A Week in and a Mind Blown

“We all want to learn English”. This sentence was spoken by one of the chimp keepers yesterday on my first walk (45 minutes from my door to the enclosure) to visit them at work. I’d gone to inquire about whom else wanted to join my daily English classes, and to see the apes they care for. First thing after breakfast, I ventured out into the bush with three researchers: two women from Germany, one from Spain. It was my first attempt at exercise since arriving and man was it overdue. I stank like a truck driver by the time I returned, but I doubt anyone cared or noticed. Life is rugged here. No vanity, no luxury, no frills. Case in point: everything depends on the sun, which equals power. Today was the first cloudy day I’ve seen since I arrived; thus, we had no electricity until 10:30am, and no Internet (they run on the same circuit). The horrors (says this spoiled American)! Waiting for Internet/power due to overcast skies? Thank god this isn’t the rainy season.

I need to backtrack and talk about what it means to be a teacher here because my first experience in the classroom (just to have a look at the room itself) was quite powerful. About five days ago, I walked into the school before the afternoon classes had begun, to a room full of kids between the ages of 10 and 14. All in the required uniforms, they were staring at me. Really staring. And standing. There I was, speaking to Clifford, one of the Zambian teachers about logistics, and the room went dead silent. All 40+ students were on their feet, at full attention, not moving a muscle. I smiled nervously at them and whispered to Clifford “Why are they doing that?” He told me they were showing respect to their elders (us). I motioned for them to sit down, and they promptly obeyed. I’ve had students bow to me before, but never stand at full attention. I almost saluted them.

Then, at the end of my second night of teaching, I was packing to leave the classroom. One of my students hovered in the doorway. He asked tentatively, “Excuse me, Madame, do you have a torch?” It is pitch black by the time I finish class and without a flashlight, getting home is impossible. A lot of British English is used here, so I knew what he was referring to. I told him yes, I did, and thank you for asking (I bring my headlamp with me everywhere after 6pm). After I was out and he and another student locked up (the school seems to be the only thing people lock around here), we started walking down the dirt path. Maybe a minute into our silent plodding, they stopped and asked me politely, “Excuse me, where are you going?” Home, I replied. “You’re going the wrong way Madame.” Oh. Apparently I was. In the dark with trees all around and strange constellations in the sky, it all looks the same in the murky black. Had they not told me I’d taken a wrong turn, I would have walked clear into the middle of the bush and been bitten by a snake. Bless their hearts for steering a teacher lost in thought onto the right road.

Incidents like this one seem to be common. These men really are the most polite students I’ve ever had. Grownups, some older than me, sitting at desks built for children they gather in a schoolroom nightly under dim lighting and work diligently. Last night I had nine men, the largest number yet. My being at the ape enclosures during the day helped. The more they see me and the more we talk, the more they understand what I’m doing here. Trust has to be built, and that requires time. Yesterday I was asked to help prepare lunch (a milestone), which was fried chicken over an open fire seasoned with onions and tomatoes. I was given the task of cutting the onions and tomatoes with the dullest knife in creation. No cutting board. Just cut into a bowl filled with water and add to the pot. Some of the other men were making nshima (pronounced “en-sheema”), which are balls of corn meal held together by first boiling the meal until it turns into a sticky paste, and then forming the paste together with your hands (photo included in this post). They eat nshima every day as a staple item: like rice in Indonesia. It has zero nutritional value, but it fills you up. The chimps love it. I’ve yet to try it but I’m sure I will.

After I’d walked around, taken photos, and chatted with people, I decided to walk home alone as it was about time I got acquainted with the place when the sun was out. The walk was brilliant. Bright and hot, the breeze and butterflies were my only companions. I saw one vehicle in 45 minutes. I passed by some more chimp enclosures. I was alone and content. I’d made it. I was in Africa teaching English. Holy shitsticks.

This was a huge relief from the day before, when I’d spent the morning with the vet and some volunteers, vaccinating cattle. Chimfunshi has between 500-600 cows and some of my students are farm workers who tend to them. Baby calves and bulls with horns, they roam acres and acres of land. To keep them healthy, they need their shots. The vet is lovely and takes anyone who wants to help with her on her rounds. I went with her needing to get away from base and do something different. Now that I’ve been, I need not return. As soon as I get back to Chicago and can be picky about my food options, I’m going 100% vegetarian.

If anyone reading this is familiar with Temple Grandin’s work (she’s an American professor of animal science and a prolific author. There’s a movie called “Thinking in Pictures” starring Claire Danes about her that you must see), you know that cows are herd animals that respond to very specific stimuli which tells them where to walk and when. They are easily confused and form tight maternal bonds, mooing loudly when separated from their mothers or offspring. In the middle of cow paddies and long grass, the workers got the endless number of cows lined up one by one into a wooden corral. They were prodded single file into a squeeze cage (their heads the only part not restrained), where they were held fast in order to keep them still for the injections. Some needed two; some didn’t need any at all (lucky cows). Each animal has a number on his or her ear, and one of the Africa Impact volunteers was recording the numbers while the vet told her what the cow was to receive.

My job was to be the gatekeeper at the end of the line. After the vet saw to the cow, they stumbled/ran to freedom through the iron gate that I unlocked and opened. Heavy and made of rusty iron, sometimes the cow was strong enough to push past the squeeze cage and I had to close the gate fast to keep them inside so vaccinations could be administered before they escaped. Slamming a door on a cow’s face, with horns strong and sharp as they gallop towards you with fear and panic in their eyes, is not an easy job. I also had a direct view of their faces as they were confined to the cage getting poked: some were frothing at the mouth and thrashing maniacally; most roared (yes, cows can roar) loudly when stuck with the large, hollow needle; some bled at the injection site afterwards; some had tears running down their faces while in traction; others bellowed for their babies who were waiting for them in the open fields (calves didn’t receive shots, thank the gods). Letting them out into pasture was a relief, and soon they were back to quietly chewing on the grass. My time working at Planned Parenthood a decade ago came back to me: a woman on a table frozen in stirrups, by choice, able to articulate her experience. Now here I was, working on a Zambian farm within a sanctuary, watching helpless cows squeezed between bars of steel trying desperately to get out of temporary bondage with rage spewing from their mouths. The things we do as sentient beings to stay healthy.

To conclude: I finally asked about the education system in Zambia. So far, I’ve only taught one male worker who made it through high school even though all of my students are of college age or above. Apparently, according to the head teacher here, secondary school is not free. Many Zambian families have multiple kids plus extended family at home to look after. When all is accounted for, there is hardly any money left for school fees. Those in 8th grade or above must pay for their supplies, uniforms, the cost of building maintenance, etc. If they’re lucky enough to have someone pay for grades 8-12, there’s usually never money left over for the even more expensive college. Graduate school is a dream and most likely out of the question. It’s an issue of finances, which trump education. Reason #1,027 why I’m here now and why we need to hire more English teachers a.s.a.p.

That’s week one. Thanks for reading and enjoy the photos dear readers. [Photo descriptions from top to bottom: our morning walk to the enclosures, momma and baby chimp, piggie backin' primate style, the making of nshima, sanctuary signage, & the vast expanse of one enclosure's corner-- taken on my solitary walk home.]