Sunday, 21 October 2012

Public Transport- the heart ache and the Hassles



Kitwe, September 20th 2012

My dear friends and family, here I am and happy to be giving an account of myself at last!  I hope that you are all well and enjoying the gift of life and loved ones.  I am amazed that I am in the same year that we were burying father! I am sure that you are also wondering at the elastic quality of time!  I was on holiday a few weeks ago and after spending a great nine days at the Poor Clare monastery outside Lusaka, headed off to Copperbelt and then Kasanka for another ten days.  I was wonderfully restored. Below, I travelled from Kitwe to Luanshya to do a few jobs, and was inspired to scribble a bit of a letter!



I was lucky, the last of 20 passengers of a mini bus headed off for Luanshya, but the seat was at an odd angle, supported as it was by a 50 kg bag of cassava underneath, and my long knees were meant to hold the sweet potatoes in front- so that I muttered in Bemba under my breath, “I’m to suffer for luck here!”  At the same time as I was hastily scrambling into place, the kid of a conductor was also commenting, “Is a Musungu (white person) joining us?  Will I need Chi-sungu (English)?”  “Ah no, she’s Bemba!  Didn’t you hear her?” This was from the passenger in front.  I liked his face; lined, and leathered by philosophic experience and humour.  No, I was wrong- there was one more place, because a young man managed to insert himself next to two front -seated, serious looking business men.  Entry for him was via the vacant driver’s seat.  So, we sat alert and ready, cloths tying up personal belongings, suitcases held on laps and faces peering over, merchandise in cardboard boxes for selling … “Where’s the driver!”  That question came from behind, and over the suitcase.  He smiled at me when I looked around.  Sure enough, there the driver was – in post box red cap and T shirt looking upset, because as he told us, he had been forced by the police- I could not catch it all- to pay a fine, and the conductor, who looked only 16 years old himself, was respectfully listening, and addressing him as “Bashi Michael,” the father of Michael.  Paying a fine would upset the fine balance between a day’s profit and loss.  Everybody else seemed to listen sympathetically too, as the police don’t enjoy a good reputation in Kitwe. (See below)




Well, Michael’s father (the driver) was moving out onto the congested  road, pulling on his required blue shirt uniform, strapping in his seatbelt as he changed gears , ( reminding me of one of my father’s inherited driving habits,) and we were on the road. Businessman no. 1 was on the phone as the conductor called for money up front, especially money with CHANGE.  “This could be interesting,” I thought, “a corporate effort;” so I obediently checked my purse for small notes and handed them over.  So for the next ten minutes, “Who gave me 20? Who gave me 50?” as money travelled around in exchange.  I was glad things were getting organised because the potato sack was threatening to escape my grip of knees and hand by this time and I called for conductor assistance. “Ngafweenko!”  I sensed the deep satisfaction of my friend in front, listening to my Bemba accent.  I was enjoying myself immensely.



A few weeks ago in Lusaka I attended an unusual meeting representing the Drug and Alcohol set up I work with in SHARPZ. (Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia)  In that meeting, different associations had gathered to pool their resources to work out what could be done for drivers, conductors, call boys- all the casual workers of Lusaka’s public transport system- and who were dying of HIV and AIDS.  Peter, an older man and drivers association representative had written a comprehensive account of the life of thousands who lived off the returns of organised chaos; introducing us to the “scene” whereby so many of his colleagues had since died, and he counted himself as a survivor who needed to use what he knew, to find a way forward for the ones following behind.


Why? Why were so many dying in this time of media and health delivery?  Many who thronged the transport centres for work are uneducated and casual workers.  Many are positive but in such a rough and volatile environment few would admit this for fear that at the next dispute when insults flow freely, one’s status would be out and public consumption within hours.  Not only would this mean humiliation and derision but one’s job would be in jeopardy where the pool of young, unemployed is never slaked.  Many of these teeming youths are up at first light and most get home very late, perhaps drinking on the way as a means of relaxation.  The daily pressure, and the reason for hell bent driving is the fact that these are drivers for mini bus owners who exact a starting fee of K350,000 ($70) before any income comes their  way- both driver and conductor. Daily passenger trips into town would be K5,000 ($1)  so we get packed into buses unceremoniously.   It’s a transaction executed swiftly and roughly! It’s understandable.
So if a driver is HIV+ often he sends his conductor or “boy” to the ART (Anti Retro-viral Therapy) clinic to collect his medication and by the time he has “signed” for it, the bus is full, the engine running as he has “diverted’ a block from the bus route to do so without losing vital time and passengers. So, no counselling, no education on medication, side effects, information or prognosis, no liver test, no blood or urine analysis; running blind. No chance to check in his or her own language why the head aches and dizziness.  Many rely on each other for exchange of “information,” like “If you sleep with her, you need at least two condoms!” And the women are there too, equally needy and financially strapped. Sometimes (Peter explained) not all passengers will disembark, but a woman remains riding on the bus. Then there are the women fruit and vegetable vendors. The question has to be asked “how do they manage such a turnover of fresh produce each day, for the pitifully small returns sold daily?’   Sadly the answer is in supplementary income, so that often a small girl will take over the stand while, “Aunty” disappears for a while as an escort.
Yet there is a network of support in the loose associations of the industry, so that with informal dues paid monthly for funerals for example, a bus can be packed off with mourners for the cemetery for several hours and on its return be ushered straight into the loading station for passengers without queuing- an unscheduled trip quite unknown to the owner.



One planned health intervention was to set up running DVD with educational messages in the vernacular languages whilst buses queued for their loads, which often take 40 minutes or so. This could be good together with a small health station to educate and counsel to break down some of the stigma and fear. I came from that meeting softened and more enlightened as well as wanting to reach out to such people caught up in such a web of need and want.
Well once again this comes with blessings and love,
Marie




Saturday, 30 June 2012

An Old Man with a Hessian Bag


My dear friends and family,
I am so happy to be celebrating this quiet autumn morning, looking out on to lawn, falling leaves, sunshine and shade.  I laughed when I overheard Sr. Ann (with whom I live) saying to Ellen our Regional Leader on the phone just now; that, "Marie is taking a day off today .." laughing at myself that is.  Like most people, I am good at beating myself up with inner compulsions to work and work!  Sometimes I catch myself measuring off my days; my father lived to 90; maybe I have 25 odd years left to count on?  At times I have the sense of life passing me by without resting by the wayside to observe what's going on around me; so many simple gifts are mine every day; gifts deserving time to ponder, else I'm in danger of skittering on surface water like a dragon fly, merely flitting; not exploring inner depths.

An old man crossing
Since returning to Zambia and life in Lusaka, I have continued with an inner restlessness.  How I love to be in the market, in the village, traveling about, moving with ordinary folk!  I live in our Regional house here in Lusaka and my role is more back up support; requiring more technological flair on my part.  It's okay.  Lusaka too seems to be rapidly expanding too, into shining malls and enmeshed traffic but the other evening I saw a very old man crossing over a two lane feeder highway bringing evening rush hour traffic to a surprised standstill.  He crossed over tentatively, dragging an old hessian bag with him of empty tins and plastics, hobbling in front of the waiting bumper bars, as he finally hauled his bag slowly up and over the concrete kerbing.  What a marvellous image of our poverty, I thought.  I could sense the other drivers drawing in their breath and pausing; all thought of racing for the next light replaced by concern, and perhaps an inner jolt of who and how we are.  It would seem that we human beings need to step back like that at times, in quietness and courage in order to move more mindfully though our days.

Drug and Alcohol Work
I work two days a week in Serenity harm Reduction Programme, Zambia (SHARPZ) as a drug and alcohol therapist.  I love it. Drugs and alcohol misuse seem to be on the increase here and I'm reading everything I can lay my hands on, as well as having lots of training in order to work with people, where they are in their courageous attempts to regain their freedom.  In our living, it is easy to fill our emptiness and poverty with something or other.  Usually we cannot free ourselves from such addictions on our own; we need the support from family members and friends.

Luka
Luka hardly spoke and when he did, it was to murmur to himself.  He had been taking marijuana and his sister and her husband brought him straight from five days of Detox.  I felt so out of my depth, I asked another Counsellor to help in an assessment interview. Does he want to come to "see" us twice a week, I asked Luka?  Luka mumbled that he does not "want" to come, but he will.  Wow.  Time for me to take a breath!  He was 27, single and dependent, but a fine figure of a man.  The following weeks of halting conversation (me asking questions, Luka responding in barely audible responses) seemed to indicate trauma as a boy, through loss of his father and then not long later, loss of his mother, with Luka shutting down emotionally by the time he was 18 and since then with increasing depression, numbs himself with drugs.  Such misery.  What amazed me was the measure of love in that family and the way they were counting their monthly bills to calculate what they could set aside for Luka's rehabilitation.  His older sisters and brother had taken care of him over the years but these moves around Zambia probably intensified his confusion and feeling, "a problem for them," as Luka termed it.  Yet, Luka also bears in himself and carries family grief and loss.  When he dresses himself carefully, agrees to go on family excursions, his sister and husband are overjoyed.  Small steps; let us hope and pray!

Coffee
I was so pleased to welcome Jane Bertelson here last month.  We repaired to my special coffee spot, where I confess; I ate most of the food!  Another Australian often at our place is Lana Turvey, a volunteer on loan for a year from the Sydney office of the Pontifical Mission Society. (PMS)  My favourite text from her is, "Wanna coffee?"  Oh, joy.  Now that is a distinct plus to city living!





The owner servant

There once was a man           
who owned a donkey. 
They were friends.                             

the donkey always served
him with love and devotion.                                      
They spoke in silence.
It was a soundless alphabet
Which bore fruit....

Each month for one day
The owner
became servant.

When asked the reason for
such a strange custom           
he answered

Only by being a donkey
have I attained wisdom.

           
Poet Artist, Assisi 2006



Lots of love, May you each be with God, and God be with you! (Blessing of St. Clare of Assisi)

Marie


Saturday, 26 May 2012

The Girl from Mashika

The Girl from Mashika and Kasanka Community
Night journey
Last week I returned to my beloved Kasanka 730kms to Luapula by the night bus.  In between snoozing I watched Scorpio stretching itself along the night horizon. The stars!  I’d forgotten how they gleam and glisten in the black country sky! We staggered out at intervals.  We lost a quarter of our passengers just before Kapiri Mporshi.  They must have been ferried to the other side of the town, to avoid the weighing station; grinning and returning to their seats, telling me they were back!  I had grown alarmed as usually it is only those in the back seats who just walk through the town in the dark and wait by the barrier for the bus after the weigh in.  Obviously road traffic officials had seen this and now the bus company paid for a 30 km lift on.  Well, it must have benefited passengers too, carrying extra loads for them to be so inconveniencing themselves!  On we went and I fell asleep again, until waking I was amazed to see the flattened, bleached grass of the swamps.  Had we passed Kasanka?  I peered out the window and saw with relief the concrete runway up to Luapula Bridge, which meant 30 kms to go.  At bus speed, that gave me 20 minutes to negotiate my scattered bags, sleeping children on the floor, slumbering passengers and suitcases, necessitating giant steps to the front, to the only other person awake; the driver!
Arrival
Thus I stepped down onto Kasanka soil, and could hear Ben our dog barking half a mile away, and then quietly listening as I made my way home.  Rogita had left everything unlocked, so no trouble getting to bed; apart from foisting off a rapturous 25 kg of Ben who insisted on proper ritual of welcome! It was 2am; fantastic for sleep.
What everyone was doing!

Sr. Agnes and Students

Upon waking, and a brief breakfast I set off to find the community. First off was Agnes at the local Primary School, with her little Pre-Schoolers, Elizabeth at Chitundwa (through which we had just shot through at 120 k.p.h. seven hours ago!) then Rogita back through Kasanka to Chisakana where she was visiting the Home Based Care Clients at their outstations with Juliet and the Programme Care Supporters.  When I arrived, there was a lively discussion about Jonah.  How come he was receiving food as well as medicine?

Arguing the Point!

  So Juliet explained that Jonah was sick, needed food as well as medicine right now.  Her own case was different and once again explained how the programme was not about hand outs but medical assistance, and when Clients set up income generating activities it can be sustained in the future. And here Juliet’s voice rose a pitch; edged with frustration- Did you not know that so many other programmes had collapsed, with Clients struggling with HIV and poor access to ARV’s?  Well the group listened- I don’t know how convinced they were but at the next site, we met up with the famous Jonah (not really his name) who refused to work on establishing any income generating activity and in disgust his name was removed from the programme!

The HBC Team at Work
How difficult it is to wean Clients off dependency and to play their part in an educative way! Juliet understandably got very annoyed! Jonah’s name was ruled through and he was off the programme!  Luckily for him he can still access ARV’s at the local clinic but when he gets sick and he can’t walk the kilometers, he will ask to return to the mobile programme.  The team have seen it all before with other Clients.  They also know that if the programme is to be sustainable, the people themselves need to support it in their local endevours like charcoal burning, some market gardening, keeping a few pigs etc.  It has to happen.  
 
Young women cooking for the J & P Seminar
The Girl from Mashika
That morning Rogita met 16 year old who had trekked from Mashika, sleeping only upon reaching the security of Milenge turn off at the edge of Kasanka village on the Mansa road. Mashika is 60 kilometres through the bush, “as the crow flies.”  Could the Sisters give her transport money to reach her Aunt in Chililabombwe, because she was pregnant and her “uncle” was demanding she “get rid of it” and he refused to have a “bastard” under his roof.  Juliet and Rogita looked at each other; questions jostling in their minds.  Was she really pregnant?  Was this a ploy for money?  How were they to check the girl’s story?  The girl, reading their minds went on to explain that her husband died in January, and only four months later did she realize that she was pregnant. Was she really married, they  asked her. Well, not really but they were intending to. Their “uncle” was the owner of the house and related to her dead husband, and there were two other brothers living in the house.  Alarm bells began ringing in the women’s minds.  Was there anyone they could ring in Mashika to verify her story, she was asked. At least Kasanka was recently in cellular coverage with the rest of the world now!  No, she knew no numbers.  They looked at her “luggage;” a few small items tied in a grimy cloth.
Parish Justice and Peace Seminar
That week end Parishioners had gathered for a Justice and Peace seminar at the Parish Centre and Henry (his real name) from the Diocesan Centre had arrived from Mansa; an astute and good man.  Juliet  and Rogita had HBC (Home Based Care) outstations to visit, could Henry check out the girl’s story?  Henry met with her briefly, needed to start his programme but would sit down with her later in the morning.  “Mother Theresa,” Juliet would accommodate and feed her meantime in the family compound!
  Sr.  Rogita and Henry
As it turned out, there was a seminar participant from Mashika who was related to the uncle  and knew the man who had died.  Later in the morning it was found that one of the HBC volunteers was related to the girl! Yes, everyone is related somehow!  Kinship and family connections run underground all over the place!  Henry sat with her and investigated further and aided with bits of information he and the community  drew up a plan.  Clearly the girl could not return to Mashika and her uncle.  He would be infuriated with her on a number of counts; better to have his relative go as an emissary to see and calm things down so she could safely return at some later date if she wanted.  Henry meantime could give her lift to Mansa and put her on the Copperbelt bus through Congo for Chililabombwe the following day. She had no number to contact her Aunt but she remembered the house from a previous visit and could make her way there.
Chitundwa and a day later
While this drama was unfolding at the parish Centre, I grabbed my camera and set off to see Agnes at Kasanka Basic School, where she was with her Pre-Schoolers and then on to Chitundwa to where Elizabeth was with her Grade Nine’s.  I missed Agi’s little ones but managed to find a few still lingering and  got lovely ones of Elizabeth.  When we all trouped home for lunch, of course the subject round the table was the “the girl from Mashika.”  I wonder if I’ve some clothes for her that we can fit her out with? Elizabeth was thinking out aloud.  I thought to myself, “Isn’t a Religious community a most wonderful gift for a rural community?”
L-R Srs. Rogita, Agnes, Eliza FMDM
My visit ended too quickly.  We had booked a seat the following day on the only bus, so we thought running that Sunday to Lusaka.  Off we set for the road, only ten minutes away that evening, and we stood chatting as the sky darkened into early evening, swapping stories and swatting mosquitoes!  The stars grew enormous into a wondrous glistening spread all around us. Aha! Bus lights popped over the night horizon and bore down upon us, and we all began flagging down the speeding bulk. With gusts of dust and screeching of brakes it stopped 100 yards ahead, so Eliza ad Agnes grabbed my bags and ran with Rogita and I doing our best behind them.  God! Not our bus!  We shouted profuse apologies, explaining we were waiting for someone else!  Imagine our embarrassment after flagging down five other coaches and tow loaded trucks (how were we to tell the difference in the dark?) before “our” bus finally arrived two hours later.  Such is life in the bush!
Marie Bourke FMDM, May 2012