Some neighborhood kids and Ba Chanda’s modest pigpen in the background. From this pigpen he has raised enough capital to start a small cement floored, tin roofed piggery to help support his family.
Gregg Hayward is a Peace Corps Volunteer in the African country of Zambia. He has been living in a village working on environmental issues since August of 2005, and will be doing so until July 2007. He is a resident of Dover, New Hampshire, and is 24 years old. Periodically he has been writing us from his post in Mwanasasa Village, 22km outside of Mansa, Zambia. This is his fifth article since arriving in country.
Note: Out of respect for medical confidentiality, names in this story have been changed.
It all started with a pack of candles. Long, tall candles named “the big one”, wrapped in white plastic with bold blue lettering. I was about to run out. My mud hut without candles is essentially a four-letter word… C-A-V-E. So I needed to get some. It was around the middle of October I think.
I was in town for some meetings with various local counterparts, organizing a workshop on building fuel-efficient cook stove at the Mapalo orphanage in Mansa. As is custom with my rides into town, when I ride out, back to my village 25km away, I try to stack as many supplies as humanly possible into my saddle bags and my tin “only supposed to hold 25 pounds” rack. This usually involves a scavenger hunt among the many general dealers in Mansa. The names of these places are ridiculous. “Top Tec Investments”, “No.1 Groceri” (misprints are embraced), “AMICO” and “Moonlight ltd Hardware”, their names are almost as random as the supplies they carry. Signs read “purveyors of the finest electronics, women’s shoes and plumbing,” and they are being serious. In a store as large as your bedroom, you can look left at high heels, center at 3/4inch PVC pipe and right at boom boxes named “JCV and SONNY.” In Mansa, there are many specialists, and they specialize in everything.
Finally, I found a general dealer selling candles in bulk. I walked in and had to settle from something a little less than the “big one,” but “Lokemo Great Value” will do. Satisfied with finding my light for the darkness, I turned around to walk out of the single- light-bulb-no-windows store. Then out of nowhere, a man appeared before me.
He was tall, six feet or so, and thin. Before I could recognize anything else he was speaking to me. In a high-pitched voice, he ended all words with long syllables. It was as if a snake was talking to me. Excuse me sirrr, may I see your recieptttttt? My eyes bulged open a bit, and I hastily fumbled through my pockets, trying to find an armpit to tuck the bulky box beneath. His face was lean with a sharp jawbone. Scars that appeared as flat craters were marooned around all his dark face. His eyes were clear, and were looking at me intently.
After a short eternity, I pulled out the handwritten receipt, and he copied the numbers into a book that sat next to his chair in a shadow at the door. “Thank you sirrrr.” He handed me back my receipt, and I repeated the armpit stuffing process again, this time in reverse, all the while keeping an eye on this “doorman.”
I nodded my head with a jutted-jaw smile and moved for the door. “Sir, excuse me.” Oh no. “I have seen you riding around town for a while nowww. Are you a volunteer with the Peace Corps?” “Ahhh, yes sir I am.” Ahh, wonderful, His face brightened and a large smile emerged. He talked to me while looking elsewhere, as is custom when one wishes to convey respect in Zambia. “What do you do?” Well, actually, I live in a village about 25km from here, and I am helping the people there develop sustainable agriculture and forestry practices, to help protect a local forest.” We continued on for a good five minutes, quickly it became clear that his English was superb. Slowly, I relaxed, and by the end, we had agreed to meet at his house, a few weeks later to see the small piggery he had established. I carefully smushed my box of candles under the truck tire rubber that held everything else on my rack, and set off into the dusty afternoon sun for Mwanasasa, my home.
With the rolling of my bike rims underneath and the constant shouts of “Muli Shani?” (How are you?) and “Musungu! (Englishman!),” the encounter with the doorman fell into the well of my memory, and I got back into the rhythm of my daily life in the village.
About two weeks later I was standing in my hut looking down at the chicken scratch of rectangles and letters that is my calendar. For October 23, it read “meet general dealer guy at 17:00.” After a few seconds, the memory climbed out of the well, and the few scenes of the crater-faced man ran through my mind. I wrinkled my face and shrugged my shoulders as I closed the door and walked over to Bana Mwape’s for dinner.
In general, Zambian women are quite reserved. They cook food for the family, farm and take care of the children. They talk loudly and laugh with their female friends, but when a man comes over, the conversation quiets, and the eyes begin darting elsewhere.
But Bana Mwape is completely different. Before I could even let out the word “Odi” (Can I come in), a tremendous slap was launched into my hand. This 5 foot tall, 95-pound lightening rod was shaking my arm to pieces. I vibrated up and down at the receiving end of her welcome. She shook this smile out of my intestines, and before I knew it I was inside in front of a number of painted steaming dishes of food.
Welcome, welcome, welcome Ba Gregg.” Bana Mwape is a teacher at the local basic school (grades 1-7) How are you, how are you, how are you? The room was laughing with the voices of her husband Mwewa and another teacher named Mvula. I was treated to a delicious meal of fresh fish and the local staple, cassava nshima, a hot thick porridge you roll into a ball with your hand and plop into your mouth. We ate until we were depending upon the overstuffed, doily accessorized chairs for support.
As the blood rushed for my stomach we got to talking about anything and everything, Bana Mwape hung upon every word and the two men laughed with just about every other one. Eating with the teachers is always a good time. “So I am going to be meeting with this man Ba Chanda tomorrow, to see his pigs. The room fell quiet. Ba Mvula and Bana Mwape looked at each other, then started giggling. “What? What’s going on? Is this guy a good guy?” The two giggled back and forth for a while, then they finally came around and told me what they were laughing about. “Ba Gregg, ahh, well, there is this funny rumor about Ba Chanda that we have heard. We don’t think its true… Some people think that he murders people for money.” “WHAT?! Are you serious? “Well, he has money, and people that get money, others become suspicious you see. He is a tall, stern man, that has come across money… and that’s probably how the rumor started.” “So is it safe to go visit this man?” “Ahh yes, its fine. It is just a rumor you see. People are jealous of him.” A murderer… the thought rolled through my head over and over as we spun through other rolls of conversation and the night faded.
I woke the next morning with the thoughts from the night before still fresh. I went about my day, and in the afternoon, packed my things and began riding to town. On the outskirts of Mansa I turned off the dirt road onto a bumpy two-track path. The houses were packed close together. The women were pounding cassava, preparing for dinner. “I’m looking for Ba Chanda, do you know where his house is?” The woman looked me up with a slow gaze, then led me towards some blaring music in the distance. We came upon a bar in the middle of the village. Pangy Rumba music blared at the typical Zambian volume, as loud as physically possible. People sat around drinking thick chibuku beer from plastic cups and waxed paper containers. All glazed eyes on me.
We met another man “I’m looking for Ba Chanda.” He led me around the corner and slipped in a door. A few seconds later Chanda ducked his head through the doorframe and smiled. “Welcome Ba Gregg, it is good to see you this eveningggg.” I shook his hand with an uneasy smile. “Please, come in.” I leaned my bicycle up against the wall, and gave a good look around. Who is going to steal my bike, I thought. I placed it so I could see an inch of my tire inside the house, and used telepathy with a stern look to the rascal kids to say “you touch my bike, you will see some trouble.” I turned back around to the building that had been whitewashed a long time ago. So this is where I am going to meet my maker… well at least it’s festive. A deep breath and a check in with God later, I walked through the doorframe.
A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling lit up the room. Two overstuffed couches sat around the room with some steel lawn furniture. Signs with frills hung on the walls covered with loose plastic. They read with phrases like, “A house with a family and God is a home.” Random advertisements for products did their best to cover the chipped walls. For rural Zambia, this was a pretty nice house. “I see you have electricity” (I am known for me keen observatory skills). “Yes, it was very difficult to put it in here. We had to dig a trench from the power line… 300 meters.” Huh, I sat down across the low table from him, eyes scanning for my escape route… the barred windows weren’t looking so good.
“Thank you for coming here todaaaay. I have been looking for some assistance on a project for a long time. I have these plansss you see.” (Oh no). “I have worked at the general dealers for a while now, and the pay is poor. I have been saving my money, and I would like to start raising pigs for sale.” He looked up at me, his face, cratered and shadowed melted into one that was young and questioning. “Do you think that you could assist me with some advice?” I sat back with a relieved sigh, “Sure.” We walked outside and took a look at the pigs he had already, and he ran through his plans for setting up a better pigpen. We talked for a while, then went back inside.
“Gregg please, excuse me for a moment, I need to attend to somethinggg.” Ba Chanda walked out, leaving me to sit under the single light bulb room, staring out the door at the last of the daylight, and my black bike tire. Yeah, this is going fine, I thought to myself. Just a man that is misunderstood. No big deal…. The seconds ticked loudly by on the off-center Mickey Mouse wall clock. I thumped my fingers on the coffee table while reading every advertisement for the fourth time.
Where is this guy? It had been at least three of four minutes. It was getting dark. I kept my eye on the bike tire. While a song meandered through my head I gazed around the room. When I looked back, the bike tire had disappeared from the doorway. I jumped out of my seat, and burst through the door, heart beating a mile a minute. As I prepared to lunge, I found the lady shopkeeper next door. She had to move my bike to get into her shop. Her bug eyed glare met me. “Ahh hello.” She shrugged her brow and I retreated back inside.
Three or four more minutes. What is going on? Scenes began flashing through my mind. He was going to come though the door with some big guys and knives. He would say something like I’m glad you are here for dinner, and then I would be sliced up and fed to the pigs. This is it, I am over! I nervously jabbed my eyes around the room. A minute later, footsteps approached the door.
Chanda’s head bent and the craters looked deeper and more menacing than ever. “I’m sorry that took a while.” He had something behind his back. Oh God, I am finished! He took a few steps forward and my heart and guts jumped off the couch and ran out the door. He pulled his right hand from behind his back, clothing whispering as the folds slid by one another. I was sure these were the last moments.
“Here you go.” His hand held a plastic container of juice and a package of biscuits. “I figured that you were probably a bit hungry after your long bike ride in here.” Every muscle holding my body up evaporated and I fell back, limp against the couch. “Wow, thanks a lot, no one has ever gotten me a drink and biscuits before.” He sat down with a big smile across from me, and pulled his young boy up upon his knee.
I grated the biscuits between my teeth raising my cheeks as high as they could go, and swallowed them down with the green “Bwana Cream Soda.” Artificial colors, flavors and preservatives never tasted so good.
We talked for a while longer, with a significant portion of that exchange resting upon the topic of getting tested for HIV. “Gregg, I have thought about it for a long time. I have been getting sick very often, and it has taken longer and longer to get well. My doctor said that I should get tested. What do you think? I agreed and told him that if he thought he was ready, he should go, since when you know your status, you can make informed decisions. And if he was positive, he could start Anti Retroviral Therapy (which is provided free of charge in the cities of Zambia) and he could begin to live as healthy a lifestyle as possible. The conversation ended with some handshakes, and big thanks for the food. I left the single light bulb room, and soon arrived at the Peace Corps house in Mansa.
About two weeks later I rode my bike into the parking lot of the only proper large-scale grocery in Mansa, Shop Rite. A Zambian man on a motorcycle recognized me and waved me over. He was working for another NGO, I had no idea who he was, but he asked me how things were going at my site, and we sputtered on for a while. The whole time I was thinking, who are you? He kick started his bike, and I was just about to push off on mine when another face appeared before me….I saw the craters.
“Ahh Ba Chanda, good afternoon.” “Good afternoon Gregg, how are you?” “Ahh, just okay, how is the piggery project?” We talked for some minutes in the parking lot. People sailed by with yellow bags of food. Teenage boys dressed in the latest clothes walked around the lot. From their arms draped new watches, belts, mirrors, shoes and socks. They sauntered around trying to sell their painted plastic merchandise to any and everyone. Cars pulled up and exhaust blew through.
We talked. He rolled on and on about the pigs, eyes darting everywhere, but they never met mine. He gazed at some invisible thing in the air while I leaned forward against my handlebars. Some silence.
“And Gregg, there is that other thing that we had talked about.” His eyes met mine for the first time. He looked around. The watch sellers had found other people, and there was a break in the stream of customers. He looked back and spoke.” I got tested. I am positive.” We looked at each other. The flow of people resumed. Boys sold fake Rolex watches, engines roared and conversation rattled all around our bubble of silence. All I could see were his eyes. Everything else surrounding was a blur.
“Ahh, Ba Chanda, I am sorry.” Where were those words, those sentences? “Ahh, man, Ba Chanda, I’m sorry.” “Its okay.” We talked around the people, volume and words chosen by the flow of traffic. Then he said it.
“Every obstacle is an opportunity.”
Toothpicks propping things up fell down inside me. I stood there with narrow eyes and felt the whole scene pull over me, like a round stone in a river of shallow water.
“Now I know. I had been suspecting all along. I’ve tried to get my wife to go, but she is fearing. I don’t think I can get her to go.” “What will you do now?” “I have gone to the hospital, and I have started the Anti Retroviral Treatment. They seem to be helping me. I feel stronger. I have to take them with food, I figured I it might as well be good.” He lifted up a cut of meat in the ShopRite bag. The tension broke with our short laugh. “No, things are okay. I am glad I went. It’s about time I started taking care of myself. With these drugs and a good attitude I can live for a long time. Thank you for encouraging me.” “...Ahh, no, no, well, you are welcome.” He is thanking me?.” “I want to work with you and encourage more people to get tested, every obstacle is an opportunity, can you photocopy some information for me?”
I looked up into his face…craters, narrow eyes and a flat nose. Plastic Rolexes, shopping bags and exhaust in a ShopRite parking lot. As much as I wished I wouldn’t, I thought to myself.
Wow.
Positive. Right here.
Narrow eyes once again met narrow eyes, our hands reached forward. Two strips of skin divided the blood of two lives. We shook.
My time with “the murder” was just beginning.
In 1961, President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps to promote world peace and friendship. And since its founding the organization and its volunteers have been has been guided by the goals of the Peace Corps' mission: To help the people of interested countries meet their needs for trained men and women. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served. And to help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of all Americans.
**Since the writing of this article, things have been looking up for Ba Chanda and his family. His wife recently decided to get tested. Although she also tested positive, her CD4 count was very high, meaning that if she took good care of her health, it would be a number of years before she would even need to begin anti retroviral therapy. The family’s piggery project has really begun to take shape, with the foundation having just been completed. The two have made great steps forward to take good care of their health by eating well, looking after each other and reducing stress. And lastly, the two are eagerly looking forward to April, when Ba Chanda’s wife is expected to deliver their third child.
Gregg Hayward can be reached by mail at: Gregg Hayward Peace Corps Volunteer PO Box 710150, Mansa, Zambia, Africa. He will be living in Zambia through July 2007.
Some neighborhood kids and Ba Chanda’s modest pigpen in the background. From this pigpen he has raised enough capital to start a small cement floored, tin roofed piggery to help support his family.