We’re at Mukinge now, in the Northwest province (incidentally, I re-read one of my earlier posts and it appears I initially put Chilonga and Mukinge on opposite sides of the country than where they really are so, to clarify, Chilonga is in the Northern province, though it is also sort of east-ish; Mukinge is in the Northwest province), and I’ve sworn (again) that I’m going to try write at least every couple of days – even if it ends up being crap, or a silly story without a context, or I radically amend my observations (as I have found I am doing almost daily) and contradict myself - and post it when I get back. This is my first crack.
Anyhoo, so Mukinge. We got here January 21st, after a two-day, 11-hour journey (there are
no road lamps here, and night comes quickly, so we do our driving in daylight hours only). We stopped off in Kitwe, a relatively large town in the Copper Belt (copper is the country’s main export, so this part of the country is generally more economically developed than the rest), where we stayed for one restful and rejuvenating night at the delightful Mukwa Lodge, a sort of guest house/bed and breakfast type place. We slept in, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the restaurant and, after re-stocking our food stores at the Kitwe ShopRite, set out on our way.We got here in pretty good time, particularly considering the condition of the roads; the number of people, pigs and goats out on them; and our pathetically ineffective Little-Miss-Sunshine horn which, after one bleating, prepubescent howl, pretty much crapped out on us completely. Had we a working horn to blast our way through, though, we might have missed the hours-old baby goat incubating itself beside its mom on the warm tarmac (umbilical cord still attached); or the towering, phallic termite mounds thrusting through the rich green brush at haphazard intervals; or the pasty, panting muzungu (probably a Peace Corps volunteer) huffing her way God-knows-how-many kilometers on her bike to the next bright press of civilization; or (my favorite) the quintessential picture of the social structure here: the strong, straight-backed village woman walking with a ginormous tub of water balanced on her head and a baby on her hip, while her husband trails idly behind carrying nothing but – I swear to God – her purse.
When we arrived at the hospital complex, we stopped off first at Nurse Lynn’s, the hospital’s head nurse (or matron, as she is called here). Lynn is a career missionary (Mukinge is a
Protestant mission hospital and is staffed largely by American, European, and Kiwi Christian medical professionals) and her warm, cozy home looked like it’d been Wizard-of-Ozzed right from the States and plopped down in the middle of Mukinge’s tropical paradise. I frowned inwardly – I’d expected bush living to be all thatched-roof-huts-and-pit-latrines – because this was twice now: first at Chilonga, where we stayed in the lap of luxury at the doctor’s house (she was away on holiday). There, I not only had a bed, but my own room (mosquito net included); there was a gorgeous sitting room with a wicker chair, leather sofa and beautiful, if minimalist, African art; a huge, private garden; and the best set of kitchen knives I’ve ever used (I had no idea how much I’d learn to appreciate kitchen knives). So maybe the water filter didn’t work and we occasionally had to bathe in a bucket. And, yeah, the concrete floors were always covered with at least an inch of dirt, the screens were pretty much nonexistent, and the dogs (there were two) and the rains conspired to cloud the air with a sour, moldy smell that attached itself permanently to our clothes, our towels (which never dried out), and our skin. Still, though, it was hard to complain. So after that, and then Lynn’s house, I started to feel embarrassed. I imagined you folks back home were all thatched-roof-huts-and-pit-latrines right with me, so how could I admit this cushy living to you? I mean, aren’t I supposed to be “roughing it”?Welp, I needn’t have worried. A thatched-roof hut it is not, but our accommodations here at Mukinge have been a trifle less…comfortable. We have not had a water or power issue since we’ve been here, and I do (again) have my own room, but I sort of feel like a thatched-roof hut would be nice right now. In fact, since I first started writing this entry, I’ve gone and stayed in
the village with Chris and Amy’s Peace Corp friends, Steve and Heather, and their mud-walled, concrete-floored, no-running-water-or-electricity-and-they-do-have-a-pit-latrine hut is infinitely more habitable than the house where we’re staying here in the hospital complex. I guess maybe because that was mostly just dirt. This…this is mold. And mildew. And years of grimy, filmy cooking grease trapping generations of tiny insects in corners, on shelves, and in cabinets; it’s cobwebs and insect egg sacs; and the yeasty, curdled smell of old garbage. The stove doesn’t work (we cook on the countertop with an electric double-burner); my pillow is a sour-milk-smelling, crater-shaped foam mold thingy (I think, from the shape, it’s meant to be orthopedic) that I’m quite sure plays host to a number of tiny microbacteria; and I have not seen – cumulatively, over the course of my entire life – more cockroaches than I saw in just the kitchen cabinets the first night we arrived. Or ants, for that matter: big ones, little ones, biting ones. I thought at first a potted plant had tipped and spilled its dirt but, nope, it was just the ants. Oh, and we have a mouse, too (although he’s tiny, and kind of cute), and mud wasps which, though apparently harmless, nest in corners and doorjambs and air vents in these small mountains of, well, mud but which look – if you can forgive my vulgarity – rather like tiny piles of sh*t.I am aghast when the short-term assistants’ housing coordinator shows us the place and decide to forego the evening chapel service to stay at home and clean. I sweep, I scrub, I dust, I cover the mystery-stained, mildewed couch with a spare chitenge (the ubiquitous, multipurpose rectangles of fabric that serve as everything from baby slings to wrap skirts to wall art and furniture coverings here), and soak the bug-infested cutting board in bleach.
I am sticky, and exhausted, but I feel a tiny bloom of triumph in my chest. I smile. Mukinge will be different than Chilonga, I figure. But I cannot wait to see what else it will bring.
Picture 1: Breezeway at the Mukwa Lodge in Kitwe
Picture 2: An oxcart on the way to the hospital
Picture 3: Steve and Heather in front of their mud hut
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