DISTANT DRUMS
on Mid Life Angst (Zambia), 15/Mar/2010 12:22, 34 days ago
Normal0falsefalsefalseEN-USX-NONEX-NONEMicrosoftInternetExplorer4/* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";}As of today, I have 16 daysleft in Zambia.My remaining timewill be spentcompleting a fewprojectsand saying goodbye to the friends I have madeThe experience has been everything that I expected.It has been difficult and challenging.Oftentimes, I felt isolated and lonely.At the same time, it has also been everything I did not expect.I learned new things, most especially about what I can do without.I look at my end-of-placement review document and, on paper at least, it seems I havedone a lot in the past five and a half months. At the same time, I feel like Ihave notdone much at all.In the bus this morning on the way to the big city for a final workshop, I realized that Itmay take some time before I could process my entire experience andunderstand how exactly it has changed me.Maybe someday, after having made another one of my strange life choices,that is when I will suddenly realize– ah, this is what I learned in Africa, this is how Africa hastransformed me.For now, Ihavemycuriosand my experiencesto remind meofthe time I have spent here.When I am alone, I take out and admirethe Africansouvenirs .I imaginehow I would put them up back homeorhow to explain their provenance to my friends. But, a thing is a thing.Iquicklyget boredwiththis activity.I spend more time running through my memories.Iholdeach onein myconsciousness,considering theirvalueagainst the bright light of hindsightWhichones are most precious to me? Which ones do I want to take home with me?I could remember:the wretchedness of a diarrhea attack in a place withlimited toilet facilities (dear God, the wretchedness).the2 kilometer walkto get to the nearest hospital and the stench of sweat and sicknesswhile waitingin linefor my malaria test results(negative, but I was scared)the appetizing mixture ofmud and manure that I could just not avoid stepping on during the rainy seasonthefrustrationsfrom a work environment with limited resources and a different ethicthefeeling of helplessanger and the lost of my sense of complacent security afterhaving my things stolenthe homesickness that was never more acuteas during the cold nightswhenI wouldbeshivering under athick blanket,listening to the sound of scurrying rats in the ceiling, wishing I were home– warm, clean, stomach full -instead.I could remember grievances, inconveniences, hardships, annoyances, irritants.I could. But I don’t think I would want to. Even now, the details of thesememories arestarting to get fuzzy. How many times did I get diarrhea?Was it in November or December that I hadmalaria-like symptoms?What exactly werethe things that were stolen from me?Ibrush these memories aside.I survived.That is what matters.I havesuffered thrushit, theft, stomach problems and homesickness before.They are not unique to my African experience.Fortunately, there aremany more memoriesfrom which to choose. Theseare theonesthat will always seem like they only happened an hourago.No matter what the future holds for me, these are the ones that will make me want to come back to this time and place.I willrememberthe manynights whenI drifted off to sleeplistening to thesound of distant drums, imaginingpeople dancing around a bonfire,wondering what it was they might be celebrating.that hot day, sitting under the shade of a treewhena hungry boy fell asleepin my arms -his rhythmic breathing against my chest, his little fingers clutched tightly around minethat first day in Church when, after being introduced as a new member of the parish,a grandfatherlyman came up to me, held my hands and said“You are home.We are your family here”that late afternoonwhen, on the way home from work,I chanced upon a group of women standing at the back of aslowly movingtruck. They weresoftly singing . The words were foreign but themelody wassoevocative of sadness and longing.Iwas struckstillin the middle of the street,suddenlyremembering everything that I too have lost and missas I watched them disappear into the duskthe thrill ofriding in a car moving carefullyalong a deserted roadlate at night, careful not to hit any elephant that may cross our way, thinking to myself,“Only in Africa”the awe inspired by the gentle gaze of a fawn or the perfect beauty of a zebra ambling casually in front of me.the joy in the faces of the children who would run up to greet me every single day that I have been in Kalomo.“Muzungu, muzungu”, they would shout, racing against each other in their ragged clothes,tobe the first to touch me.thesimple, inspiredmeals cooked in small, cramped kitchens and shared happily with friends, all the more special because the occasions were so rare.telling a group of Zambians that my hero isthe ordinary Filipino in times of crisis;saying how proud I am of my countrymen who, regardless of the odds and the difficulties, still manage to laugh and to share; realizing as I was speaking how much it meant to me to be able to say this.I will remember faces and names and smiles, each special, each distinct and separate from the other.I will remember every life story that was shared with me,.I will remember magnificent, MAGNIFICENT, sunsets, and thundering waterfalls.I will rememberararerainbow seen in thefaintglowof the moonlight;colorful trees that seemed to reach up to the sky;verdant landscapes dotted with settlements of mud-huts;I will remember.Perhaps, while remembering,I might even hear the sound of distant drums again.I have come full circle. This is Africa.This is my Africa.