incredible distrustful of almost every single interaction that involves money. Every business decision that I make is involves a bit of game theory that often hasn't gone my way. It's going to be a doozy moving back to Canada.

Can Black Stars Shine.

2010-05-31T12:19:00.000-07:00

“Welcome to Kotoka airport”.

As the pilot did his customary welcome, I looked out the window at Accra in the night time and for a moment, got a swell of emotion. I can’t believe I’m really here.

While the disbelief is in part due to a hellish and absolute nightmare flying with South African Airlines (topic for another post), it is more a sense of surrealism. You see, it was 7 years ago that I was first, and last here.

7 years ago, I didn't know that I would end up falling in love with this place and its people. I didn't know that it would be a gateway into a continent that surprises me constantly and cares for me in a way that is difficult to describe. I didn't know that it would shape my life in such significant ways. I didn't know that it would get inside my bones and soul to have me come back to live and work in Zambia for the last 3.5 years and a commitment in the future.

At that time, I had no idea what to expect and was swept off my feet with all of the new sounds, sights and smells that I had never been exposed to. This time, all of this feels so natural and I breezed through customs, and haggled with the taxi drivers like I had lived here all my life ( I still paid twice what I was supposed to by the way).

7 years ago, I was naïve, believing I could change the world. Today, I am still naïve enough to want to contribute to some change in this world, because its necessary, it matters, and because its possible.

----------------

I arrived to my guest house two hours ago, at 4:30 am under a cloak of darkness. During the taxi ride through the empty streets of Accra, my eyes searched for familiar buildings, streets, signs. Instead, a memory popped up.

It was a conversation I had had with my boss Mr. Boateng, at GRATIS ( an acronym, but GRATIS nonetheless). We were talking about the Ghanaian Flag which has a black star against yellow and green.

"Ka-Hay, do you know why we have a black star on our flag?"

“Daabi”, I replied, “I don’t”

“Well, its because black stars never shine.”

----------------

I haven’t gotten outside yet, but through window above the door, I can see that the sun is up. I wonder what lies outside the door and what comes with the passing of 7 years.

I've watched this special place from afar. I've seen its rise to host the Africa cup; to discover oil off its coast; to transition power peacefully between parties, demonstrating a maturity in democracy in last year's election; a growth rate that is about twice that of Canada; its football team, Black Stars making headlines during the last world cup, and likely again, this time around; to be part of the wave of Chinese investment into this continent, to grow to be the continents rising hopes, as others and itself has been once before.

I'm not sure of what will actually greet me when I open this door. But the last seven years has made me sure of one thing: that black stars can shine, you just need to look for them.

Because if they didn’t, how do you know they exist in the first place?

31 ways to electrocute yourself

2010-02-06T03:02:00.000-08:00

Safety first.

I’m back in Zambia, right smack in the middle of the rainy season. The rains have been good for farmers ( thumbs up).

But remember that blog post I wrote about our road being paved? Well, it never happened. (thumbs down). Over the last month and a half, the rains have turned the road into a mogul run and river. It has also turned my house into an island. I on arrived to find that I needed a boat to get to my front door; water up to my shins surrounding the entire house with no dry path.

But hey, water doesn’t stop anyone. Not even the welders and metal fabricators who use our driveway to manufacture door frames and window frames.

Check it out. That’s real time metal working and welding in water.

‘Ah, aren’t you afraid of electrocution?’ I ask Innocent, one of the guys.

Innocent, innocently and with confidence answers “ ah, no, these wires, they are insulated, no problems, they can be immersed in water”. The wires don’t seem to be anything special to me, but hey, what do I know?

I found a site on the internet ‘30 ways to die of electrocution’ – which showcases shows old illustrations of situations where one can be electrocuted.

Well, I think I have number 31.

anyone lose a dog?

2010-02-04T03:17:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting here in Johannesburg airport, looking out at rain POURING down on the tarmac and wincing at lightning bolts as they fill the sky.

Just across the way are some airport guys, dressed in their dark blue and neon green vests. They're running fast while chasing a dog that is running faster.

The little guy is darting in and out of luggage carts, and past 3 airport vehicles flashing yellow lights. I hope that the dog doesn’t get struck by one of these lightening bolts.

That would be unfortunate.

under the kitchen thatch.

2009-11-30T03:53:00.000-08:00

My mom taught me to see the beauty in everything.

free 30 day refund guaranteed

2009-11-30T03:18:00.000-08:00

Up until 1992, Zambia had a mostly centrally controlled economy. While this seemed to work for a few decades after independence, the government coffers started to run dry, access to goods became more difficult; I hear stories of people needing to queue for things, store shelves which were empty, and how difficult it was even to buy an apple.

But then 1993 came; in swept Chiluba, that panacea called structural adjustments and with it came free market mechanisms. So, it’s not that long ago -- just 16 years -- that that Zambia has been learning to do business in a new way; which means that conventional market behaviours and norms are still in development in this country.

This includes product marketing. For example, sometimes, when vendors want me to buy something, their strategy is just say ‘buy it!’. When I decline, they use the seemingly universal marketing tactic – inching closer to me and raising the volume: “COME ON, JUST BUY IT! ”. (Should I admit that sometimes this works?)

So when I actually see some pretty interesting marketing strategies, I pay attention. I was rolling through Kitwe this past weekend on the bus and noticed this sign, enticing me to buy meat pies – the best, no no, the PERFECT ones around, and if I don't agree, I don't even need to pay!

I give an A for effort.

I love toast

2009-08-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

i do.

I love toast and butter.

Sometimes though, my love for things doesn't quite equal my attention span for making it happen.

GET A TOASTER! I avoided buying a toaster for the longest time. Too luxurious I said. I don't need one.

And then we got one. and it broke within a few months. I think it was Chinese made. And it lived up to that reputation.

Toast and butter. It's all about the simple things in life.

Development measured by potholes?

2009-08-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

"Curses!! "

"Curses!!!"

I was struggling to walk in a straight line because my eyes were squinted shut, doing my best to keep all of the dust and sand from exfoliating my eye balls. This, I told myself, is why god did not make our eye lids out of sandpaper. What a smart guy.

What's happening you say? Well, they're paving the main road by our house.

We live in Kabwata Site and service, a nice middle class area. I love it. I love it because it is very, well, simple. And has a sense of community. We live about 500m from the Chilumbulu Road, a main thoroughfare. If you're coming from town, you get off at St. Patrick's corner. This corner is an epi-centre of business. You think Superstore has selection? You should check this place out. You can fruit there, you can get vegetables there, you can get your shoes repaired ( though, from experience, you may not get them back in the time they were promised). You can get your hair done after you picked up some rebar, before going on to buy wooden beds, wooden shoe racks, wooden coffee tables. Talk time, roasted maize and roasted cassava. You can get live chickens, you can get used shoes, you can get the latest shipment of the latest fruits fresh from the field out of the back of a pick up. You can catch a taxi there, you can get accosted by mini-bus conductors there and if the need arises, you can even visit Dr. Yi, at the aptly named Chinese run medical clinic. ( "Your friend…no?" ask the shoe repair guy. No, sir, no, not my friend. ).

Glorious fresh fruit sold by Sarah at the Supercorner

500 m down this unpaved road, is our house. This road, is notorious. Notoriously bad that is. It isn't paved, and by 'isn't paved', I mean it's like a mogul run. During rainy season, it was like mogul run meets rally car racing. Taxi drivers charge us more to go down it ( I don't blame them). "ah, you live where?, that will be 30 pin then. The extra 10 is for cleaning". It would be unwise to wear nice shoes if walking because they would go from nice shoes to mud clogs in about 10 steps. And it would be unwise to not concentrate on walking because you never know when a hole could jump up and grab your ankle, twisting it in ways it shouldn’t be twisted. Everyone would click their tongues as you bounced up and down the bumps, and cars would delicately and cautiously inch along, so not as to bottom out.

near our house

"They'll pave it. This Lubwinda's area" in reference to the senior MP in the opposition party and kabwata is an opposition stronghold. They told us this 10 months ago when we moved in. And because i've lived here for the last 2.5 years, I have learned to file expectations and anything that finished with a 'Now Now' under the ' do not disturb' folder.

And it was a-ok. I actually really liked it. the unpaved road was part of the reason why I loved the neighbourhood. Two weeks ago when I had just come back to Lusaka from being away for a month, I was walking back home, stubbed my toe on the rock that jutted out, and after the pain subsided, I realised how much more I preferred that to the sidewalks of Toronto. Something about it was more simple. I looked down the dusty road that continued over the railway tracks and wove down through unfinished houses and I realised what it was is that I really liked that raw feeling. Like things weren't perfectly put together, like there was movement, like things were in the process of building, of being created, it felt like it was alive. Less superficial. And that was something that I really enjoy.

the road right after they had graded it the first time. note that citizen action lead to a speedbump to slow down traffic

A few months ago, instead of paving it, they graded it - as in, they came by and tried to flatten everything out we thought that that was going to be the extent of it. Last Wednesday, Kumoyo, our taxi driver friend told me that they had come to measure the road. " Ya, they came that other day. they said that they were going to come to put down gravel tomorrow. That was yesterday, meaning today" ( don't ask me to clarify dates. I always get confused by how dates are referred to here. and I don't have the mental capacity to figure it out right now). "Ah, but they're probably already chewed the money". "It's true" I agreed, "they probably did".

But lo and behold, things do change. "Now now" might actually arrive one day and on Monday this week, the gravel trucks came! They really came! And within 5 days, they've laid down a nice solid layer of earth about 1 KM long ( I have no idea how 1km/5 days measures up in infrastructure but hey, it's fast to me.). Where mogul bumps were, there is now a fresh track of smooth, packed in, road. No tarmac yet, and not sure when that's going to come. 'now now' I'm sure. But it doesn't matter. The main thing is that the promise of the road actually is starting to come true!

And also, where there were cars, gingerly inching along, are young chaps CRUISING along. CRUISING! Honking, and cruising. Passing when they're not supposed to be passing and being one of THOSE drivers. And I'm starting to be one of THOSE citizens.

Which takes me to the beginning of this post.

I was walking along this morning to catch a mini bus near the Superstore corner. Just enjoying the fact that now the road was closed to being paved, I could daydream and walk without risking a sprained ankle. And I hear this rumble, this loud, rumble that was coming fast. And whoooooosh, this huge -- it must have been 100 tonne -- construction truck blew by, and made like it was the 401. dust flew everywhere, swirling up, down, in my ears, under my eyelids. It was like the skies had opened up and poured dust down. Everyone was shocked. Coughing. A number of"Hmmmmmmmmmm" squeals came out. I'm sure, if I listened hard enough, I could have heard a baby yelping even

And it kept happening. This evening, when I was heading out to buy candles as the power was out, whoooooosh, white car speeds by. Whoooooosh, whoooooosh. Someone's going to get hit no doubt. (Yes, KH, given my calamity factor, there is a high chance that that someone might be me).

And so I asked Noah, the guy who sells me the candles on the side of this road: hey, what do you think about them paving this road? 'well, it has its good parts and its bad parts". then I went thinking. Here was a road, something that was simple. It served its purpose. And now, we have to go and pave it. and what's going to happen is that cars are going to zoom in and out. someone's going to get hit. And if I think about the drainage problem that we're going to have ( and already have), we'll probably have increased rates of malaria in the area because we know that this area sure gets a lot of water, and it doesn't seem to have a lot of places to go. ( see photo, this is infront of our house. It hasn't rained for months and yet, we have a perfect festering pond for mozies.)

So, is this development? paved roads? Is this the trade off between mud clogs and well kept cars? Is this the meaning of progress?

Yes! Yes! more roads! some would say. This is exactly what development is! more infrastructure!

No! No! no more roads! this is the path that we went along and this is wrong! don't follow us!

Well, in all of this, I recognised 2 things: first of all, i might be resistant to change that Zambians might themselves enjoy. I like living on a dirt road, but maybe that's not what Zambians themselves want. which leads me to my second thought: hey, unless I'm going to be living here for the rest of my life and make Zambia my home peromanently, then the most important thing in all of this is that a leader listened to its people, found a vision, and has taken action on it. Maybe that is the measurement of progress.

(Don’t worry, I'm going to stop philosophical musings come November when the rains start to fall and my feet are nice and dry.)

Zambian made phones

2009-05-13T08:27:00.000-07:00

So, you can now buy Zambian made mobile handsets...

http://mtechzambia.com/news.htm

Maybe not manufacturing but assemblying. And this seems to have coincided with an increase in tarrifs on foreign made handsets. Is this a start of diversifying the local economy outside of copper and agriculture?

This initiative is supported by various dev agencies including JICA. Interestingly they are implementing kaizen in plant operations.

I wish the development sector would implement Kaizen.

ngombe

2009-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

Check this out: I came across this article in NYT today on French farmers diversifying their investments. Into cows!

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/12/world/europe/12cows.html?_r=1&ref=global-home

When I first arrived in Zambia in 2007, I worked on the PROFIT project that is trying to improve smallholder participation in the beef industry. One of the focuses was to develop private vet services available to rural communities to improve livestock health so that farmers could start managing their cattle as an income source and supply improved quality into the formal beef industry.

I remember the conversations in communities and with farmers who looked to cattle as social status, and for a select group, who were starting to manage cattle as an income source. I remember trying to wrap my head around how farmers saw cattle - as a social status, as bank to invest profits from this year's maize harvest into, as a dowry for wedding, as an ATM for withdrawing money when they needed to send a child to school, or as a losing stock by selling it at 50% price when it was sick. Trying to explain this to colleagues and friends back home was difficult as having a bank on four legs doesn't exactly register for you if you live in Vancouver. But I guess what's interesting is that a farmer in France could have more in common with a farmer in Malama community in Zambia.

http://kumvera.blogspot.com/2007/03/out-of-lusaka-and-into-something-more.html

As much as the NYT article might highlight a similar valuation of cattle between farmer in France and a farmer in Zambia, that might be where the similiarities stop.

Take for example, a French cow has access to a massage contraption (see first photo) . In Zambia, farmers are trying to figure out how to keep their cows alive as foot and mouth disease, CBPP and other tick born diseases will devastate herds, resulting in lost capacity for farming ( as cattle are used in land preparation) which has direct impact on food security, or resulting in regional travel bans on cows, limiting farmer access to markets ( and thus the income available). A COW in France receives approximately $2/day in subsidies….contrast this with ~60% of Zambians ( read: PEOPLE) living on less than $1/day). Something about that just doesn't seem quite right.

There has been a really interesting initiative coming out of the EU: http://farmsubsidy.org/ that has advocated for EU countries to publish agricultural subsidies as a move to increase transparency. Turns out that subsidies are somehow subsidizing Weight Watchers meals for the US and the UK.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/08/business/global/08farm.html. Something about that doesn't seem quite right either...

Patience young grasshopper

2009-04-22T23:45:00.000-07:00

You know, we just can’t seem to shake it.

Chinese I mean. We’ve got a lot of stereotypes. I’ve written about it before. http://kumvera.blogspot.com/2007/05/robbed-blind.html

Our family seemed to always have fought them ( we grew up in Wallaceburg, none of us are doctors, lawyers, and sure, maybe two of us went through engineering, but look at what we're doing...) . But the reality is, we just cant’ seem to escape them because it just runs in our blood ( see my brother KK’s evidence http://themintmansion.blogspot.com/2009/04/cousins.html)

Consider this exchange that I had with Teddy, our housemate....(who lives in the chicken koop...but that is another story) the last few days.

Sunday: I had walked into our living room one day to see him watching a Zambian karate match on TV. Thinking it was a harmless joke, I said, “eh, Teddy, I’ll teach you this.” “ OH YAH!? I want to learn”

“no on, I’m just kidding, I don’t know, but everyone thinks I know."

Monday evening: I’m working at the kitchen table, and Teddy pulls up a chair. “ so, sister Ka-Hay, when are you going to teach me the “ insert a few hand jabs into the air “ these moves”.

“ uhhh what?”

“you know, the KA-La-Tey” .

“oh ya. Sorry teddy, I’m very sorry. I was just kidding”

“AAAAAAH…no. no no. come one. I really want to learn”

“Ya, I’m sure you do, …..but really I don’t know.”

“ah, no, please please. Please teach me. I can to learn….”

“ and…I know these “ and makes the gesture of bench pressing “ and I can teach you how to do them". Seeing as he had a bandage on his left eye last week because he had dropped the bench press bar on his face…that didn't necessarily sweeten the deal....not that there really is one. And hey, what’s he saying…that I need to do some weights? shit....i'm getting soft.

“ Sorry teddy. I was really just joking when I said I knew. I don’t know. not a bit! Have no idea! Sorry. sorry. Did I disappoint you?” I was expecting the typical Zambian polite response.

“ah, BAD. Very BAD” shaking his head and shoulders slumped. interesting, I think we have a pretty open and trusting relationship.

Tuesday: Teddy is in the kitchen, doing dishes. I walk in.

"Hey teddy, how’s it going?"

“So, you really are not going to teach me?”….

I'm starting to feel really bad now. Anyone have a quick 12 step guide to ka-lah-tey they can lend me? I need to put him out of his misery.

king cobra in the state hoowwwwwssseee?

2008-10-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

The polls have closed. The country waiting for the results of the presidential by-election and if in fact, King Cobra will head to State house and take up where the Special Cabbage left off.

It was an interesting day. I spent a couple of hours wandering around Lusaka with a colleague Hans and chatting with locals who had just voted. I absorbed the significance of today and a couple of things struck me.

First, for some reason, it was surprising to me that the entire country shuts down for this. Shops are closed, the roads are empty ( we could hardly even fill a mini bus that usually takes 30 secs to fill), and if you have a formal job, you don’t go. I remember the last time I voted in Vancouver, needing to rush from work back to my riding before the polls closed, and voting day wasn’t much different than any other day.

That democracy requires supporting systems. ‘Duh, obviously’, you would say, however, today I internalised it. In a country of 12 M people, there are just under 4M registered voters. Because of the unexpected nature of this election, the government did not have the capacity to update voter records since the last time the election was held in 2006. This meant that no new voters could be registered, and you had to vote in the same riding that you did in 2006. it means that those who came of age over the last 2 years, don’t have a voice in this. Or, in a country where the life expectancy is just shy of 40 years old, how many of the 4M will actually be around to vote? Or what happens when people move? The current news on TV is reporting low voter turnout.

There is the passion for voting here. I was inspired by the commitment of people to go and vote and the sense of pride from doing so. When I walked down the road from my house, people along the road yelled’ eh! Have you voted!”. When friends saw each other on the street, they would look at each other’s thumbs, or flash their thumbs to display the ink used to market someone who already casted their ballot. It was almost a source of pride and made me wonder, could we adopt this as a social marketing tool that would get more people out and vote? ( I have to confess however, that because of my travel schedule in Sept – Toronto, Vancouver, zambia, I didn’t vote in this last election!)

Zambia is really still a young democracy. This is its 5^th multi-party election since independence 44 years ago. The father of Zambia’s independence, Kenneth Kaunda cast his vote this morning, which is a pretty remarkable activity, seeing as KK himself led Zambia to independence in ’64 and the following 27 years using a one-party rule until ’91.

Democracy across the generations. Given that multi-party elections, are still recently, I saw some of the remnants of old days. Jacob, a middle aged man accompanying us on our walk shrunk away from the polling station as Hans and I walked up to take a look at a sample ballot. He had warned us that it would be particularly sensitive around the polling station as there would be security officials and who knows what they could do. In contrast with Jacob’s hesitation, we met Aggri, a young accounting student who owns a boutique along Cairo road and has travelled to China a few times for business. Aggri was completely open with what he thought, sharing viewpoints, and making opinions, all the while standing an arms’ length away from the polling station. He did not flinch when a policeman wandered by and when I asked him about that, he just said’ well, I know my rights, what can they do?’. To me, this signified an interesting divide, the history of a lack of democracy in Jacob’s older mind, and the freedom that Aggri—the youth of Zambia believes he deserves. I wonder what this means for Zambia’s future?

I’m always curious about how significant events here are covered in the international media. More often than not, front page coverage is usually reseved for violent tensions like the situation in the Congo right now and end up reinforcing negative stereotypes of countries in Africa. I saw a country that was peaceful and hopeful during a point of potential transition of power and this is rarely found in the international media.

To my surprise, I just checked on FT and there, on the front page under World, was an interesting assessment of the elections.

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/6958bdba-a6a4-11dd-95be-000077b07658.html?nclick_check=1

I’m also usually disappointed by the lack of coverage in Canadian media so I was also pleasantly surprised at the discovery of CBC’s attention being paid on the election. That subsided quickly after noticing that immediately, the headline jumped to negative association to vote rigging, rather than the peaceful months that have lead up to this, and the continued peace that currently exists as the ballots are being counted. Canada, I expect more.

http://www.cbc.ca/world/story/2008/10/30/zambia-election.html

The reports that Sata is leading might be true. Almost everyone that I have come across here in Lusaka IS a Sata supporter. ‘Change’ is what most say they want. However, with 50% of the population living in the rural areas, who knows what the outcome will actually be?

More to come tomorrow!

it's erection day!

2008-10-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

I’m still alive here. Yup, sweating it out in the heat of the dry season.

What’s the occasion that breaks the blog silence? Erections! Errrr I mean eLections

Small aside: Zambians, rike any other culture where Engrish is a second ranguage for many, seem to mix up their ‘ L’ with their ‘R’s. Sometimes, it can be confusing, as in, ‘do you have a lazor brade?’, or ‘ oh, the lain has come early’. Mostly, however, it is extremely amusing, especially today, as Oct 30^th is Election day!

Gutter humour aside ( I know, GROW UP!), it’s true, I’ve been in the thick of election fever. From Canada’s recent secret ballot bonanza ( where the most signficiant outcome was that it was the lowest turnout since confederation), to today in Zambia to the US on the 4^th, 2008 seems to be the year of elections.

The election here in Zambia was unexpected. Near the end of August, Zambia’s President Levy Mwanawasa died of a stroke that he suffered during the AU summit in July.

This time his death was real.

http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?click_id=13&set_id=1&art_id=nw20080703180911345C945113

http://uk.reuters.com/article/topNews/idUSWEA096120080703

Mwanawasa, though not perfect, or inspiring, certainly provided leadership, when considering the situation in Somalia, in Zimbabwe, in the Congo, in Sudan, that was in a class of its own. http://www.economist.com/world/mideast-africa/displaystory.cfm?STORY_ID=11968403

What's election season like here? Well, mostly serious and i can't help but think how incredible it is that this country, is still rather young in this process with multiparty elections being held just 17 years ago in 1991. Everything is closed today so that people can go and vote. Hop in any cab, or mini bus, and the best conversation starter is So, who are you voting for? People here are all to happy to share with you their viewpoints. ( unlike my mom, who, whenever it comes to elections, always says ' i can't tell you, it's a SECRET'. true enough mom, true enough). People CARE enough to vote.

I was walking down the street on Tuesday and nearly got ran over by a truck overflowing with people honking horns and waving support for Rupiah Banda - a career diplomat who was Mwanawasa’s VP and the current acting president. But it appears that many in Zambia have caught on to Obama’s message of CHANGE and are noting that it is time to vote in another party, after MMD has ruled since 1991 when Chiluba took over from Kaunda. Michael Sata, the leader of the main opposition party Patriotic Front, is his main candidate. In 2006, Sata made a run for office, made Chinese investment an issue and although won support in the urbanized areas along the line of rail, failed to get enough support in the rural areas. This time around though, people seem excited about him, if not for his policies, because at least its different.

The other option for CHANGE is HH, or Hakainde Hichelema, the 46 year old business man who for many, seem to offer best bet against corruption as he is already a highly successful business man, but for most, is ‘still a young chap, lacking experience’.

Among the three however, I can’t really seem to discern the biggest difference between them all. They’re all going to fight corruption, they’re all giving out free seeds and fertlisers, they’re all trying to help Zambia develop.

Whichever one does end up in office, I can only hope that they do provie the leadership that the 12 million people here deserve.

But more to come later. i'm out the door to see that election day in Zambia is all about.

happy mother's day!

2008-05-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was walking along Independence Ave. As I neared the museum, I noticed the makings of a celebration - big tents, marching band, people milling about, colourful banners, and of course, a static filled PA system.

"OOOOOH!!" Having missed the traffic stoppoing celebration of International Women's Day the week prior, I was eager to find out what the special day was and whether or not Mwanawasa was going make an appearance. "Oh, maybe I've been so busy that i have forgotten that it was Zambia's independence celebration'?.

As I neared the crowd and the writing on the signs and banners came into focus, I was able to see what the hoopla was all about:

'Happy intellectual property day!

woohoo!

Anyway, that story of random Zambian celebrations was a really long segway into my simple shout out to all of the mom;s out there! happy mother's day! Mel, i hope that you're enjoying your Second mother's day with wild D, Jan, happy double mother's day! and rebecca, happy First mother's day with the izza.

And of course, Mah, lots of love and hugs to you from a far today. I really wish that i could be there to chat over some tea and chess.

kayden ji yuen

2008-04-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

The silence is broken!

Ok ok, I know, months of the same old post hanging around this blog. I sure won’t be in contention for blogger of the year.

There is much to share, , new learning, actually A LOT of learning, about rainy season realities, about harvest season, development realities, that sad sad and frustrating situation down in Zim. Oh, and a new job.

But for now, this quick post is about something much more exciting!I’ve got a new nephew and I'm a new auntie!

Welcome to the fam Kayden Ji Yeun Law! Your 8 lb, 15 oz presence was felt all the way here in Lusaka.

My head has been in a flurry of writing and development thoughts this last little while. I’d be lying if it said I wasn’t a bit stressed out. But last night, when your dad informed me of your grand entrance, everything else disappeared into the background. In that instant I was reminded of what really mattered, family. And in that same instant I was again reminded of the downside of this job that I love, distance.

I can’t wait to come and see you and your older sister. Sure, your grandma has nick named her the general, and maybe there is some truth to that; but psssst, word of advice: listen to your sister. Sisters are ALWAYS right. I can't wait to see all the business ops you and your dad get into (by the time your strong enough, you’ll probably be able to charge $100/driveway). And without a doubt, your parents will definitely show you all of the curious things in life. And the whole crew, your cousins, aunties and uncles, grannies and gramps, will most definitely show you the funny side as well. (Don't worry, I will be your biggest defender if they keep talking about your chubby cheeks. chubby, as I've discovered here in Zambia, is the new cool.)

Finally, just as the offer was extended to Izzy, little j and WMD, the wonderful continent of Africa is awaiting your visit and I can’t wait to show you around. Elephants, giraffes, hippos hurray!

Lots of love, hugs and smooches from auntie hay hay.

Happy Holidays!

2007-12-24T10:45:00.000-08:00

Its that time of year, again.

Christmas. Turkey dinners, shiny wrapping paper, mistletoes, egg nog, mulled wine, crazy shoppers, unscrupulous drunken party behaviour and fancy dress parties. And of course, family.

I’m going to have to admit it is really hard for me to believe that it’s Christmas. The subtle changes of seasons don’t provide a constant time check that says ‘ Its getting cold, leaves are falling, rain is falling, snow is falling, ready…..ready… its CHRISTMAS!’ I mean, just last week, I was out motoring around in the muddy fields, talking to farmers not about Christmas, but about how much rain will come and what the harvest will be like this year. And our public space isn't invaded with Christmas decorations. Take a look at what the main drag of Lusaka – Cairo Rd—looks like, today, on Christmas Eve, just like every other day.

This isn’t the first time I’m going to be spending Christmas away from home and in Africa. In 2003, I was in Ghana and I’ve observed about Christmas there is similar to what I am observing here. And that is, that Christmas isn’t IN YOUR FACE. There aren’t public Christmas trees, no lights, few decorations. Reminders of Christmas are usually a lot more subtle and usually unexpected. For example, last weekend, I was packed into a mini bus. The person’s phone in-front of me rang as many often do; but this time, instead of 50 cent filling the air, there was another familiar tune. It took me a few seconds to realise that it was ‘ We wish you a Merry Christmas’. And then on Tuesday, it was down pouring and I stepped into a store to escape the rain only to have another oddly familiar tune playing in the background – ‘have a holly jolly Christmas’. To my ears, the harmony and beats of Christmas carols just don’t fit with the beats and melodic sounds of traditional African music. There are fake plastic Christmas trees in cluttered in a few store windows and it’s a bit odd because you never see these trees growing naturally around here, and really, trees? Inside? There was an old blow up Santa Claus doll hanging from a thatch roof hut I saw last week in Monze. Santa? In Zambia? A fat old white bearded man in a red and white suite? SHU-AH! ( as in ‘Sure!?!?’ as in REALLY?!) Usually, when I think of all of these western symbols of Christmas, I can’t help but feel like it is a phony way of celebrating, and how it is a testament to western culture that really doesn’t fit into local context.

And today, being Christmas eve, I was out on the town and came across a sight that seems to symbolize what I'm trying to say.

Consider exibit A. Zambian Santa.

I know that this is Zambian Santa, because notice the nice booty.

Exhibit B. notice the gum boots (its rainy season) and face mask ( masks, are hot items).

And then, Santa here, has a whole other persona.

I mean, sure, there isn't a 'HO HO HO' but this Santa has a street style all his own. I don’t know what I enjoy more, his high pitched screech, his ‘HELLO!HOW IS ZAMBIA?', or the fact that he has completely blow apart any childhood image of a nice old Santa, sitting in a mall, bells ringing in the background, nice instrumental 'silent night, or the fact that instead of riding around in a sleigh and upholding an image of gentleness and care, he’s scurrying around Lusaka accosting people. *sigh*. Randomness. I love it.

But really, besides today's randomness, overall, Christmas here is a pretty low-key event. You can walk down any street and there isn’t much that will remind you that it is Christmas. Most households just use the time for family, go to church and if there is extra money, cook special meal. And I think that I kind of like the low-key nature. I used to think that I enjoyed this mostly because I’m kind of afraid ( yes, I think afraid is the right word) of the consumerism that overtakes our communities back home during this time of year. That maybe I was happy that there wasn't a lot of western influence (yet) on this holiday. But yesterday, it kind of hit me that I realised that I kind of like the low key nature of all of this because it means there are fewer reminders that I am going to be away from family.

My family isn’t religious in the traditional sense. Actually, what am I talking about? We’re not even religious in the non-traditional sense! I think that we can count the total times anyone has ever gone to church on one, maybe two hands. Christmas for us has been much more about family getting together and with my brothers and I dispersed across the country (and world) these days, the holidays has been much more about that. It is a time for us to spend time together, catch each other up with our lives, make fun of each other, cook feasts, regress back to childhood tendencies (this includes my mother of course) and remind my dad that yes, he just may be more of a circus ringmaster than head of the household. And now that we’ve got little ones in the midst, I’m sure that it will only add to our barnyard antics. Holidays really, is a time where I always remember how lucky I am to have such characters in my family, and how truly special I am as a sister, and a daughter.

I’m going to miss my family – mom, dad, mel, KH, wild man, KY, Janice, jada, KK, becca and of course, dear little izzy. A lot. I’ll be thinking about all of you from this side of the world ( yes, as I take a 2 day train ride out to the coast and Zanzibar).

Have a safe and wonderful holiday everyone and hope that 2008 will be the best one yet.

SOOOO how's the weather?

2007-12-06T06:54:00.000-08:00

It’s December (IMAGINE!). I hear that Kingston and Wallaceburg got some white stuff. KK tells me that Vancouver also got some white stuff (that wreaked havoc) and then turned into brown stuff.

Here in Zambia, like Canadians, we ALSO inquire about the weather, but the question du jour is not ‘how many centimeters?’ but rather, ‘How are the rains?’.

I was in Nalubwandea community last week doing household surveys ( more on this to come in another post) and that was the question on everyone’s mind. The response was worrying.

‘ Ah Ah Ah! Tsk tsk. NO RAIN! Imagine! Ah, this is not good. NO RAIN. They tell use we’re supposed to have more than normal rains but look! Nothing!’

Mr. Shambosha, a farmer in the group was lamenting to his pals about the empty skies, the dry dusty soils, and the closing window of opportunity if the rains do not come. The first set of rains came a few weeks ago and he had felt them to be sufficient so he planted his cotton. But since then, nothing, and if it didn’t rain again in 3 days time, that effort and the investment in the seeds would be wasted as they had already begun to germinate.

It’s rainy season and that means the hundreds of thousands smallholder farmers in Zambia become gamblers, testing their luck with mother nature and hoping that they will come out on top. From the middle of November through to middle of December, farmers across the country will keep an ear open during the night to listen for the pitter patter of rains and then in the morning eagerly look outside and ask: should I plant today, or wait until tomorrow; was today’s rain showers a fluke or is it really the signal that the rain is here to stay? Winning means the first step to security for your family. Losing means wasting this year’s inputs, and the dreadfulness of knowing that you will not have enough food for your family to last through the following season.

I’m not much of a gambler and certainly wouldn’t have the stomach for this risk. Just imagine what would you do if your paycheck depended on whether the sun was shining or the clouds were full of water? What would you do, if your family’s security and ability to put food on the table was dependent on whether it rained, when it rained, and how much it rained.

And even if the rains come on time, it is just one risk that among many. As the season continues, other risks creep up; what if the rains stop? What if it rains too much, as it often does in Chama district in eastern province and crops are regularly flooded. My colleague Sarah Lewis and other EWB Volunteers in northern Ghana actually knows this well first hand. Or what if someone falls sick in the family? It doesn’t just mean health concerns, it also means one less hand to weed, and if weeding is insufficient, yields will drop. Or if pests attack your crops, it is equivalent to a thief coming in and stealing your money. Some may romanticize the lifestyle of working your own fields and harvesting your food. In Canada, farming can be a choice and if that investment fails, we have other means to rely on. But here in Zambia and across the continent, farming is a gamble within in a lifestyle of vulnerability.

What is encouraging however is that while we can’t control the rain, we do have options that can decrease the risks associated with farming. With PROFIT, we’re trying to build the private sector as an alternative system that provides farmers with access to some of these other options.

By introducing private vet services, farmers can have access to preventative measures and improve animal health. In the mid 90’s when government vet services collapsed and disease ran out of control, 70% of cattle in southern province were wiped out. This directly impacted food security as farmers rely heavily on draft power for land preparation and if your lands aren't ready in time, then you can't plant on time, and if you can't plant on time, your harvest suffers.

By introducing private agricultural input companies directly into rural communities, farmers have the option to buy seeds, fertilisers and other inputs right at their doorstep, saving transportation money. It can also provide access to improved inputs and external knowledge for better farming practices.

By introducing oxen or tractor tillage service providers, farmers could have access to land preparation services without having to wait to borrow oxen; or it could increase adoption of improved land preparation techniques (like ripping for conservation farming) that can directly increase yields, but are often passed by because it of the labour intensiveness.

These are not solutions that will help everyone – there is no silver bullet. But at least these are opening up options for many farmers so that they might be able to rely less on hope and instead, have opportunities to proactively build security for their families.

So, as you’re all bundling yourselves up for the next few months of old man winter and looking to the skies to see if snow will fall, we’ll be looking to the skies and hoping that mother nature will cooperate, for another year.

I was beginning to get worried because when I left Nalubwandea, the skies had teased us every day in the end, never delivered on its promise. Three days ago, I got a text message informing me that it had finally rained. And I couldn’t help but feel relieved.

izzy.

2007-11-12T04:04:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the world Elizabeth (Izzy) Si Yun Law.

I saw you on webcam today. You were chilling out with your beautiful mom and dad. You are gorgeous. And floppy. Don’t worry, I hear that over the next few months, you will outgrow the floppy stage forever so you should enjoy it while it lasts.

I’m sending you a greeting from Zambia, where your uncle Ka-Hung, auntie Mel and cousin Dante are visiting. We were sitting in a park as the rain clouds loomed overhead when we heard the news of your arrival. We were more than excited, especially Dante who screamed wildly as he zoomed down a slide ' moooo eeeeeee'. It was wonderful to have them here as our family grew by one because it is moments like these where the delicate balance of following your passion and the relationship costs of distance is tipped in one direction.

I know that your most wonderful parents will teach you to see the beauty in the world and encourage you to follow your passion. I hope that you will listen to them. They’re smart – s -m-r-t. And wise. But don't let that fool you as I have a collection of secrets about your dad when he was young, and I"ll tell you all about them, if the price is right.

And when you’re old enough, I’ll buy you a plane ticket ( I’ll even make it return, if by then, I’m making more than $500/month) and show you around this amazing continent that will no doubt sweep you off your feet.

Hugs, smooches and lots of love from your auntie Hay Hay.

p.s. if your dad forgets, remind him that he can now shave off his pregnancy 'beard'.

Food TV. Zambia.

2007-09-12T01:06:00.000-07:00

Chikanda - raw, just harvested, and missing the love from cooking

Food.

It seems that food has become a bit of an obsession these days—it is completely newsworthy, over the top attention grabbing and fully part of the hip urban trends. For example, right next to the series of articles on how the US has decided that the war Iraq so wildly successful they can start withdrawing troops, the NY times talked about how to enjoy grilled figs; Chefs like Jamie Oliver and that other one that swears a lot have somehow skyrocketed into a celebrity class of their own; and even closer to home, in a city like Vancouver, restaurants seem to be popping up left and right and my brother KK is again shooting a series of Vancouver restaurants for WHERE Vancouver's dining guide (by shooting, I am meaning the kind you do with a camera). A whole guide, brimming with information on the where, what and why to eating in Vancouver. Imagine.

I’m not complaining here, but simply making a small observation. Food after all, is more than just nourishment; it can be a social tool, bring people together and narrow differences.

For example, the fair trade phenomenon is largely centered around food - coffee, tea, chocolate, bananas, sugar, you name it, they’ve got it (except maybe haagen daas….) The 100 mile diet,, popularity in organic foods and farmers markets is as much about eating good food as it is signal of our growing recognition that our individual actions really do have impact on the environment. (imagine. there is actually a causal linkage). The debate about over consumption of food has almost eclipsed the concerns about the issue of under consumption and scarcity of food. Discussions about food never just about food, but as it is promoted in the slow food movement, discussions about food is really a reflection of where our society is heading these days and the type of values we’re trying to breed.

And of course food, its preparation and enjoyment can be the thing that brings friends, family and people together. I remember when growing up, my family would gather around big Sunday (turkey!) dinners every week. This was our time to connect; sometimes it was over old Chinese fables, sometimes over lectures and always over laughter, jokes, riddles and general silliness. Equally significant is the time my mother and I shared in preparing these meals; her stories about the post WWII, Great Leap Forward, Cultural revolution days of China would simultaneously transport me into her world of reality, and my world of imagination.

Also, growing up in a Chinese family embedded within a rural white community meant that sometimes I felt like an outsider, misunderstood and because of this, at times, ashamed to be Chinese. However, I remember neighbours would come over to learn how to cook Chinese dishes from my mother. While it was difficult for them to understand our cultural values and norms, food was the easy way to connect over our commonalities and forgo the many things that made us so different. I saw this again, when in Ghana, learning to pound fufu with my sisters, drinking palm wine in at 6 am with Mr. Andrews and eating from foodstalls on the street by kerosene lanterns; all of these experiences over food opened doors and windows into the culture that were invaluable.

Here in Zambia, one of my favourite foods here is Chikanda – Zambia’s meatfree version of bologna. (Anyone interested in testing this out in a Vancouver restaurant? It would sell like hotcakes guaranteed!) Chikanda is actually a small tuber that comes from an species of orchids that is found in the Northern region of Zambia. While it is a food common to the Bemba tribe of northern Zambia for generations, with the increasing urban migration, there it's popularity has meant that it can be found in and around Lusaka. Chikanda can often be found on the street, recognisable as a big plastic covered dish sitting atop of women’s heads as they wander through the streets, selling a piece the size of a domino piece for about 15 cents.

Recently, I discovered that my neighbour, Mama Mulenga is actually renowned for her chikanda. Naturally, I convinced her to teach me how to make it.

The makings of African bologna requires:

1) About this much Chikanda – a small tuber, dried and pounded into a powder. It is harvested rvested in the Northern region of Zambia. I am told that it is not farmed, no it is something that ‘god gives us’.

2) that much Groundnuts – most of us know them as peanuts. Groundnutsmakes much more sense. The groundnuts (raw) should also be pounded into a powder.

3) Up to here Water Pure refreshing tap water.

4) Just a bit Baking soda

5) One big Mama Mulenga Found only in Zambia

Salt and chilli pepper to taste

Step 1. Mix 1 and 2 with 3 in a big pot over a hot mbaula ( charcoal stove). Try hard not to think about the deforestation you’re contributing to.

Step 2. Stir until thick.

Step 3. Add 4.

Step 4. Continue to stir. Try not pass out from the heat of the stove.

When finished, place lid back on the pot and place the mulasha on top to cook the top of the Chikanda

Now for the secret to chikanda: Listen to the life stories and advice of 5.

Makes as many servings as you have number of friends around you.

Mama Mulenga is about as wide as she is tall. Which is not very. Her rotund shape gives her as sense of softness and her chuckle of a laugh offers a sense of approachability. She captures so much of what I love about elderly African women; a motherly nature, openness and willingness to share her culture, a work ethic that comes with being an African woman. And of course, a sense of rich history from her 63 years.

Chikanda newbie

She is Bemba and has been cooking chikanda since she was ‘a small girl’. Her husband passed on some years ago as have two of her 6 children. Within the one room she has in our compound, she looks after her teenage grandson Wellington and one daughter. I learned that she’s lived all around the country following her husband who was a police man and that for her Zambia’s independence was significant because so many people had fought so long for freedom and finally they could live free. Mama Mulenga is active in her church and praises god for many things. Also, curiously she teaches young brides to be, how to care for a husband – in all aspects. (as a side note, THIS, I’m VERY curious about. Because you know…someday….against all odds, and to the relief of my dad, maybe…just maybe, this might actually become useful for me….).

As we wrapped up our lesson, mama Mulenga said “You know Ka-Hay, I am surprised but really enjoy that you are so free and want to learn about our tradition.’

It reminded me that having a muzungu living in your midst is just as peculiar for them as it is new to me and it didn’t necessarily matter how much I love it here and appreciated it if they didn’t feel it. As much as I’ve come to adopt to this culture and feel completely at home here, I’m still a bit of an anomaly, and certainly still an outsider to them. But I realised it wasn’t my living with them or the learning of the local language or the chats we would have in passing that demonstrated to her that I really loved it here and saw us as equals. No, it was over the heat of the mbaoula, and over the shared interest for a food embedded in her history that she recognised my appreciation for her culture as being true.

So, some people may love food because it’s the hot thing to do these days, others because it tastes good. For me, I love food for its ability to bring people together in the present moment, to transport you through history, and narrow the gaps between cultures and connect as people.

Bon Appetite.

The Indians are bad, but the Chinese are worse.

2007-08-26T07:46:00.000-07:00

The NY times is doing a series on Chinese investment in Africa. I think that it’s an interesting read.

"We are back where we started. Sending raw materials out, bringing cheap manufactured goods in. This isn't progress. It is colonialism."

- WILFRED COLLINS WONANI, head of the Chamber of Commerce in Kabwe, Zambia, where a Chinese company once manufactured finished cloth but now exports only raw cotton.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/21/world/africa/21zambia.html?th&emc=th

This topic has been gaining real estate in my sphere of reality over the last few years. First, I noticed a bit of if when I was in Ghana where a few Chinese were first heading into the country. Then when I was working in corporate social responsibility, the issue of Chinese companies in Africa was a hot topic. The concern was related to the emergence of Chinese companies in previously western dominated markets. Because Chinese companies do not have the social pressure to operate according social and environmental standards that were being demanded of western based companies, (think Talisman in Sudan – shareholders demanded their withdrawl and in comes a SINOPEC, a Chinese company. Is the situation better off?) there was a fear that the emergence of China was going to create a bit of a race to the bottom effectve where companies, in order to be competitive with the chinese, were going to not have a choice but to forgoe any investment in social and environmental iniviatives.

Here in Zambia, as you'll read in the NYT seires, the Chinese invasion has happened. They’re investing in mines, they’re giving development loans to the Zambian government ( just released $39M US for road construction), they’re opening up shops and importing goods. China has an insatiable appetite for natural resources, they’re looking for new trading partners and Africa is their answer.

I am of course perceived to be Chinese (from China) who is here to do business. This means that I’m constantly fighting the stereotype that comes with this. The reputation of the Chinese is sometimes good, and sometimes not so good. On one hand, I’ve never met so many people who are interested in learning Chinese, and wanting to go to China. On the other hand however, the Chinese have a poor reputation because of the poor working conditions in the mines and factories, (they really can’t seem to shake this can they?), for low wages, for not trying to understand the culture and the language and all of this culminates to a reputation that they have little respect for Zambians. Last year, during the election, the opposition party actually campaigned with quite an anti-chinese sentiment that promised that if they were elected into power, all of the Chinese would be kicked out of the country. While there are also a lot businesses in Zambia owned by Indians, and the Chinese are more recent additions and last week I read the quote that is the title of this post – ‘The Indians are Bad, but the Chinese are worse; – in an article on this exact topic published in the national newspaper, THE POST.

And so, with every stranger that I meet, I often find myself in a bit of an identity crisis because I only know Canada but I am often greeted and treated with an entire other set of baggage that I don’t and can’t relate to. And when this happens, I feel so much appreciation for the multi-culturalism of Canada.

Finally, the role of China in Africa touches upon the bigger question of foreign direct investment and its impact on broad based poverty reduction. My time in Zambia has blown open a door to the role of markets and the impacts and limitations that an underdeveloped/dysfunctional/inefficient economic system has on the poor. Through all of this, I have come see that trickle down benefits do occur, and have also come to see that perhaps FDI plays a bigger role in development than I had originally perceived. This is not to say that I think that it always happens and necessarily impacts the poor in the most beneficial way, but merely that I think that it does happen and that it does produce benefits like job creation, wealth generation opportunities, technology transfer, tax payments that can lead to investment in infrastructure (of course many of these are limited by the effectiveness of government policies) and these are all critical factors in the overall economic environment in which poor communities are trying to develop.

That’s about as far as my thoughts take me. Like the rest of development, the question of China in Africa sparks a greater flurry of questions; Questions like how can foreign direct investment be better structured to benefit the poor? How much control does the government actually have over foreign companies to ensure that that benefits do come through? What is the responsibility of a foreign company entering into a developing country? What mind set shifts need to happen with large multinational companies when they enter into developing countries and how can we get them to understand that they have to learn a new way of doing business? Is FDI really just another form of colonialism? Or is the presence of foreign companies actually even avoidable given the global trends of globalisation? Apart from investment how does Chinese development loans impact development activities? Will the fact that Zambia now has an alternative source of funding outside the traditional western based avenues of the IMF and World Bank, improve their ability to lead their own development?

Questions. So many questions, but that is development. That’s part of why I enjoy it.

home. sweet. home.

2007-08-18T01:52:00.000-07:00

PHOTOS UPDATED!

(sorry, some of the photos aren't showing up properly right now because the internet here has been so wonderful. and by wonderful i mean as wonderful as a stick in the eye. i wanted to post anyway, so just check back for some photo updates.

Lusaka, Zambia

end of day football game on my walk home

Well, I’ll have to admit it is hard to believe that it’s been over 7 months since I left Vancouver, 6 months since I left Toronto and 5 months since i arrived in zambia.

In 5 months many things can change, and many things can stay the same. In the most basic terms, seasons back home have moved from the punishing freeze of winter into the sweltering heat of summer. In world affairs, Tony Blair has left office, Harper continues to be well, uninspiring, China is continuing to take over the world and Zimbabwe slides further into economic crisis. And perhaps most importantly to me, my dad has retired, my little niece Jada has learned to walk, and my little nephew Dante got his first haircut and has proceeded to grow what looks like his first mullet.

I have now officially lived in Lusaka for about 5 months and that is truly hard to believe. I find that that when you settle into a new city and new culture, the changes that mark the passing of time are subtle and tend to creep upon you without you knowing. Neighbourhoods that once blended into each other and are now distinct in style and character; strangers who looked at me curiously and cautiously when I first moved into the neighbourhood have now emerged as people like Catherine the young girl who sells groundnuts along the road and Royd, the elderly shopkeeper around the corner who once served in Zambia’s foreign service; roads, which once seemed a jumbled mess leading no where and everywhere at the same time have somehow found order and direction. And maybe the biggest change over 5 months is that this city, once filled with newness and attractions that tugged at my senses and jockeyed for my attention, has somehow slipped into something more comfortable, more familiar and something that resembles a home.

And it is home that I have realised I have not yet even talked much about– where I live, who I live with and how I live. While my writing on development may be a stretch for understanding by those of you who are not involved in development everyone can relate to home so I though I would take this post to give you the royal tour.

When I first took this placement with EWB, I had the expectation that I would be posted in a rural community far out in the western part of Zambia. The thing with EWB placements is that they range from field positions through to head office positions, depending on the needs of the partner organisation. When I arrived, I learned that I would be based out of the head office in Lusaka – the capital city of Zambia.

Lusaka is a city of just over 1 million people and is pretty much the centre of this oddly shaped country – if you want to go from east to west, from north to south, you have to pass through Lusaka. It is a mixture of people from all around the country, all speaking variations of the 72 tribal languages. It is a city of contrasts; western fast food restaurant chains and supermarkets coming from South Africa juxtaposed against the traditional bustling African open markets; people decked out in Jay Z street gear sharing the road with women in African chitenge suits; obvious symbols of wealth as evidenced by shiny BMWs and opulent mansions on treelined streets with obvious symbols of urban poverty as seen by street children and high density compounds.

Because of these contrasts I found Lusaka difficult to classify and so maybe that is why it took me a while to understand it. It is a city that I didn’t fall in love with instantly, but have learned to love over time. It took me a little while to become comfortable with Lusaka because in my reference point was still Ghana – with its boisterous, emotional West African culture that had drawn me right from the beginning. While I had understood, from an intellectual level that Lusaka was not Ghana, I had not yet emotionally grasped it. Compared to Ghana, the culture is quieter here, there is less street activity, things are more orderly, and people are more reserved. Things are not necessarily better, they’re just different and over 5 months, I have come to enjoy the very differences that had once created a sense of longing.

Where I stay now is actually the second home that I have had since arriving. For the first few months, I stayed in Emmasdale with my roommate Yvonne. We shared a very modest space; in one room was the kitchen and Yvonne’s bed. I stayed in the store room and we had a self contained bathroom. But Emmasdale was a bit too closed off and cold for my liking and the daily commute to work was taking its toll on me and so in June, I searched around for somewhere where I could feel a real sense of community and energy, where things were more ‘African’ and where it would be possible for me to walk to the office.

Yvonne and I, at my old place in Emmasdale

And so, after asking around at the office, it was suggested that I should consider Kabwata. I asked Yvonne one evening what she knew of Kabwata.

‘Kabwata? Well, sure, Kabwata is the Dallas of Lusaka’

Woah Woah Waoh. The Dallas of Lusaka!? When I think of Dallas, I think of this.

“You know, Kabawata is the part of the city that never sleeps. There is always music playing, people in the streets. If you’re looking for energy, you will definitely find it there.

I was instantly sold.

Kabwata

Fruitstalls on main drag in Kabwata

The day I moved in, I was kind of stressed out. I took a walk along the main stretch of Kabwata and just past the market and I discovered the very things I had been looking for; busy streets, a gauntlet of ladies selling their fruits and vegetables, and people mingling about and friends chatting away and music playing from shops.

One day, my friend Chad and I were walking through the market and was able to capture an example of how I’ve come to love this place and an example of the energy and randomness that I drawn to. I was going to use the footage and create a video, but Chad has done a wonderful job capturing the feeling and sentiments of Lusaka and Kabwata, there really isn’t any point.

My home.

My home here in Lusaka is different than anything you’ll find in Canada. It is simple, and its simplicity is the very thing that I value. I have come to realise that my life at home was filled with so many things that I didn’t need and in many ways, I love my time here because it has re-centre myself on the true material goods that I require to lead a comfortable life.

EWB volunteers are provided a daily living stipend that amounts to $15/day. While this is definitely on the lower end of expatriate remuneration, it is about on the same level as a field worker which means that we can live like one of our colleagues.

Road infront of my house

walkway to house

I rent out one room in a house owned by Auntie Phiri. I pay about $80/month. In my house is Auntie Phiri, her 16 year old daughter Cairo, her son Timothy who plays football for one of the teams here. There is also another tenant who rents out the other room and his name is PRINCE. ( that’s right, PRINCE. I just love that my housemate is PRINCE).

Cairo, ironing in the kitchen

Aunti Phiri, Cairo and Timothy have sectioned off some space in the kitchen and they stay there, while I have my own room.

Other units in the compound

Our home is part of a compound with three units in total and many people coming in and out. As a compound there are things that we all share like water, toilet and shower.

Water.

Water access in Zambia varies. Upper middle class homes will likely have own access. New neighbourhoods or high density compounds often don’t have direct water hook up and have to fetch water from public water source. In this case, most people will fill 200L barrels of water and bring them home. This, is a common sight I see on my Sunday morning runs, and let me tell you, is not an easy task to do!

Arnold, who weighs about 60 lbs, pushing 200L of water

My home is somewhere in the middle. We have water source that is shared by all of the people in our compound. It looks like this.

And is multifunctional, serving as our kitchen sink, our bathroom sink, our laundry sink and anything else you can think of.

Doing dishes in evening by candlelight ( how romantic)

We also share a toilet ( come on, I know you’re all wondering!). Ours is luxurious – porcelain, flushing.

And shower. Cold showers during the hot season are wonderful, but heated bucket baths most recently as the temperature has been too cold. Amazingly, with probably 15 people sharing one shower, I’ve only had to wait for the shower twice!

My room is about 3.5 m x 3.5m and is perfectly simple.

cooking dinner

kitchen/pantry

bed/work area

And that’s about it. To me, it is exactly what I need and allows me to live with a family while having my own personal space. I don’t eat with Auntie Phiri and Cairo because they don’t eat until 2130 hours and I’m usually in bed by 22 hours. But every day, when I get home, it is a bit of ritual where I chat with Cairo and see how her school is going as she prepares tea and popcorn as a snack for her and her mom. Auntie Phiri then comes home and we also catch up and then I head to my room and cook dinner and do some reading and head to bed and chat with them as they watch cheesy Spanish soap operas.

And it is this ritual, this familiarity that I’ve come to enjoy and that has come to be part of my life here. It is this relationships with a family, and a neighbourhood, and culture that makes things more real, helps me to frame development in another light and makes the distance from friends and family ok.

Medi-WHAT?!

2007-07-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

“But we didn’t add any water! *humph* ma ma ma ma ma, you’re trying to cheat us!”

I see Simon Malambo’s jolly round face looking back at me, his round eyes wide, and round cheeks puffed from his open smile. I hear the laughter of recognition coming from the likes of Mr. Mwenda, the dairy representative.

I shake my head and reply “ ah ahn. No no, I tested it, and there is WATER! In the HONEY! It is YOU who is trying to cheat me! I expected PURE HONEY! I can’t buy this now!’

What the!? You might be wondering ‘Is Ka-Hay getting into the honey business?’ Actually, no, I’m not. It’s better than that. I’m acting. That’s right, making like Julia Roberts, playing Ms. Nyabako, the Honey buyer who has discovered that the honey she was sourcing from smallholder farmers has been diluted with water.

Why you ask? And what in the world does this have to do with poverty reduction in Africa?

Over the last month or so, I’ve been struggling to sit down and actually write about what I’m doing here. Not because I don’t know what to tell you - oh god, that’s certainly not the problem. No, my problem is that I don’t know where to start because the issues in development just aren’t that simple, and sometimes I feel like things need to be perfectly nuanced in order to properly communicate the details and subtleties of the realities that I’m working it. And when I think about those subtleties, my head goes into a spin thinking about where to begin, what to include, what not to include, how to say it.

It has been the start that has stopped me.

But I’ve decided that it’s time to get past that because at the rate I’m going, I’ll never be posting again. I’ve accepted that it’s never going to be perfect and I might miss out key points but that’s the way things go. So, here we go, and if you have questions, let me know and I’ll try to clarify.

I’ve got a number of projects on the go and one of my primary responsibilities for now is to develop a mediation program to resolve agricultural disputes. MEDIATION, just quickly, is a form of dispute resolution that is based on common interests, focused on preserving relationships between disputing parties and aims to create mutually beneficial solutions.

PROFIT’s overarching goal is to strengthen agricultural industries in which large number of small holder farmers participate as a means for poverty reduction at the household level. We approach this in various ways, including linking relevant players (farmers, input suppliers, buyers, service providers) together, and facilitating an environment that ensures that these relationship are sustainable and conducive for industry competitiveness.

While this objective may sound easy, making it happen is quite difficult. For this intervention to work, strong relationships between all players- private sector companies, small holder farmers need to be in place.

Agricultural Input company and Farmers meeting (click to view)

Currently the realities in which small holder farmers operate and private sector companies operate are vastly different. Rural communities tend to do business through their friends and family network and make decisions based on factors that are heavily linked to the local social structure. On the other hand, private sector companies are outsiders to these communities they operate with a set of standards that carry very little weight with rural communities. So, for these relationships to be strong, small holder farmers will need to learn how to participate in the formal business economy and private sector companies will need to learn how to work with rural communities and understand their behaviour and the social context in which decisions are made.

We believe that this will be entirely possible, but also understand that no system is perfect and that it will be natural for disputes to arise.

Currently, the only means currently available to resolve disputes is through the court system which is ineffective for a number of reasons including, inefficient, does not take agricultural priorities into account, creates win-lose/right-wrong situations rather than mutually beneficial solutions, geographically inaccessible, and costly.

And so, this is where mediation comes in. Establishing a strong mediation program in Zambia is part of PROFIT’s exit strategy as currently, PROFIT often mediates the relationships and that isn’t sustainable in the long term.

To do so, I am working with Zambian National Farmers Union (ZNFU). ZNFU is one Zambia’s oldest institutions and home to some 30 000 + small holder farmers in all corners of the country. It will be the institutional home to the mediation program and will be a critical player in promote strong and productive agricultural relationships between all players in the agricultural sector.

Jeremiah Kasalo (f), ZNFU Agribusiness Manager in one of pilot districts and Charity Ngoma ( PROFIT) during mediation training

We have trained 20 ZNFU staff and provincial chairmen in mediation skills and are piloting formal services in three districts before scaling this up nationally. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been meeting with each of the pilot districts and working closely with the Agribusiness managers and lead farmers to develop the implementation strategy, as well as raise awareness of what mediation is and the role that ZNFU will play. It is during this time that I had my moment of glory playing Ms. Nyabako.

Henry Chikwanda and Simon Malambo, North and Southern Province Chairperson

And then over the next few weeks, we’ll be pushing a lot of community promotions and also identifying how to best create buy in from private sector players.

I'll do my best to keep you updated on how this goes!

Hope all is well back home in Canada or wherever you are!

About a boy

2007-06-17T05:22:00.000-07:00

I have a story. It is about a boy.

This boy lives in a rural village that lies outside of the reach of the city, the electrical grid and other amenities that comes with modernity. He is second born of 9 and the first born son. Like the rest of the community, his is a farming family and their life is synchronized with the sun; they get up as it rises, work in the fields with it overhead, and head home as its travel down the horizon. The family works a modest plot of land that for the most part, allows them to put food on the table and at times, even has some money left over to send a few of the 9 children to school. As the eldest son, this boy is one of the lucky ones.

One day, the small boy goes to his father with a simple request: to have his first pair of shoes. Shoes after all, rank low on the list of household needs.

The father thinks for a bit and says to the boy. ‘I tell you what. You know that we don’t have very much money. But you get up every morning at 5:30 before school, feed these ducklings over here and look after them. Once they grow big enough to sell, you and I will take them to the market. With the money we make, we will buy a pair of shoes. Deal?”

As so, the boy gets up before the crack of dawn and diligently feeds the ducks before heading off to school. After a few months, the father tells the boy the news that he’s been waiting for “Son, the ducks are looking nice and fat. I think that they are ready for the market.” and off they go.

Carrying the ducks over their shoulders, they weave through the stalls of the market and find a buyer who offers a fair price. Ducks and money exchange hands and just as the father promised the small boy, they make their way to the shoe stall. They enter the stall and the little boy can barely contain his excitement. ‘Imagine, after all this time! Shoes!’.

But the thing to remember is that it takes time to raise ducklings. Just as ducklings grow big, so do small boys. And over the course of all of the 5:30 mornings, over the course of all of the daily feedings and disciplined patience, feet that were small enough to fit into children’s shoes had now grown into feet that only fit into the more expensive adult size shoes.

The little boy’s feet had outgrown the profits of his ducks.

And father and son have no choice but to leave the shoe stall with money in hand, and feet as bare as when they arrived.

Some of you may read this story and feel sympathy. Some of you may pity the small boy. I feel empathy and to me this story represents the meaning of opportunity and is part of my story of why I care.

This story doesn’t take place here in Zambia, far from it in fact. It takes place in the rural village of Wan-Sah in southern China some fifty or so years ago.

This story is a about a boy, and this boy is my father.

My dad grew up in poverty similar to what I see around me. He grew up with hopes, dreams, and abilities and I see these, in abundance, around me. My dad had to travel to Canada to access opportunities that enabled him to translate these hopes, dreams and abilities into a life of security. And I, by happenstance of being born in Canada, enjoy a life of choice and freedoms, just one generation later.

When I think about this, I simply can’t accept that the opportunities of access– to health, education, markets and technology – that enable people to leverage abilities and make something of hopes and dreams should confined to our Canadian or ‘western’ borders. I just can’t accept that; not when I meet people who are just like me, just like my dad, but happen to fall on the broadside of the injustice of global poverty.

Dad, I want you to know that I see you in so many of the inspiring people around me who have hopes and dreams and abilities just like you; in people like Frances, the porter who moved my bed 4 km by wheel barrow to my new place to earn some money so he can send his young daughter to school; in Mr. Moyu, the PROFIT mechanic who is so proud that his eldest son will attend university; in Mr. Chiyombwe, the pragmatic farmer who doesn’t take risks but has worked hard in his fields and his family is now more secure than when he was growing up. In so many of the people I see, I see your story of working hard, of searching for and taking advantage of every opportunity to give your children a better future, a better tomorrow.

I know that it might be hard to understand why I have chosen this path after getting my engineering degree. I know that in your deepest dreams, you too had wanted to be an engineer, but couldn’t afford to go to school. I know that after owning your own factory in Hong Kong, for thirty one years, you worked at someone else’s. Day in and day out you worked hard, not because you loved you job but because you loved your children.

Thank you. Your gift of freedom and opportunities has allowed me and my brothers to follow our passions and to lead lives that we value. This is a gift that inspires me. And this is a lifetime gift that I will cherish, always.

Happy Father’s Day Ba. I hope you and mom are off enjoying the freedom of retirement as you tour around New Foundland. I miss you lots and can’t wait for you and mom to come and see Zambia.

colour wheel

2007-05-26T06:55:00.000-07:00

One day, I was out with three other EWB folks. As the four of us walked down the street, we passed a young man who flashed us broad grin and pointed down the line from David, to Parker, to Louis and to me and said "

White.

White.

White.

(pause)

ORANGE!"

ORANGE?!?!?!

I thought that those of us of chinese persuasion were yellow.

This reference to me being orange happened again today.

Maybe I'm getting a bit of a sunburn....

Happy Mother's Day

2007-05-13T04:22:00.000-07:00

Chiyombwe household, Malama community

"Come Ka-Hay, I’m going to introduce you to the lady you will be staying with”. We’ve finished the Malama community meeting and Jonathon takes my hand and leads me over to a lady dressed in a bright green chintenge.

“Mulibwuia Buti” I greet Madame Chiyombwe with a small curtsey and she returns a small smile, a gentle handshake and a softspoken “Kabutu’. I tried to read the somewhat restrained and emotionless face, and as I came up empty handed, a part of me wondered what the next few days were really going to be like and if much of it would be spent in silence.

It wasn’t. Over the next four days, I shadow Madame as we go into the fields, as we walk around the community to visit village headman. During our time together, I discover that she is a community leader, a risk taker, and above all a mother who represents the simple hope that is common across communities and cultures.

I arrive at the house, and look around me to and see the tin roof on the main house, four mud brick thatch roofed houses, maize in the three sheds, the ox ploughs, a latrine, plenty of chickens, pigs, cattle, a well, and a the sizeable woodpile. This is the time of year when many households are trying to hold hunger at bay for another few months until harvest season arrives but I can see that this is a secure household and I was curious to know understand what made the Chiyombwes a successful rural farming family.

Madame is 50, healthy and still built like a horse. We get up at the crack of dawn and head into the fields to weed her groundnut and sweet potatoe fields. As much as I want to slow down with as my spoiled hands form blisters and my weak back begins to pain from being bent over, I have to stifle these thoughts as Madame shows no signs of weakness.

Madame tells me about how she first had to learn to use the ox drawn plough – a rare task for women because of the strength required. Mister Chiyombwe was teaching, and there was no one else who could help with ploughing and so I had no choice’. She says this with a quiet pride as she recognises that in ploughing her own field, she had bucked the gender trend.

Madame, Muzinga and Whista, weeding sweet potato field

She is a community leader, an HIV/aids peer educator and takes care of HIV patients when she has time. She used to sit on the committee for Food aid distribution, was one of the first women to join CLUSA – a cooperative initiative, and also one of the first women to join Zambia national Farmer’s union. Because of these leadership positions she is highly trusted within the community.

"Why doesn’t mr. Chiyombwe put the cattle in the health plan? I asked as we walked to visit the village headman one day."

Madame had attended the livestock meeting to learn about what the Herd Health Plan was all about. Her husband, Mr. Chiyombwe has about 70 cattle but none of them were yet on the health plan, and for what she understood, it makes sense that they invest a little money to keep the animals healthy. Afterall, the family had lost 50% of their cattle during the disease outbreak 10 years ago.

‘ ah, I don’t know.’ And then with a small smile, she says ‘but you and me, tonight, we’ll talk to him, and I’m sure he’ll agree.’

You see, in the Chiyombwe household, Madame is the risk taker. She was one of the first farmers in the area to grow paprika and soon became the lead famer. One of the challenges in getting farmers to adopt new behaviour is that the vulnerability of poor farmers make them highly risk adverse and it is difficult to get them to take on a new behaviour because any slight mistake would cost a household their security for the season. She is the one who was willing to plant fruit orchard when Mr. Chiyombwe thought it was a waste of time. After two seasons, Mr. Chiyombwe saw the value in the fruit and decided what a great idea having an orchard is! And decided to create one for himself.

On our way back from weeding

And of course, Madame is a mother. she is a mother of 7 and a grandmother of 28. While she was not able to attend secondary school, her daughter Muzinga has and in fact, Muzinga is now a teacher in the nearby community, Mazabuka.

I ask Madame what she hopes for her children and grandchildren. ‘Security. Not needing to worry about food, about money. To continue to pursue learning and get an education. ’

Muzinga (daughter), Madame, Little Chipu ( grandaughter)

It’s simple isn’t it? At the end of the day, this is what development is all about. That you may not have gone to high school, but you work hard so that your daughter might. And while she might not be able to finish high school, she will work hard to ensure that her daughter can. Step by step, this is how progress is made and you work hard to provide a better future for your children, a future with opportunities and freedoms that you had only dreamed of.

And when I think of this simple fact, I can’t help but think about the one woman who embodies this same spirit; the same simple dream, a better future for her children. This woman is an incredibly hard worker and has inspired me to be a better person; she taught me about compassion, to care about others, to not be afraid to laugh at yourself and to see the beauty in the world.

I see this women in all of the inspirational people like Madame that I meet and this woman is of course, none other than my mother.

My mother 'recently' turned 60, and I am proud of her for many reasons. Not just because of raisingus four kids ( three pain of the butt brothers and me, the angel daughter :) hehe) but because she finally decided to take time to take care of herself and do things that she wants to do. And it's been amazing. She taught herself how to use the computer and is now on the internet using messenger and webcam; she learned to play the violin, began ballroom dancing, she goes crazy with her tai chi ( hence not doing anything for the reputation that us chinese all know kung fu). She continues to be a child at heart and in doing so, has not lost even the tiniest bit of the care and compassion that she has for her family and her community.

Mom, thank you for all of the gifts that you gave me and my brothers; the love of art and music, the love of laughter, the care and compassion for others, the love of sport and learning. But maybe most of all, thank you for giving us the opportunity to lead a life that we value, for the freedoms and choice that enable us to follow our passions. And I hope that you will know that part of the reason why I'm doing what I'm doing today is because of these gifts that you given me and for that, I am forever grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day mom. Miss you lots and can’t wait to introduce you to Madame when you and Dad come to visit.

Like mother...

like daughter.

administrative details

2007-05-10T05:49:00.000-07:00

woah. i know.

i don't post for a month, and then i go bonkers.

And sorry, this one is pure administration. Have had a few requests for contact details and thought I would share widely in case oh, you know...you have some spare time on your hands...

you can go old school and use snail mail:

Ka-Hay Law
c/o PROFIT Project
Private Bag 307X RW
6 Tukuluho Road
Longacres
Lusaka, Zambia

or join the power and go new age:

mobile: +260 979406298 (** note this has been updated recently**)
skype: Ka-Hay Law (Zambia location)

ROBBED BLIND

2007-05-09T23:43:00.000-07:00

Safety first.

When you’re new in a city and culture, it is easy to be distracted by bright shiny objects and miss the deep dark underbelly of society. We all take safety seriously, and it is top of mind to avoid sketchy situations. Lusaka, generally, is quite safe. Sure, there’s the odd pick-pocketer along Cairo road and City market, and it’s probably not safe to wander the streets after 2000 hours, but generally, it’s pretty safe here.

A few weeks back, I discovered that I might actually have a bit more freedom than other volunteers. You see, I discovered, since my looks shout Chinese, there is an automatic conclusion that in fact, I am from China and further more, I know kung fu.

My initial reaction when I first heard this stereotype was oh god, not this again.

You see, growing up in white rural, southern Ontario, I didn’t like the fact that I was ‘Chinese’, hated how people judged me because I looked different, and cringed when people would make assumptions like how I must know karate. Although I always got the last laugh watching people behave like fools as they showed off kung fu nonsense, deep down, I would resent how I would be stereotyped into a culture that I knew very little about. Unbeknownst to me a decade or so later, and half way around the world, I would be revisiting these scars of childhood.

At least things change, with age comes wisdom and I have since come to discover that as much as I dreaded that stereotype, there is actually some silver lining in it.

Globalization in all of its power, has opened the doors of Zambia to massive foreign investment by the Chinese who, like the rest of the world, has particular interest in Africa’s wealth of natural resources ( interestingly, China just handed Zambia $39M support package to purchase agric equipment…sigh). But I’m not in the mood to debate the positives and negatives of FDI in this post. Instead, I wanted to focus on the brighter side of the liberalization of markets, which brings with it what? None other than the influx of Chinese pirated DVDs of course! Of particular interest are the ones that feature kung fu superstars like Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee. HAIYA!

Thanks to this cultural invasion (or is it…revolution?), people not only believe I know kung fu, they also believe that I can kick anyone’s ass. Now, this is of course TRUE, but the point of the story isn’t the fact that I really CAN, but that there is an automatic association between the Chinese and getting your ass kicked and so people naturally fear messing with me.

The first time I discovered this, I was sitting around chatting with a few friends. Out of the blue, Max, who actually reminds me of Eddie Murphy asks me,

“Tell me Ka-Hay, you know kung fu right?”

“Ahh……sure?” ( It’s a half truth... one of my ancestors probably knew kung fu)

“Ah, see! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah (squeal of amazement as one realizes the truth).

Tell me, you have been training since you were this small yes? (holds his hand out to indicate the height of my little 1 ½ year old nephew)’

Ahhhhh…..(can’t answer through my tears of laughter)

“Tell me also, have you seen Jackie Chan with your naked eyes?”

Jackie Chan is worshipped here. Seriously, anyone know his agent? Get him on the next plane to Lusaka and he will be mobbed by rabid fans. Ok, maybe not mobbed but certainly worshipped…from afar…far out of the reach of his hands an feet.

Through fits of laughter, Max tells me about how this belief came to be. The legend here in the town of Monze (but surely, you can replace it with any other Zambian town or city.) goes something like this:

“You see, there was this chap in Monze – my friend Laurence's cousin—who was one of the best boxers in town. He trained all the time and no one could beat him no matter how hard they tried. This guy was GOOD, tough!”

Max emphasizes the last point with a flex of his bicep

“One night, he came across a little Chinese man just on that road over there (point in the appropriate direction) and one thing led to another and they had a quarrel. And then the little Chinese man, who looked like only a small boy, beat HIM! UGLY! UGLY!

I AM TELLING you! UUUUGGGGGLY!Aaaaaaaaaaaaah (squeal of delight).

And so, we don’t mess with you people. You guys, you can walk around the market at 2300 hours and you will be safe.”

“So, do most people here think that all Chinese people know kung fu?”

“No, uh ahn, not most people.

ALL people, ONE HUNDRED PERCENT. EVERYONE knows that the Chinese know kung fu.

And you people, you don’t have bones. You can be beaten and nothing, no bleeding, nothing. But us, aaaaaaaaah, we will be beaten UG-LeY.”

So, I’ve tested the scope of this belief; from Mkushi to Choma, to Lusaka and it is true, no one wants to mess with me for fear of being beaten ugly. And so I can be one of the few volunteers who can wander around until about 2300hrs, by myself, and maybe even with a few million kwacha hanging out of my pockets, gold chains around my neck, swinging strings of diamonds around and wearing a sign that says ‘Rob me, please…I beg you’, and I would still be safe.

I am conscious of the many privileges and stereotypes I bring and do actively try to break as many of them as possible; But you know, this one, this is one that I have consciously decided to let run wild.

I do have to mention however, as with all good things, there is an exception, and I learned about it on Easter weekend a little while back. What is it? Well… its that the Chinese association only works if you’re awake.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the southern Africa EWB volunteers got together in Malawi for our quarterly meeting over the Easter weekend. After putting all of the trial and tribulations of the travels to Malawi (see demonstracion del gongo post) behind us, we got to work and put our heads together to chat about our placements our work, our organizations, and opportunities to have more impact and other such things. All of this was done at Senga Bay campgrounds ( would suggest anyone who is traveling in that neck of the woods to check it out) which is a gorgeous place right on the coast of Lake Malawi. In between our work sessions, we were able to have campfires on the beach, jump in the lake to cool off when the sun got too hot, and just enjoyed being surrounded by scenery and nature around us.

One evening, some us of decided to sleep out on the beach. Just picture this, it was a brilliant; the stars were out, the air warm, and the sand soft. I laid down my chitenge (African cloth) to sleep on, rolled out my sleeping bag and to protect myself against my own carelessness (high risk factor), I put my glasses in its case and put the case beside my head.

OOOOHHHH, it was a glorious slumber; warm breeze, sand moulded bed, moonlit and star scattered sky, waves crashing against the shore. In the morning I woke with the rising of the sun and looked out across the waters of the lake. I thought about how perfect it was and how lucky I was to have been able to experience such a lovely sleep.

And then reality set in.

It turns out, during the night, some guy had walked by our group and made like it was Boxing Day. He did some five finger discount shopping acquiring a cell phone from my friend Trevor, a head lamp from my friend Danny, and from me, from little innocent ol’ me, from beside my big fat head, a pair of glasses.

That’s right MY GLASSES! Gone! You know, I always thought it was just a figure of speech, but that night I was literally robbed blind.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Maybe it was because my face was buried in my sleeping bag that this unbelievable event happened. Surely, had he seen the Chinese features I had inherited from my parents, he would have thought twice about taking what was not his because I would have, most definitely, beaten him UGLY.

We looked for my specs on the beach. (ok, alright. My friends looked, I blindly tagged along like a drunken fool trying not to fall into piles of garbage or bump into kids). Nothing.

We talked to the kind staff at the campgrounds who suggested our first action should be to report it to the police. (Hahaha, Oh stop, it hurts.)

I even offered a bounty of $100 USD for anyone who could bring back my glasses in one piece, no questions asked. (Vision after all is priceless). Nothing.

So, as you read this, somewhere in Malawi some poor soul is trying to pawn off my pair of coke bottle glasses. What’s sad is that he even doesn’t realise that he’s never going to get any money for them because they’re strong enough to make anyone nauseous, dangerous enough to blind someone for life and powerful enough to knock anyone out cold the instant they put them on.

In the meantime, if you’re eager and passing through Malawi anytime soon, the bounty is still on. Just send me the goods in a brown unmarked envelope and if all is intact, I’ll send you the cash.

And as for me, well, I’ve kicked my kung fu training up a notch. I’ve trained myself to sleep with my face uncovered, well exposed and visible at all times. Oh, and to remedy my temporary blindness, I’ve taken to using my spare pair of glasses…

demonstracion del gongo

2007-05-08T07:35:00.000-07:00

Preface:

Yes, I’ve been delinquent. Thanks to those of you sending emails to check in, see how things are going, and make sure that I’m actually still in Zambia and not back in Canada hiding out somewhere in Kits eating bon bons and drinking organic fair-trade non-fat cappuccinos extra hot while getting a reflexology treatment and green tea facial.

I am in fact, still here, still alive, and doing more than well. There is a lot to update on in terms of my project now with PROFIT and Zambia National Farmers Union as things are falling into place, but I’ve been selfish in keeping personal experiences on this side of the Atlantic and thought that I would devote a bit of webspace to being me in Zambia.

So, if you’re looking for deep development insights, check back in a few days. Otherwise, if you' re just looking for some story telling to distract you from your work, fix yourself a cup of coffee, pour yourself a glass of chardonnay (one or the other...would not suggest both) and read on. Sorry if it is a bit text heavy, but there are some pictographs scattered throughout to satisfy you visual types.

All the best you as spring arrives throughout the land of the maple leaf!

Randomness. Entropy. No, I’m not talking about the second law of thermodynamics, I’m talking about good old fashioned, random, *surprise*, 'what-the!' kind of events that shake you around, leave ou laughing and remind you that you are alive.

One of the parts of Ghana that I loved was the energy that seemed to swirl around you. Things were systematically chaotic, orderly enough to save pedestrians from being annihilated by a manic taxis, to keep goats steady on the top of buses traveling 100km/hour, to let you fall head over feet into gutters the size of roads and still be ok, to make a 4 hour bus ride stretch into 8 hours and give you a gorgeous moon to stare at. This chaos was so perfectly choreographed it left you wondering if there was a master puppeteer out there and hoping that he or she could pay us a visit in Canada to inject some energy and excitement into our well planned, orderly and dare I say it, predictable lives.

I have to be honest. When I arrived in Lusaka, I was impressed and excited by many things, but I was also longing for chaos as things here are a lot more western here in style and order. Gutters are covered so you couldn’t fall into them even if you tried or paid someone to help you;i have yet to see goats surfing on the top of buses, cars generally stay within the speed limits and usually stop at the red lights, the phones usually work; you usually have water and electricity is relatively stable. So naively, after my first month, I let my guard down and thought to myself ‘wow, everything seems to happen here as planned.’

Record screeches to a stop. Fork clinks against the plate. Awkward silence fills the air.

Thankfully, a series of events that happened a few weekends ago reminded me, that if fact, the chaos exists, the randomness is here, and that I should rid my mind of that silly notion as the powers are alive and well.

Every quarter, EWB volunteers will get together over a long weekend to update our training, go over our respective projects and share ideas with each other and catch each other up on our placements. The first one for me was over the Easter long weekend and I was excited to be heading over to the neighbouring country Malawi.

The BIG PLAN was fairly straight forward. Take the 0600 hours bus from Lusaka to Chipatat and arrive in the eastern border town of by 1400hours. Next, make a quick dash over the boarder into Malawi, hire a taxi ride over to Mchinji ( yes, that same town made famous by Madonna), hire another taxi or bus over Lilongwe where we would meet up with other EWB volunteers. Together, we would all take a bus to Senga Bay on Lake Malawi by 1900 hours.

Easy peasy, connect the dots, 1-2-3-and we’re done.

But consistent with the realities of development, and to feed the Jeffery Sachs vs. William Easterly showdown, we quickly learned that the realy challenge isn’t in making good top down BIG PLAN, the real challenge lies in implementation and being able to SEARCH FOR SOLUTIONS when things stray from the BIG PLAN.

Here’s how it all went down:

0530hrs: The six of us arrive happy at the Intercity bus station and begin to settle in for our long journey to Chipata. I had remembered the randomness of buses in Ghana (read: it gets there when it gets there, if it gets there) but was reassured by my friend Paul that

"no, no, the buses here in Zambia are MUCH more reliable, comfortable, leave on time"

and it was going to be smooth sailing.

0600hrs: Departure time passes, bus is still in the station but no worries, we roll out of the station 20 minutes later and after a small detour to the filling station we were soon on our way, accompanying the sun rise over the country side.

0710hrs: A small announcement wakes me from my slumber. ‘Someone’ had not tightened the cap properly and hydraulic fluid had leaked out. Ah, acuna muthatha, no worries, all they had to do was get some replacement fluid and then tighten the cap and we would all be on our way. We pullover to the roadside in Chongwe, 40 km out of town.

Sometime past noon. Miracle of miracles. It turns out refilling the hydraulic fluid and tightening the cap is an intensive 5+ hour process becauseamazingly we were still in Chongwe, still the same 40 km outside of Lusaka and no further along on our journey. I could have walked and gotten further.

So, what is there to do when stranded on the side of the road and there's no CAA to call or Tim Horton's to visit?

Plenty.

For one, we chatted with the locals.

Fellow volunteer Jen with candy man who entertained stranded travellers with sweets

Checked out local latrine building techniques and conditions (hold your nose)

Played some ultimate Frisbee and watched as our bus drives off, in the opposite direction of where you want to go…with all of your things still on it... including two of your friends.

uhmmmm what's wrong with this picture?

We even played Iron chef and launched Zambia’s first ever Banana Fritter.

Big pile-o-greasy fritters (the original)

A fritters is a fried dough that is one of the few street foods here. We made friends with seller and learned that in the course of one day, she can net about 100, 000 ZMK ($30) selling them. I remembered how my mom makes fried bananas and suggested to her that perhaps she try adding a little someth'n someth'n in the way of bananas to differentiate herself from her competitors. Naturally, Madame was a bit hesitant and doubtful at first. but fear not, Jen and I used a market facilitation approach; we helped buy down her risk by investing in test bananas ourselves and then guaranteed her a market (us).

Madame testing out new fritters with our investment of bananas

We're not sure if she did this out of pity for our boredom, but she gave it a go, and while it probably requires a dash of sugar and a touch of salt, we would have to say, pretty successful!

Cooking of the first ever banana fritter in zambia!

And then as we were digesting the grease of the friteer, we waited.

And we waited some more.

And, after a few of the market ladies overheard us wishing for an impassa (reed mat), they generously brought one from their house. We laid down for a nice nap, sheltered from the sun, right beside the tar road and a maize field. Ah, such is the life

ant-eye view as we nap beside a field of maize (whichclearly hadn't had fertliser applied to it.)

And then, the moment we fell asleep, a replacement bus pulls up ( problem solved).

7 hours later, we arrived in Chipata without another hitch. Got some food, and then made our way over the next leg of the trip – crossing the border

Borders, for whatever reason scare me. Even when I’m passing into the US ( which of course, is scary in its own right) I get nervous. It’s not like I’m a fugitive, or have things I’m not suppose to have, hiding somewhere they’re not supposed hide. But even though I’m entirely innocent, I still get nervous.

So you can imagine my feeling that night, trying to cross from Zambia to Malawi with an expired visa (longer story). The border guard didn’t seem too impressed by small detail but thankfully I had gotten malaria the week before and even more thankfully, had my medical clinic receipt on me and this seemed to be a good enough for the guard. Problem solved, and I was waved through after only small confrontation.

Border behind us, we moved on and looked for a taxi to take us to Mjinchi. We found one about the size of a Honda civic and 6 of us + driver (= 7) piled our bags and bodies into a car in a manner that resembled those car commercials touting lots of interior space: two guys in the front passenger, four of us in the back. If life was really like what it looks like on TV, it would have been relatively uneventful and boring, but fortunately, that’s not the case and we were enjoyed a more colourful version.

Paul and Ed, two of the biggest and tallest volunteers among us, crammed into passenger seat

First, let me set the context, it’s not like any of us are heavy or ‘big boned’ ( KK, don’t even go there), but when you add 7 people into a 5 seater which already was lowered, pack the trunk full of bags, take away any elasticity in the shocks, and drive it over unpaved roads so bumpy it makes a mogul run look like a sheet of glass, you get an up and down ride that goes something like this :

UP.

Down.

Ssccccrrreeeeeccchhh, cccrrruuuunnnchhhhhh, ggrrriiinnnndddd

Cringe

UP.

Down.

(oh here we go again, cringe)

Ssccccrrreeeeeccchhh, cccrrruuuunnnchhhhhh.

Cringe.

Repeat.

Repeat for another 10 minutes with intermittent pauses as we dragged our way up to drinking bars ask if there is petrol for sale. (This is not because cars run on Redbull and vodka here, it’s because this is how fuel works in Malawi).

Amazingly, we didn’t leave a single piece of the exhaust system behind us.

After the off roading stint, we found some nice tar road and of course, nice tar roads come with road blocks. We rolled up to the first one and the policeman walked up to the window and saw our taxi driver looking back at him. The black face was familiar to him and he was about to let us through until the light of his flashlight caught sight of 6 shiny muzungus piled ontop of each other with our glowing innocent faces peering back out at him. ‘ Uhhhhhhhhhh….Hi officer”

“AHHHHH!!” he yelped. He looked as though he had seen a ghost and I thought he was going to pass out from shock. He didn’t.

In fact, I think he was probably more scared than anything else because he waved us through without hesitation.

We rolled into Mjinchi around 2100 hours with another 300 + km of traveling ahead of us. Our taxi wasn’t going to take us any further and we had to negotiate for another. A few emerged from the shadows but the prices were looking to be quite high and we were prepared to settle in for a good bartering session. We didn’t have to wait too long though as we got a great deal from one man who was very eager to drive us. So eager he began to wave around the bottle of beer he was drinking.

Uh Ahn. Safety first. We informed him that he had successfully disqualified himself but he insisted that he would find one of his drivers who would be able to drive us. Three minutes later, he cruises up alongside us and informs us that he can’t find his driver, but he has an idea: why doesn’t one of US drive because by the time we arrive at our destination, he’ll probably have sobered up and can take his car back.

Brilliant. And in that instant, Paul become our taxi driver, we acquired a new passenger, played a bit of musical chairs and packed ourselves into the car. Problem solved and we moved onward.

Things went relatively smoothly after that. We passed through check points mostly un-accosted and after 18 hours of traveling and were finally starting to ‘win’ as my friend Mike once put it when writing about the way things work in Africa. We were reveling about things were going so well and dreaming about how we would soon be able to take a nice long sleep and then….

POW!

We blew a tire.

1 km from our destination.

Incroyable!

They say that most discoveries happen by accident and I’d have to attest to that. In blowing a tire, we discovered a new breathalyzer test; screw walking in a straight line, forget touching your nose with your fingers, throw away that fancy machine officer, just get someone to change a tire.

Over the hour and half ride from Lilongwe, the driver had gathered his senses and passed with flying colours. In three minutes flat (seriously, no exaggeration) to all of our astonishment, the spare was secured and the car repacked. Problem solved we were ready to go.

We re-packed ourselves back into the car, sat in silence, held our breath and kept our eyes peeled for ready for anything, ANYTHING to happen in the last 1000m. I half expected the ground to open up and swallow us whole, or a tree to emerge from the barren roadside and crash across the road, or seven dwarfs to wander in front of the car and chain themselves to the road, or even a pterodactyl to swoop in and pluck our little car from the crust of the earth.

Amazingly, nothing did.

We finally arrived at our destination, 1am the next morning, full 6 hours later than planned and 19 hours since we started off. We lived through the escapade, a bit tired, unscarred and two lessons richer. The first lesson being that one that most development agencies still don’t fully grasp – a good plan is worth crap if you can’t implement it and in implementing, it’s all about searching for solutions.

And then, the second, perhaps most important lesson we learned was about holds the balance of power here.

And it sure ain't us.

OFFICIAL EWB Southern Africa Volunteers in Senga Bay, Malawi

True colours

ALLEZ!!! ALLEZ!!! ALLEZ!!!

2007-04-01T07:39:00.000-07:00

Kazungu Village, Malama Area, Monze District, Southern Province, Zambia (whew)

As I mentioned in my last post, I had the opportunity to stay in a rural village following a community meeting. This was my first venture into rural Zambia and I was excited. No, no, I was more than excited. The community was about 100 km away from the nearest tar road, and as we bounced along the winding narrow roads, my colleague Jonathon turned to me and said dramatically, “Ka-Hay! We are now in the heart of Africa’. I turned my face into the sun, took in a deep breath of air and looked around me at the expanse of lands, the fields of maize, at the absence of roads, and curiously back at the curious looks thrown my way from people who stopped at the side of the road to let our vehicle – a rare one – drive by.

Life here in rural Zambia is certainly different than in Vancouver, Toronto, Kingston, Wallaceburg, and any other Canadian city and you have to let go of what you know and are used to, in order to truly experience and embrace the differences; luxury is if your house has a tin rather than thatch roof; your family’s security is dependent on if and how much the rains will fall; you eat what is in season; you live with extended extended extended family; the women cook, and the men do not; children don't eat with adults; it is called maize, not corn; the milk is fresh, not processed; the night skies are filled with glittering stars as there is no electrical lights to compete with; water comes from a well; bedtime is when the sun goes down and you get up is when the sun rises; nothing is ever thrown away; you know what plants are edible, and which are not; cows, pigs and chickens roam freely by as you prepare your next meal; you read a book because you're studying something; aids is a reality; As much as I try to blend in and do as the locals do, it is inevitable that I stand out and everyone is curious about what the white person will do, how my white (yes, white) skin feels, if I’m able to eat nshima like them, and how my hair can be so straight.

Despite all of those things that me different from them, there are also those common things that strip away our differences and unite us as people, equal as humans; that unrestrained smile that transforms strangers into friends, the curiosity of children, love of family, kindness and compassion, tears of sadness, the joy of laughter and the list goes on.

During this time here, I happened upon another one that was somewhat unexpected but one that I will remember with fondness.

After church on Sunday, Madame Chiyombwe, the mother of the family I was staying with, said to me, “ Ka-Hay, you know, every year, as the rainy season ends, there are bicycle races that take place ever other week starting at 14:00. Today will be the first one of the year. Would you like to go and see?

“Bicycle races!?!?!?” But of course!

You see, among the many wonderful gifts that my parents gave my three older brothers and I there was the love of sport. Before I can even remember, our family would gather around swim meets, bike races, running races and triathlons. Guided by our parents, we were used to testing our bodies to their limits and pushing just beyond. From the time I was three, once a month, the six of us get up at the crack of dawn, pack into our sky blue Oldsmobile and travel throughout the cities of southern Ontario to race in swim meets. When I was six, my parents discovered triathlons and soon after that, our summer weekends were planned around those races.

I remember my brothers, all older and wiser than me, always chatting about the latest must-have equipment, the science of sporting technology, how we could shave seconds of our time if only our bikes were set up differently. I remember saving up our money from lifeguarding in order to buy the newest gadgets, and justifying the purchase to our dad who of course thought it was all a waste of money. Afterall, when he grew up in China, he didn’t even have a pair of shoes to wear and had to run barefeet on bubbling tar under the hot sun ( and maybe it was even uphill, both ways…)

To this day, one of my fondest memories of summer is when our family would meet in Kingston Ontario at the end of July and the four of us would complete the K-Town triathlon as my parents cheered us on from the sidelines. During this summer weekend, the residents of this quaint university town located on the shores of Lake Ontario would gather themselves around this annual race; the downtown would be blocked off and traffic would give way to the athletes, music would blare over the loudspeakers, announcers would call out names and the crowd would cheer finishers young and old, fast and slow, as they moved their bodies through water and along the tarmac towards the finish line. I remember energy of the crowds, the sense of camaraderie between friends and competitors alike, the scent of sunscreen in the air, the cloak of fitness draped over every body, and sense of accomplishment in crossing the finish line.

This was what I knew of swimming, biking and triathlons and on that Sunday afternoon, I honestly had had no idea what to expect in this remote community far off the tar road that was ‘deep into the heart of Africa’.

I walked with Freeman and one of Madame’s daughters, Viola and asked ‘Where will the racers go?’. They both waved their arms in a wide circle around them and pointed to no path I could see, to ‘that tree over there’ in the distance, and to homes hidden from my sight, but recognizable in their memory. After their carefully detailed answer, I still had no idea where the course was, but understood that it would cover somewhere around 40 km, start and end conveniently at the community tavern and it would make one loop around the outskirts of the community and out to the foothills off to the south. They said that it was probably going to take the riders about 1:45 – 2 hours and when I arrived, it was nearing that time.

Even before I could see the finish line, I could hear drumming and voices of a crowd. I arrived to see spectators passing the time until the winners arrived by dancing and showing off the impossibly awesome dance moves (how hips are able to move in ways I will never know). Friends chatted, babies hung off their mother’s backs, children roamed freely, and men drank their maize beer.

I tried to wander around the crowds inconspicuously but my white skin betrayed me and was I shoved into the middle of the crowd. Inquisitive eyes peered at me, and curious hands reached out to touch my skin. I took pleasure responding to their question of ‘where are you from’ with the honest ‘Canada’, and watching the look of confusion creep across their face.

As I was tried out my Tonga on some of the locals and amused them with my heavily accented and limited vocabulary, we heard from children perched upon a massive anthill that the first riders could be seen riding in the foothills in the distance. Suddenly everyone stopped what they were doing midstep and rushed towards the dirt road not wanting to miss a thing. The crowd began to gather along the finish line and though I did no know the words, it was not difficult to understand the chatter of excitement of who would be winner of this first race of the season.

In maneuvering to get a better view the crowd began to resemble the masses that lined the roads in the L’alp d’huez stages of the Tour and road began to disappear amidst the bodies. Crowd control in this neck of the woods resembled the herding of cattle and after a few whips of a stick, the road reappeared again.

Cheers soon erupted along the line of people like a game of dominos and before I knew it, the first rider whizzed by and then the second, and then the third. People began yelling, clapping, hugging and others spoke with surprise as the reigning champion was dethroned.

The post race party was not unlike those in Canada. The winner hoisted his bicycle above the mobs to celebrate his win.

Friends and strangers alike hovered around the racers and everyone wanted to touch the bicycles. And these bicycles showed the innovation and creativity that existed within these individuals and communities.

Speaking of these bicycles, if you’ll let me, I’d like to digress for just a moment. You see, one of the things that never sat well with me when I was in Ghana, and I hear it here as well, is the sense among the locals that they are not innovative, not creative, that somehow they lacked ingenuity. One look at their bicycles and was evident that they had not recognized their own worth. These bicycles were reincarnated plastic bags, wooden planks, mismatched gears and other things our spoiled western eyes would have considered garbage. I looked at these bicycles and couldn’t help but be in awe of their creativity, resourcefulness and innovation. I looked at these creations and understood even more, the meaning of opportunity, the meaning of having access to choices and opportunities for you to realize your potential, for you to be able to apply your skills and see your worth. I looked at these bicycles and asked myself the question that never seems to be far from mind; imagine what they could do if they had a fraction of the privileges and choices I had.

Anyway, there were no carbon fibre seat posts, no aerodynamic helmets, no yellow jerseys, no cowbells (surprisingly), no one had heard of Cervelo and certainly there were no scandals of blood doping. What there was a sense of community, a sense of competition, innovation, creativity, all in the commonplace of sport. And on this Sunday afternoon, although half a world away, I found a bit of home and a familiarity in people.

out of lusaka and into something more comfortable

2007-03-23T03:49:00.000-07:00

“Good Effort! Good Effort!” It was 6:30 in on a Sunday morning. The sun had just found its place on the horizon of Malama area in Southern province and its heat had yet to arrive to beat down our bodies. I was enjoying this morning bicycle ride behind Freeman, the local community livestock worker who was doubling his niece Shonta. His words of encouragement wafted through the air and arrived at my ears as we made our way along the unpaved roads avoiding the mud puddles left over from the rains the day before and fighting through tall grass which at times, concealed the way.

I was into my first week on the job, and this was my third morning in this rural village. I enjoyed leaving the bustle of Lusaka and there’s lots to share about this capital city that has surprisingly a strong western flavour and less chaos than I had expected. But I’m getting a sense of curiosity from you cats back home and I feel that first I should get down to business to answer the million dollar question that has been coming my way. No not ‘is it hot there?’ (which it is by the way) but WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

As with many things in development, the answer isn’t that clear…yet. My focus won’t be firm until sometime in April. Instead, for my first month here, I’ve been given the wonderful opportunity to visit a few field offices to better understand PROFIT operations around the country. During this time, I’m also hoping to better understand rural livelihoods better. This visit to Choma and my stay in Malama area was my first exposure to the bigger PROFIT picture. And so, armed with a list of known unknowns and even more unknown unknowns, I was excited to be entering into my classroom of development learning.

As quick background, EWB volunteers are partnered with existing local organizations; our thinking is that there are some wonderful work happening on the ground so how can we add value to these existing initiatives. In my case, I’m partnered with PROFIT – Production, Finance and Technology. This is a 5 year USAID funded program that is aimed at developing a competitive private sector in Zambia; specifically those industries that have an impact on a large number of small holder farmers as this can contribute to wider poverty reduction.

The importance of agriculture for developing countries like Zambia cannot be underestimated. Approximately 80% of Zambians livelihoods depend on agriculture and 80% of these are classified as small holder farmers. Extreme poverty is most prevalent among this group. In a country of 11 M people, 5 million small holder farmers are classified as poor, and 3.5 M classified as extremely poor (UNDP Zambia Economic policies for growth, employment and poverty reduction, 2006) And so, supporting agriculture can have a massive impact on poverty here in Zambia (and is also why EWB focuses in on organizations that work in this area.

Why private sector? Take a few minutes to think about your daily needs and your daily activities for meeting those needs. Let’s take food for example; you can go to the store to buy it. Or, if you like to garden, then you can go to the local hardware store to purchase the equipment and other inputs that you need. If your local store doesn’t have this, then you can get into your car and drive to another community/store, or you can jump on your bike and ride along the paved road to the next outlet, and the chain goes on. Our lives in Canada are so inextricably linked to markets and our access to these markets are generally so open that we don’t even think about how we’re able to meet our needs through the market systems.

Here in Zambia, the situation is quite different; the private sector is much less developed, and of the markets that are available, access to them by rural communities is limited at best. Decades of heavy government subsidies for agricultural inputs (seeds, fertilizers etc) were followed by a rapid privatization in early 1990s. Where governments once provided required inputs for agriculture, the rate of privatization did not provide enough time for alternative supplies to develop through private sector offerings. Today, noticeably absent is a developed private sector in Zambia, or more specifically, particularly one that reaches out into the rural communities. Rural farmers have limited access to markets where they can gain access to products that can improve their output (fertilizers, herbicides, appropriate technology etc.), or markets where they can sell their crops. I thought I had understood this concept of lack of access to markets prior to arriving but it was hammered home during hours of driving on unpaved, pot hole filled roads that had been recently pummeled by the rainy season – and we had the luxury of a 4x4 vehicle.

Cows, not just for tipping.

Having grown up in rural southwestern Ontario, I was used to cattle. I remember spring days when the smell of cattle manure freshly spread on nearby fields marked the beginning of farming season and I can still hear the lazy moooooos of cows as you road by them on your bicycle. I also heard that if you got the timing right, you could push over cows when they were sleeping.

As I’m here on a professional basis, I had to curb my interest in seeing f this rumour was indeed true. Instead, it was more important to understand what cattle actually mean to rural livelihoods. Here in southern province (and for most of the country) cattle play an important role; provides draft power for farming, milk for added nutrition, mode of transportation (ox drawn carts), or maybe most significantly, cattle ownership carries prestige, is a sign of wealth and effectively, it is a farmer’s bank.

After a good year of harvest or if farmers have extra money on their hands, that money will likely go into the purchase a head of cattle. And conversely, if they require money, (ex. for school fees, if a child is sick), they will then withdraw from their bank by selling off a head of cattle. An average price for a head of cattle is about 1 – 1.2 M kwacha. (about 300$CDN)

One of the vulnerabilities faced by Zambian farmers is the animal’s susceptibility to disease. In the late 80s/early 90’s there was a massive outbreak of corridor disease that wiped out an estimated ¾ of cattle in Monze district of the southern province. Not only did this have direct impact on financial security, it also impacted agricultural production as there was significant dependency on draft power for farming. And today, in the absence of government support, animal health continues to be poor and disease continues to be a major risk factor.

And so, the dipping service that I was riding to with Freeman was part of the Herd Health Plan (HHP) initiative of PROFIT. The end goal of HHP is to improve animal health by linking farmers with private vets. PROFITs role in this is multiple. First, they organize farmers into suitable groups and raise their awareness on the importance of preventative measures for animal health. A common analogy used by these facilitators is this: “ Your animals are your bank. If you don’t protect your animals, then it is like having a bank that does not have a lock on the door, or one where the windows are all broken; thieves can easily come in and steal your money. In your case, the disease is the thief, and so why won’t you protect against them?’

Farmers meeting at Chief of Monze palace in Malama area.

Community meeting with Malama Community and Chief of Monze - in the hat and suit
(the man's got style!)

The only condition for participating in the scheme is a willingness to pay – indicating a valuation of service and introducing market system that can promote longer term sustainability of the service and adoption. PROFIT then links farmers up with private vets willing to deliver the required services. Freeman is the community livestock worker who lives in the community and links the farmer and the vet. At the end of the day, the aim is for this farmer/community livestock worker/vet relationship to be strong enough that PROFIT will be able to move out and let this market sustain itself.

So that’s just one example of the work that PROFIT is doing. They’re also working in other industries and focus on system wide changes that need to be in place for growth potential in these markets to be realized and sustained. I mentioned, I’m still not sure where exactly I’ll be focusing but I’m pretty excited that it will fit somewhere into this larger picture.

Anyway, I’ve put in a lot of information and may have also missed out on critical aspects. If you have questions, then by all means post a comment or send me an email and I’d be happy to expand more on this.

Hope all is well. Selani Bwino ( stay well)

Ka-Hay

something old and something new

2007-02-25T08:20:00.001-08:00

Aaaarrrggghhhhh!!!! My fingers were numb, my toes frozen and my eyes were watering from the frigid winds that whipped my face and chilled my core. It was one of those winter days in Toronto when the thermometer read minus 15 but it felt at least twice as cold. Up until that day, I had been in heaven in Toronto; I was there for an intensive four week crash course on international development as part of my preparation for my work with Engineers Without Borders (EWB) in Zambia. Despite all of the wonderful learning and the excitement for my upcoming placement, at that very moment I hated Toronto, I hated the snow, I hated the world, but most of all, I hated whoever thought it was a brilliant idea to settle along the 49th parallel in the dead of winter.

To remain sane enough to make it home, I retreated back to a moment in time that I knew would provide me some reprieve from the abuse of old man winter. I found myself thinking back three years to my experience in Ghana. I could feel the warmth of the sun and I could hear my Ghanaian mother’s sharp voice. She was saying how it was absolutely unbelievable that Canada could get colder than the Harmattan (about +13 deg C at its coldest point) and when it does, we Canadians “must indeed suffer”. As I fought the blustery winds at the corner of Dundas and Bathurst, I could not have agreed with her more, and a tiny smile crept across my frozen face.

I have often traveled back to the first time I volunteered with EWB in Ghana. Those moments have often been triggered by various events like Live 8 and Make Poverty History campaigns, when $50B of debt is written off for the poorest countries, when Ghana plays in the World Cup, when Canadian government looks at aid accountability through Bill C-293, or more generally, when media decides that it’s worthy of the evening’s news. But the truth is that Ghana and my time there, is never far from my mind.

I suppose that is how it is; an experience that opens your perspective and seeps newness into your soul never wanders far from you. Ghana was one such experience for me. In 2004 I had left Vancouver for the West African country as an impressionable engineering graduate, unsure about what development involved, but ready to learn and willing to take a leap. Over 7 months, I fell in love with the country, its people, and the spirit of humanity that seemed to exist around every corner, glow with every kerosene lamp, and accompany every generous smile. I saw a sense of community that I had never known before; everyone was your brother, your sister, your auntie. I saw a joy for life that was contagious, infectious, wrapping its arms around you and pulling you close. Of course, juxtaposed against these beautiful and romantic dimensions, I also saw the ever present vulnerability of people who lived within the confines of extreme poverty. Children who attended school only until they were needed in the fields, around the house or when the school fees ran dry; women who worked from 3 in the morning until midnight every day until their bodies broke down; families whose survival depended on when the next rains would fall and people dying from preventable and treatable illnesses. I came to understand a little better what poverty looks like and what it what it doesn’t look like. And within that, I saw how hard everyone was working to lift themselves out of poverty.

People like Irene, who lived in Kpedze along the Togo border. She was a mother, head of Mille Novisi – a women’s cooperative, processed kernel oil for about $1.67/day, worked the fields, raised her children, and took her crops to market to sell—all in the course of one day. Or people like Mr. Andrews, a palm wine producer, a bee keeper, and a natural born entrepreneur. They, like so many others, were incredibly proud of their work and progress, and their commitment to building a better life for themselves and their children was evident in every hour they were awake. I was always humbled by the drive and ambition of people like them who were able to carve out a livelihood despite lacking access to much of the resources I had been gifted by simply having been born in Canada.

And so, when I boarded the plane back home in January 2004, I carried with me their stories and questions. Questions of how it could be that we had such disparity in the world, how is it that much depended on where you were born and what can be done to support the work that was already happening within communities? I didn’t have a clear answer but I made a simple commitment to myself that I would work in Canada to gain professional experience, I would work from within Canada to bring about change, and that I would one day, come back to Africa and work alongside people like Irene and Mr. Andrews.

It is three years later. After some hard work, Vancouver now has an EWB chapter that engages working professionals to learn more about the issues surrounding international development. This is the new generation of professionals who are interested in a life-long commitment to development by reaching out to their workplace and community to raise awareness about the issues. It is exciting, inspiring, and a mark that something is changing.

And then today, I am writing this from Pearson Airport in Toronto, waiting for a flight to Lusaka, Zambia. I have taken a sabbatical from my work as an advisor in corporate social responsibility with CBSR to develop a better understanding of how business intersects with international development. I again have the fortunate opportunity to volunteer with EWB. This time, I will be working to support private sector development in Zambia. I have been partnered with an organisation called PROFIT. Its mandate is to develop sustainable businesses as a means to lift people out of poverty. I am excited, nervous, and all other emotions that comes with having the opportunity to follow your passion.

I will be doing my best to connect my experience with Canadians back home. My intention is not tell you what you should do or guilt you into action; it is not my role nor place. However, in all of the people that I have met over the years, I do see that so many of us share a common interest in creating a future and we all care about those around us. And so, over the next 13 months, I simply want to be your window into this part of the world and give voice to those who do not have one. I hope that you will join me in this journey. If ever you have questions or doubts, do challenge me. It will be this type of dialogue that will increase our understanding of core issues in development and take us one step closer to the better world that we all believe can exist.

So as I begin my Zambian experience, I will leave you with one last bit of Ghana. In Ghana, when two friends are heading to the same destination, but one decides to leave first, the first will say to the second, ‘Me Di Kan’ – ‘I will take the lead’.

I look forward to sharing with you my next 13 months. Me Di Kan,

Ka-Hay