Good morning folks,

I’ve got an interesting topic for you today. A break from the harsh cruel reality of coping with death and suffering in the African bush.

It’s all based on a 19 year old kid named Kapindah. As I biked in to my clinic a few days ago calling out greetings and being waylaid by small children desperate to try and catch me on my bike – I met him on the road. I dismounted in the sand and rocky mud and we walked about a kilometer to the clinic. We had a lively conversation – all in Bemba. Then he broke out into a song by DMX wanting to show off – “Gonna Get Mine”. He sang the whole song. When I asked him what it meant he explained correctly – in Bemba. I was shocked to say the least. Here’s a young man, who has studied English for 12 years but can only carry on a basic conversation, who knows, can sing, and explain in his own language a song by DMX full of complex slang and concepts abstract to Zambian village life.

Today, a friend of mine forwarded me an interesting info graphic from Kaplan and it set my thoughts a-turnin’ about how we learn languages.

Infographic: How to learn Englishvia Kaplan Blog

I live 56km from the nearest town. It is 8km down a bush track just to get to the paved road. The average literacy rate in my community is 40%. The catchment area is divided into 8 zones. There are 9,127 people distributed fairly equally. We have 6 basic schools – grade 1-7 with 50-70 students to a teacher. If a person can manage to make it through grade 7 and raise school fees, there’s a high school in the provincial capital not too far away and they can complete grade 12.

The country of Zambia has over 70 spoken languages! Bemba is the language most spoken throughout the country. When Zambia became independent in 1964 (it used to be Northern Rhodesia), English became the official national language. Even though English is used/taught in the education system and is the language used for official communications, there’s a huge deficiency here in reading, writing, and speaking English – especially for young women. Most high school graduates I’ve met can introduce themselves and carry on simple conversations at the third-fourth grade level. This is after 12 years of English instruction in the schools. Children in the 1st – 7th grade can barely introduce themselves and say hello. Reading is manageable if the material is read out loud and slowly. But more often than not, it is pronunciation without comprehension; spoken words without any connection or meaning to the reader. We know the best time to acquire language skills is when you are young. But these kids and families are living hand-to-mouth on the edge of starvation every day. The value of learning English is pretty abstract as is the idea of improving your chances for a better job many years in the future. There’s quite a bit to survive before the reward can be seen.

It’s not that people here can’t learn languages. Most people can speak 3-4 Bantu style languages but they can’t seem to grasp English. I think a lot of that has to do with the focus on using local languages and dialects – even in the school classrooms.

Here’s a brainteaser from earlier – Why is it that a teenager 56km in the Sub-Saharan African bush can sing me a DMX song in English and explain it’s meaning in local language, but can hardly get beyond “Hello”? Do music, radio, films/TV (when it can be found) help people learn English? I think the answer is definitely – Yes! These are tools that have the potential to create a powerful connection with the learner based on individual interests, learning styles, and the ability to gain attention and respect from peers. They act as a supplementary course book – providing insight into slang, usage, pronunciation and dialect. Music especially allows for repetition, practice and role play. A man or woman can sing along and discover language while participating in local pop culture – showing off, gaining social status and receiving a reward for learning the lyrics and meaning of the song. They can teach their peers, receive the strokes and prestige of being the teacher, as they further their own mastery of the song’s language. Grammar and syntax are learned and internalized in an easy, fluid manner. The learner is motivated because the information has direct application and value in everyday life. Exposure, contemplation, information gathering, internalization, adaptation, application through teaching others, and mastery.

Immersion is another powerful tool for learning languages. Sitting in a classroom trying to re-construct culture and context while memorizing a language is not very effective. We’ve all tried it with pretty pitiful results. A conducive immersive environment, surrounded by other motivated learners, wins out as the most effective way of teaching English. I know that from personal experience. I didn’t start grasping Italian, Russian, or Icibemba until I immersed myself in the language, the culture, and communicated with fluent native speakers on a daily basis focused around activities.

Peace Corps volunteers have 3 months of intensive in-country training before they are placed in their village for their 2 years of service. Three months is not a lot of time to gain proficiency in a language like Icibemba with grammar, pronunciation, and subtlety of meaning that is totally different than any language I knew. After 3 months of mixed language training, I was relatively proficient. I could even deliver a speech to dignitaries, which was filmed on national tv, and successfully cracked jokes which made the audience laugh. I believe that was because I’d gotten a learning process down – read, study, write – then listen only to music, programs etc. in the language, find a study partner who is also learning, and work with a tutor/teacher who is a native. For me, the most essential part of the process was collaborating with my fellow learner – oscillating between teacher, mentor, learner, and peer. As we competed with each other we both grew toward mastery, and both being learners we could compare our learning styles and explore different processes and paths to adopt the language. We pushed each other outside of our comfortable learning habits as we grew. I think that process holds true for any language.

My experiences are in sync with the results illustrated in Kaplan’s graphic. Two key factors are in play: 1) Participating in activities that offer personal satisfaction, engagement and application in daily life and 2) Travel to a country to learn the native language. Clearly villagers in rural Zambia do not have the resources to travel abroad but, the language programs here in Zambian schools could shift their focus to incorporate more elements of immersion and the tools of music, interactive gaming, and pop culture.

What a trip! Anyway, take a look at Kaplan’s infographic – it’s neat!! Let me know what you think about it and how you feel about language learning!

Cheers!

David.

Well, here’s to moving forward, understanding your place in the world, and keeping faith. After an absolutely frustrating and heart wrenching week – complete with the delayed receipt of the death of the second twin yesterday – I’ve worked myself into a motivated fervor. At least I can burn through some of this helplessness.

Here’s a little catching up. I went into Mansa Friday night arriving at the house after dark. I stayed, cooked, vented, and wrote until Monday morning. Then I headed back to site to visit my kitten and get back into the swing of things. Upon arriving at my hut I discovered to my horror that my IPod had malfunctioned and would not respond – not a good point to start off on and definitely a bad moment to be without music and the sounds of family & mum’s songs.

Tuesday I bounced back into Mansa to FEDEX my IPod home – super expensive but worth it – it’s under warranty so at least there’s a little victory.

Wednesday morning I found transport back to site with ZPCT II and the Saving Mothers, Saving Lives program. We arrived and set to work transferring, reorganizing, and shuffling around equipment and materials.

Back to a background paragraph – our clinic is too small to effectively provide the necessary services it’s tasked with. In ’09 the district started construction on a maternity ward for the clinic. Corruption and dis-regard for standards followed and we ended up with a sub-standard, small building. It’s 5m too short, the rooms are cramped, it wasn’t wired, there’s piping but its unfinished, there’s no provision of running water, no tank or pump system, they stole clay bricks the community made from the waiting shelter instead of using cement bricks like they quoted and left the top half of the building unfinished installing ceiling board instead.

The clinic staff had forsaken the building’s purpose and were utilizing the space for voluntary counseling and testing (HIV), PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission) counseling and testing, some screening, storage – and lay counseling.

Realizing that the space wouldn’t be modified or fixed unless it was in use for it’s allocated purpose and complaints being sent to the Ministry on every birth – and noting that the current provision (a modified female ward) was insufficient, undignified, and inappropriate, we decided to shift the maternity ward into the building and work to make the best use we could of it.

There were some immediate benefits – first and foremost there was increased privacy and preservation of the delivering mothers dignity. The previous ward space was next to the screening room causing embarrassment and shame if women cried out during delivery. It had no provision for washing/bathing, improper ventilation, and waiting mothers and delivering mothers were crowded into the same space.

The new space, once properly organized, is removed from the screening area, has curtains (my extra chitenge) a separate post-natal room and bed which is cramped (the size of the bed) but private, and with some creative hammer and rebar-chisel work, a functioning bathing shelter for bucket bathing after delivery. It’s got ventilation issues but the increased privacy makes it worthwhile.

We got even more creative and cut into the clinic’s wiring. We ran copper wire across the yard into the ward, allowing for a single light bulb assisting night deliveries – if we have power hah…

Got the Ward set up and infection prevention protocol in order. I photographed the setup of equipment, materials, medicines, and gear and will print out the photos to glue to the walls above the stations allowing for better organization.

The result of our hard work? The day after – let me emphasize that – THE DAY AFTER!!!! – we finished, we had 6 deliveries. From 10 Avg in a month we’re at 6 by May 3rd! Whew!

Expected yearly deliveries 480, average facility deliveries last year 120, expected minimum monthly facility deliveries 25 – desired 40.

We’re really excited and hoping that the combined change in maternity ward use – and it’s inevitable upgrade – combined with Safe Motherhood Action Group trainings will bring us more in line with our goals and the service need in the community!

We sacrificed our female ward to the counseling center, are using and actively reporting on the inadequacy of the maternity ward facility in an effort to get it fixed. Made necessary upgrades to the space with a bit of elbow grease and some donations, and put up a fishing line clothes line to dry the clothes and cloths used during delivery – getting them up off the ground and bushes.

Here’s to little victories; Reading letters from home, asking forgiveness for actions rather than permission, making great strides in protecting mother’s dignity and privacy during birth, re-organizing, cleaning, re-instituting IP processes (we didn’t have any bleach for 4 months) and keeping people healthy and safe!

Hey folks,

Well…this is going to be raw, and parts gruesome, skip over if you must. I guess that is how it is supposed to be, and I am sure you will forgive me and work in a little slack. I am writing at the end of three days of horror, frustration, helplessness, anger, and hurt. A trying time in my service, and a trying moment in my life to be sure. It is a moment of learning, and a moment of development and growth. I am working through it, processing, releasing energy, gathering in positive thoughts and love, and regaining a foothold on the narrow path across the abyss.

There is a lot to process, and more to write about, and so little that can be properly expressed by the quick movements of fingers across warm plastic keys… Still, here we go. Strap in, put your mind at ease, and follow me into my own reflections and the reality that is my world.

I sat down and cried. Cold, iced wind blowing out of the south, pushing hard against my clothes and stinging down to the bone. The winter winds were here, but they were more a boon than anything else was. Sitting on the cold cement of my hut entry, I stared up listlessly, hopelessly lost in Africa. I sat and peered through the fragmented eaves of thatch, across the bushes of my compound fencing, and into the cold, clear, black skies. I saw through the edges of our world, into the dark abyss of the universe, and found it alive with color, thought, life, joy, and reflection. Bright stars reaching down, light of ages that have come and gone, reaching like silver fire, dancing across the heavens, gleaming in pools along the pathways of the gods, and as I can only imagine dragon’s talons might be, streaming down onto the world.

I wept at the miracle of life, and at the miracle of death. I wept at injustice, inequality, and suffering. I wept for loss, and for gain. I shuddered as I bore witness to this world. As clouds began to pass from the horizon across the deep dark bowl of the skies, I wept in darkness, as the lights were snuffed out, only to flare again with fiery fervor.

I wept so that I might not feel helpless. I shuddered so that I might be warm in a time when all felt cold and yet on fire.

I felt compassion, I felt longing… I felt fear for my own. I still feel each so strongly, but I am coping, processing, working through it, putting them ahead, seeing, and saying, “Yes! I accept you.” We are moving forward… and I am hurting. I am weeping now writing this, I am weeping as I tell the story and relate these feelings…and I am healing.

Let me share with you what brought me here. I know most of you have read, or remember talking to me about why I wanted to be a volunteer. That is in another place, you can find it here – Reflections on Service Choice and Volunteering, and it still holds true. I hope that you can return there, read those words, and understand why I came…but to understand the journey in its entirety, first we must process the now.

They say life is like many things… A roller-coaster, a river, a tree, a wave – well today definitely feels like that last one. I feel as though I’m a ship at sea, rolling through the waves, and facing a tsunami, or maybe Charybdis, sucking me down into the whirlpools of the abyss.

Monday started with a lot of hustle and hubbub. Rabble-rousers were…well rabble rousing. There were arguments, fights, screaming matches, crying, and finally by mid-day our program was on track and functional. Twenty SMAG (Safe Motherhood Action Group) members -3 from most zones and 2 from a few others- came together and began a week-long training on ante-natal, delivery, and post-natal health, prevention, and warning signs. As we progressed through the training, the men and women involved began singing, participating, and shining as only volunteers who know they will be able to save lives can.

By Wednesday, things had gained momentum and were rolling forward with a heady pace. The training was going great and the pupils seemed to be grasping the concepts quickly. I stepped out of the training and went over to the clinic’s makeshift screening room . That morning a young mother (20) who had three living children out of five pregnancies brought in a child wrapped in swaddling clothes no bigger than a 3-4 month old baby. Upon screening, the child’s age was announced at two years old. The mother claimed that she’d just taken a turn for the worse because she had malaria. The child was 6kg – 13.2lbs! Let’s step back a moment – 13.2lbs, and the height of a 4 month old at 2 years…. that baby should weigh 25-30 lbs at age 2. Then the swaddling clothes were removed and what remained before us was a living skeleton. Bone, gristle, skin, and glossy, suffering eyes, emaciated and wasting away. She did not even have the strength to sit up in her mother’s arms, or to cry. We quickly tested her for malaria, called the ambulance and evacuated her and her mother to the hospital. There she would at least receive IV and HEPS to try to get her back to a healthy weight, but the prolonged malnutrition will have damaged her for the rest of her life. If she survives, she will never develop properly… the worst part. The Mothers’ Logbook recorded that this was not the first time the family had brought in a child. Deep poverty means the whole family ran out of food – apparently often… Horrific.

Knowing we’d done all we could, we stepped back into the training and continued educating, stressing the importance of educating expectant mothers and fathers on nutrition, saving to help with clothes, food and other expenses, and health.

Thursday morning came around. We were back on track and yesterday’s difficulties were behind us – knowing that the child was safely in the hospital. A young woman was sitting in line waiting for the clinic to open for the morning. She was complaining of a backache and a headache. She was examined and found to be in labor. She was dilated to 2cm. four hours later (which you mother’s will know is RIDICULOUS!) She had delivered twins. I was called into the room and found the twins lying facing each other wrapped in a thick military surplus blanket. The nurse (untrained in infant/midwifery health) and the EHT were struggling to keep the mother’s health up and working over the crying twin. Unfortunately, the second was gasping, struggling for breath. The staff were not trained and they could not identify and treat the problem. As I stood, less than 2 feet away, they consigned the younger twin to God, and I, helpless and unable to assist, watched with horror as the younger twin suffocated, slowly turning blue and… facing his older brother, less that 4 inches away, he died.

The ambulance arrived minutes after but without trained staff. The mother, bloodied and unwashed, wrapped herself in a blanket, and as if in a horror movie, struggled to her feet and hobbled to the ambulance, leaving bloodied footprints on the floor. There she was given the blanket with her twins wrapped inside and the ambulance started off on the 45 minute rough journey to the hospital for further care.

Let me paint a clearer picture of the labor. The mother is lying flat on a cold metal table, curled up, straining as if trying to finish one last crunch, holding her own feet apart (they didn’t use the stirrups), pushing, in absolute silence. Not a single sound, moan, or scream. Then just 45 minutes later, is up and moving across the ward, down steps, through dirt and climbing inside a vehicle, bloodied, grieving, and stoic.

Watching the ambulance speed away, bumping and flying on sand and dirt roads riddled with potholes, the image of the two, wrapped and so close to each other, staring at each other as one died… burned itself clear into my mind, unshakeable, unforgettable… My mind drove straight to the possible loss of my own brother and the terrible fear, pain, and sorrow that would bring. I cannot explain what kept me going or allowed me to internalize and return to work.

We cleaned up, washed everything down with bleach solution, and got things organized. That included finding and killing 2 rats in the makeshift delivery ward!! The training finished and I retreated to my stoop, where I sat outside my hut and stared into the depths of the universe as I described early on in this post. I was trying to contemplate existence, the universe, and the meaning of life… trying to rationalize what happened, and utterly failing. I retreated into the darkness of my hut, listening to the wind against my thatch roof, and the whistle and chirp of crickets as the world turned without even blinking.

Death is so common here… it’s routine…. it is just another day. How do you rectify that inside of you?

I woke up Friday, steeled my will, and returned to the clinic. I had made up my mind to retreat to Mansa. I desperately needed to try and decompress; to process what I had seen, and been witness to… what I had been helpless to prevent or assist in. I arrived at the clinic to the news that another delivery was expected that morning. By 11:00 the baby was on its way and another volunteer watched the delivery. Her account of the process and conditions was basically the same. In this instance, the child was born with the umbilical cord wrapped five times around the neck. They called for help and thankfully one of the facilitators of the training was a trained midwife. The two facilitators rushed in, handled the situation, cutting the fifth loop, delivering the child and unwinding fate.

I left the building to be confronted by an argument. Two young children, maybe 12 or 13 were sitting being angrily lectured. I was called over to mediate and the situation was explained. These two had received a bush wedding and were here to attend ante-natal services. The 12 or 13 year old girl-child was pregnant… and worse yet, they were from the farthest edge of catchment zone – approximately 52km from the clinic. I need not mention the problems and difficulties they had ahead. Any hemorrhage, bleeding, or complication (which are all likely at such a young age) would leave her crippled, dying, and forced to try to ride on a standard bicycle rack 52 km to get help. I can only leave it for you to imagine the heartache and frustration of knowing the young girl would likely die. We stressed the importance of planning, of coming at least a month before her due date to the clinic, and then being referred to the hospital for a C-section or skilled delivery there. We forced them to make appointments with the SMAG members being trained from their communities, and entered them into the ante-natal bookings for palpations, vitamins, tetanus, iron, etc.

Heart-wrenched, feeling broken, helpless, frustrated, and hurting, the trainers closed the training, called for transport and we gathered our gear, and waited. 3 hours later, it arrived. We mounted up, stuffed ourselves in and started off. About 20km of the 56km to Mansa, we came upon a further horror. We saw a cruiser from a different district stopped at a strange angle in the road. As we approached the vehicle we saw that a man lay tangled in his bicycle. Half of his face was missing and blood was still flowing and draining down the asphalt. Passengers from the other vehicle were milling around the body. When we asked them what had happened, they were defensive. They told us, “He was drunk and fell over.”… How you fall over and have half your face ripped away is far beyond me. How can you tell a corpse was drunk when half his face is missing? When he is still laying face down, obviously untouched and unmoved as evidenced by the pool of flowing blood, how do you know he is even fully dead? Nevertheless, they were positive he was dead and positive he was drunk, claiming it was the work of liquor that killed him. You have to wonder how they could make such a determination without taking a pulse, checking the body, and at least attempting to resuscitate. We were hastily waved on and the driver accelerated us away before any other comment could be made or observation recorded.

As the sun set we pulled into Mansa. As the stars shone the other volunteer and I were dropped at the gates. With a cold wind at our backs we hustled inside to the warmth, comfort, and sanctuary of the Peace Corps Provincial House. Welcomed by our brothers and sisters in service….

After sitting, unable to sleep, tormented by the events of the last three days, it is 1 am and I am writing.

Here is the kicker I suppose. I know and can rationalize that my work in preventative health is saving future lives. That gives me great hope, helps alleviate the pain, and rewards me in my service. A passage from the Philosopher Hanh brings it back into focus. “Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.” I believe with all my heart that tomorrow brings new hope. Because of the work we are doing, and the work I am doing, tomorrow will be brighter than today… If I didn’t, my service would be empty and meaningless, and I would be utterly crushed by these last few days. It does not matter that the tomorrow I speak of might be 5 years, or 10 years, or 15 years down the road, or that the foundations I’ve laid and facilitated will be used and completed by generations yet to come… I know that the future holds a brighter day.

Thanks for listening.

Let me start with an introduction. My name is David N. Berger. I am 24 and an Arizona State University graduate in Global Studies. I serve as the Vice President of SRES – Southwest Research and Education Services, a not-for-profit organization that has been operating and providing services to families and those in need for over 25 years.

I’m also a community development and health volunteer in Eastern Sub-Saharan Africa. Specifically, I’m located in remote Northern Zambia, in the sub- tropic zone near Congo.

I’m assigned to a rural health clinic 56 km from the nearest town. I live in an African village. No, not that National Geographic concept I know you just pictured, but a mud-brick hut, grass roof, no potable water (I use a river several kilometers away). There is no electricity. I have a small portable Goal Zero solar panel and the solar charger on my steriPEN adventurer opti carrying case and that keeps me operational. Mail (letters and packages) take about a month to get to Mansa, the nearest provincial capital. To get to ‘town’ from my village, it is an 8km hike to the nearest passable road and an hour or more hitchhike in. Often with a hefty price tag on a volunteer’s allowance.

My RHC (Rural Health Clinic) services a roughly rectangular catchment of 56km x 11km, with a population of 9,127 people. It’s broken into eight zones and I have a monthly outreach cycle that I travel via bicycle. That is around 112km round trip to the furthest edge of my zone. The RHC staff is spectacular but…, well it’s difficult. There are three of us. Nine thousand one hundred and twenty seven to three. We’re working on outreach and education to train community health workers and neighborhood health committees for our zones, but it’s slow work.

Knowledge is hard to come by and let’s face it – without knowledge there’s no hope. So, by now I know your wondering, why the heck is this review called Western Digital. I’ll start with a little history.

I’ve had a lot of dealings with Western Digital. My first computer…that baby that you pick out…custom built, each component chosen and tweaked…your first investment in becoming technologically aware…those first few steps in basic programming, those first photos, games, assignments, memories and records of my life were stored on an 80GB Western Digital drive.

A lot of years have passed since that first adventure, with some drives failing and being replaced. You know the feeling of frustration and terror when your drive crashed and you thought all of your memories and work were gone. Western Digital’s products gave me the means to store and record my world and life in a whole new way. It opened possibilities for my education and future. Good solid equipment and customer service to back it up made me a return WD customer.

We’ve come a long long way since I first began using WD. The days of kilobytes and megabytes are passing. Programs are huge. Pictures capture so much detail they can’t be stored. Now we talk about terabytes like they’re candy. A 2 TB drive on sale for 89.99. Hot damn. Two terabytes! Unbelievable. A lifetime of information for so little.

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Sitting on the shelf in Staples was the tool that would become the avenue to a better life for thousands of people.

Back to now. 9,127 people, almost 1,800 households of 6, each making a gross income of 2-3 million kwacha a year which is less than $400 US. That’s $65 per person for an entire year!! Today, with some training in health, sanitation, and nutrition, the family can work harder, spend less time debilitated by manageable diseases, and can double that income. Add access to knowledge about agriculture, small business, household management and empowerment and those households stand to double it again. Rising from a meager $400 a year to nearly $2,000. That’s no exaggeration. That’s the power of knowledge. It literally saves lives, provides opportunity, and gives hope for a better life.

As VP of SRES, a non-profit educational corporation, I acquired a digital library of 4800 development-focused materials through CD3WD. CD3WD is a development organization run by Alex Weir. I loaded up this incredibly valuable library of appropriate technology information on my 2TB Western Digital drive and brought it with me to my service in Africa. What a fantastic war chest – an arsenal for the fight for basic human liberties and rights… tools to bring hope to thousands.

The library includes pamphlets, research documents, studies, and illustrations in the areas of agriculture, livestock, health, nutrition, economic strengthening, appropriate technology and others. It’s a 23 gigabyte set of information. Information that is saving lives at my clinic where it has been used as a reference manual for curative health. This information is giving hope to women and girls through economic empowerment and better maternity and prenatal care. This information is allowing farmers who can barely survive on their fields to learn to integrate natural fertilizers and agricultural practices that can triple or quadruple their yield.

The drive and company I’ve put my trust in? Western Digital.

That portable external drive holds the key to the futures of 9,127 people, in my catchment alone. It acted reliably to serve as a vehicle to share that library with six different international NGO’s, four government ministry offices, and 18 individual development agents, who are using it in program development and write me daily exclaiming how spectacular it is.

On Tuesday, my heart nearly stopped. A power surge, coupled with the humid tropical air, shorted out the drive.

We called Western Digital and spoke to a supervisor. Western Digital’s response? “If you can get it to us, we’ll replace the drive, waive the data recovery fees, send it out to the best company we have, expedite its replacement, and if the data is salvageable get it loaded up and back to you as soon as we can.”

Spectacular! Not some corporate bull$!%& line about rules and procedure. Not a, “Sorry there’s nothing we can do” (aka we don’t care) or “Buy a new drive”…Instead, I was met with caring support staff that listened to the unit’s purpose, realized its importance and went out of their way to comp every expense they could, leaving me only to pay shipping.

Thanks Western Digital!! From a remote corner of no-where under the African stars, I can lay back and know that someone out there really cares, understands their product’s value, and is willing to work with administrative procedures for the benefit of their fellow man.

These times, they are a changin’. Guess that’s fair enough. The winds have come, strong powerful gales blowing dust, seeds, spores, and memories away on grand adventures. They bring riders – cool nights, dew-covered grass, and crisp morning air. A cold splash of icy water across your face where just last week the same had been tepid.

Winter is coming, it’s harbinger arrived and the rains are slowing and coming to a halt. The evenings most often are clear and cold with the stars pulsing, etched against a milky white galaxy.

The night sky here can’t be called black – it’s a radiant display of dark hues and complicated mixtures of color.

There are two planets visible – one twinkling red and angry, the other yellow and rich. Orion strides across the sky hand in belt and bow held high. The world here is ancient. Gods stand – their silhouettes like embers carved across dark swirling currents of ash silver, topaz, amethyst and diamonds.

As the wind whispers of winter the world begins to listen. Animals begin to change – fur thickens, they start eating more and more… Life prepares for its cycle.

These new smells on the wind tell of people and lands far away – the Avatar of travel and wanderlust – winds hold us captive – scintillate us with sensations and an overwhelming desire to be carried away – to seek those far off places and explore every nook and cranny of the world.

The seasons, are changing – crops are ripening, harvest comes not a moment too soon. Starved hungry faces look in delight to their fields. Tables feel the thrill of new colors, smells and different shapes than the staples of hunger season. The world colludes our senses and tells us in a million different subtleties – I’m changing.

The winds bring something else. They bring, soft and sweet upon their lips, the promise of sweat, hard work, and learning. Cold and winter might be coming, but our work begins in earnest now. Once the fields are harvested, grain and sustenance provided for the year, once the rains have come to an end, then begins the time of rest from manual labor – and the beginning of strenuous mental exercise.

For once, freed by the winds from the fields and labor of growing, time begins to flow freely to be used as we please.

The grounds harden, the sun shines brighter and longer. Building and brick making begin – projects and constructions come alive…

The promise lies on the lips of the winds, whispered like a lover across the nape of your neck, tingling down your spine and brushing your hair with gentle fingers…the seasons are changing.

Morning folks – I’ve been writing a couple more introspective blogs lately so I thought I’d get back to the meat and bone of volunteer work – projects!

I’m narrowing in on today’s project because of its importance and because I’m celebrating the completion of the first of six bi-annual observation visits & the enrollment of 28 randomly selected households with nets. It was nice to break out my old research methods training, to put on my walking boots, and be an information hound.

So here are the details:
The study is about the durability and insecticide persistence in Long-Lasting Insecticide-treated Nets (LLINs) in Zambia. That’s looking for holes, counting burns and rips, and randomly takin’ a net and sending it to America.

Where do I come in? I always wanted to be a research assistant (RA) in college but this is much more exciting! I’m officially a Village Research Assistant working under the CDC in collaboration with PMI/USAID. As part of the process we had a fantastic two day training (you’ll remember my tweets from March @davidnberger). My counterpart and I were trained in the process of random selection (of households), good clinical practices, ethical issues around research, and how to administer questionnaires. Pretty exciting!

Now here are some tough facts about malaria to think about:

According to USAID’s Global Health’s official twitter, “A resistant #malaria strain has emerged along the Thai-Myanmar border, and it may reach #India and #Africa unless contained.”

Meaning that the fears of a resistant ‘hard-to-treat’ malaria might be realized sooner than we had hoped. This means it is essential to move away from a curative strategy to put a greater focus on prevention of infection.

USAID Global Health continues: “In 2010, #malaria killed ~1794 people per day in #Africa, mostly children #endmalaria #5thBDay.”
In deference to high child mortality, that 5th birthday hashtag is USAIDGH’s tagline for this year’s work…that every child deserves to have a 5th birthday.

On the ground in Chisunka, we have been analyzing data. Although the register has some holes and there are recording quality/accuracy issues, in 2010 my clinic reported 4398 cases of malaria treated with anti-malarial medication – 2103 were clinical, 2342 were confirmed – 4470 slides/RDT were used. 1124 were cases in children under 1 year. 1422 were cases between 1-5 years, 1852 were 5 years and older. Of those only 1 death at the center during screening/care was recorded from malaria for the entire year. That last number is not an accurate count for the community as a whole, it is documenting specifically the deaths that occurred at the clinic during screening and or provision of treatment in the clinic ward.

Keep in mind that anti – malarial treatment is practiced assembly-line style. 30-150 clients come for various maladies – some are tested for malaria. Coartem is dispensed in the proper dosages and the client is sent on their way. There’s usually only one staff member & a casual daily employee on duty. That means people are sent home unless they are seizing or unconscious in the screening room.

I’m still collecting the scraps of 2011′s data. But it will be interesting to graph it and see the net distributions effect on case load etc. through service provision. That brings me to the next point!

Last year in June 2011 my province – Luapula – received a bulk net distribution. My community alone received nearly 5000 nets.

In 2011 there were 1756 households registered, with an average household consisting of 5.1 people. Two parents and 3 children remaining in the home with a significant number of variation and outliers. Most of my community’s homes average 2 sleeping spaces: Adults and children under 5 years in one space and children over 5 sharing the other.

That accounts for nearly 3500 of the nets. Add in those that had three or even four sleeping spaces and we’ve got a better idea.
I’m not sure on adherence and use rates, but I know that every household inhabited in June 2011 received a permanet.

From this study (36 HH visited 28 eligible for enrollment), 1 of 4 houses only used one of the nets they received. 1 in 12 never put it up (still wrapped in its plastic) and 1 in 18 used an older net and had the new net packed away. Only 2 in the 36 total households visited for enrollment didn’t use a net at all. One had cut it up and made curtains for their doors and windows. The other used it outside as a chicken coop for new chicks. By getting a sample from communities like mine across distribution areas, we can learn about use, durability, and net-longevity which will better allow aid organizations to provide efficient distribution schemes.

It is serious business – a mosquito net provides a different aspect of protection. Unlike IRS (indoor residual spraying), a net provides the physical barrier as well as the chemical. If preserved and maintained, a mosquito net can serve as good protection even after it’s pesticide has been depleted.

On a side note – in a society where households build a gazebo-type structure to host visitors, gaining entry to residences and sleeping quarters was – interesting … to say the least. Talk about super awkward.

I’m excited to say that my community, the RHC (rural health clinic) and I have been busy preparing for World Malaria Day on the 25th. We’re planning a football match with a halftime show of role plays and dramas & a pre-game health talk on malaria and prevention.

Cheers!

Aurelius: Book Seven – Entry 61

“Living is more like wrestling than dancing; you have to stay on guard; ready and unruffled, while blows are being rained down on you, sometimes from unexpected quarters.”

No kidding! What an amazing sentiment – especially poignant for a PCV! We are more or less isolated, surrounded on all sides by foreign culture, tradition, food, sights, smells, tastes, language…constantly balancing, taking hits, blocking, deflecting, redirecting and adapting.

We use the experiential learning cycle in all of our curricula and community development programs. To me the process seems like intuitive adaptation – that is nature-guided – experiential learning. You are introduced to a topic, learn about it, internalize it, relate it, test it, receive feedback, and revise and edit. Pretty crazy right… It’s innate.

Still, often times we as PCVs steel ourselves for the cultural differences and changes, but are blindsided from unexpected quarters – fellow volunteers, news from home – the smallest of minor differences catch us unawares.

We have to stay on our guard, ready, recovered, and prepared to face the next experience –

Just a quick thought there hah.

Recent project update: feb ‘ 12

Well! Here’s a quick technical update. Only three things.

First, spirit stove. Using methylated spirits, two soda can bottom halves, zen focus, and a small nail I built a common peace corps utility – a stove that runs on methylated alcohol! Pretty exciting! It’s perfectly useful for heating my morning coffee, making oatmeal, or a variety of other neat uses – I used it to make a wax crucible and then sealed and patched big holes in my cement floor with wax for the short term.

Second – a technology developed in India – a little bit of chlorine, a touch of sunlight and a clear bottle poking through my thatch roof and taa dah! 60w daytime lightbulbs! Four installed and four more on their way.

Last, low level water harvesting and gutters. I got some aggression out beating aluminium corrugated sheets into gutters, there was a bit of snip snipping, a bit of my blood, a lot of cussing and the folded & joined “v” shaped gutters now neatly surround my hut. Awesome.

Other than that, just sitting and relaxing, cooking some corn from my field, nibbling some peanuts from my neighbour and contemplating my afternoon nap.

While my mind is conjuring odd memories and I’m surrounded by thought-provoking human emotion and expression, I thought it prudent to write you of one particularly interesting memory.

Last month (sometime around the 23rd of February at 10:14am) during our provincial collaboration workshop – a session designed to foster better communication, working relationships and sensitize local NGOs and government agencies on the role of the US Peace Corps – one of our [PCVS] counter-parts asked if he could share a story. We were all a little apprehensive as he’d been drinking but we listened regardless…In a train car headed from Lusaka toward Tanzania sat four people. All had luggage stored above in the racks and each had a parcel in their lap. There was an American, a Chinese national, an Indian and a Zambian. As they were riding along the American stood up, opened the train car window and bent back over to his seat – he started pulling out dollars bills and throwing them out the window – note that at this time the American volunteers were uncomfortable – then the Chinese man pulled out cellphones and electronics and did the same, from his bag the Indian started throwing medicines…

Now the Zambian (according to the story teller) looked around, he was confused and unsure. Seeing the American, the Chinese man, and the Indian all throwing away such valuable things he didn’t know what to do. So he ran out of the car and came back with 50 Zambian friends – one by one he started throwing them out of the train window. Note that the PCVs at this point were horrified – the story teller chuckled and said – what else was he supposed to throw away – Americans have money to throw at problems, the Chinese make everything, India makes our drugs….Zambia just has a lot of people.

I think he was trying to tell us that Americans value money, Chinese value productivity, and Indians value medicine (Well not sure on that last one), and Zambians value human capital above all else.

I hope that’s what he meant – there are a lot of dark, sad, hard ways to interpret that story. But tonight, against the eerie echoes of thunder and mournful cries carried from the nearby funeral into the wind, in the pitch black of my hut, that abstract moment, a totally unrelated story, during a conference on collaboration, floated clearly across my mind.

Now being that we were talking about collaboration – it might have meant that each nationality was throwing what they had at the process of development – and that Zambians contribution was human capital. But being a meeting about Peace Corps, and the fact that we don’t do monetary or hard development but give human resources of individual and group human capacity building, it makes that seem kind of strange. Maybe he was trying to say that Peace Corps is like Zambia – realizing the value of training people… Argh I don’t know.

Maybe you do! Let me know your interpretation.

Good evening everyone. I’ve been quiet for a while, looking for inspiration for a blog and processing.

Well tonight that inspiration arrived in a darker way than I’d hoped it might. Two houses away from me there’s a funeral. The procession from the clinic came by around 1600 hrs (4pm). I want to describe what a bush funeral is like. Let’s get some of the nasty bits out of the way – the family and clinic staff prepare the body and use cotton to seal all orifices – there’s no mortuary, no refrigeration etc so it’s a very time sensitive issue.

After the body has been prepared the news is spread throughout the community – in a visceral, heart wrenching – haunting manner. Members of the deceased family wail and mourn as they run through the community. The sound of pain, anguish, and moaning serves as a signal horn that the community should assemble for the funeral.

After the gathering calls have gone out, the immediate family escort the body – often unwrapped or placed in a chitenge (length of cloth) and carried to the family home. The entire procession is wailing and mourning – the sounds amplify as more and more of the community join and the echoes of pain linger in the African air – haunting and eerie. A funeral here isn’t like a funeral in the US. Everyone is expected to come – whether you knew the person or not – and if someone dies while visiting, the entire community will bury them as if they were one of their own – all members attendant. When a funeral occurs all other business is put on hold.

Once the procession reaches the home, the body is placed inside for friends and immediate family to sit with them and pay their respects – mourning continues outside and inside at an increased level. The body is then brought outside and laid in a bed. The community pays respects, rites are given, and then a coffin may or may not be made (depends on the condition of the body and on the time of death in relation to morning/evening/night). The body is taken to the cemetery – an untouched section of forest and laid to rest.

That, in a nutshell, is a funeral in the bush. As I type this the wails and mourning of the community echo through a thunderstorm giving an eerie, haunting quality. It’s never pleasant to hear people in pain, especially not in such a vocal way – but there is something awe-inspiring in the juxtaposition of soft pitter-patter of rain on my thatch roof and water dribbling into my aluminum gutters, and spikes of wailing cutting straight to the bone. Then the huge thunder claps, and flashes of lightening bursts supported by mournful cries. It’s creepy, sad, makes your soul weep and celebrate the joy of that person’s life, the beauty of nature, and the face of god…shown in the love, pain, and expression over a fellow human being’s passing.

I’ll sit back in reverie now and leave you with that.