Simple Pleasures

It has been 20 days since I stepped foot into Africa. A continent that so many of us are fearful of. Fear of the unknown, the undiscovered, the unexplored. The truth is there is nothing in the life of its people that is any different than that of our metropolitan lives. Just as us they too have families and children and loved ones. They too have fears and sorrows. They too have celebrations and joyful moments. They too strive to succeed in life and to progress. However our fundamental difference is that they still see the joy and happiness in the small things while we have forgone that pleasure a very long time ago as a price to a modern and materialistic lifestyle. I am not one to question the right or wrong of this exchange, for I take every pleasure in the use of all of my gadgets and electronics during my stay, but I wonder if maybe we could one day have a little of both these worlds and finally be content.

My Polé!!

I have finally arrived at Zambia or specifically the Banani School in an area called Chibombo, 80KM from the capital, Lusaka. I was met with a world of simplicity and kindness. A world of laughter, high spirits and high hopes. It seemed like whoever crossed your path would greet you with a smile. Something that I love the most about this country. This sense of friendliness, hospitality and joy. The first day I got to this beautiful, all girls, boarding school I was met with hundreds of hugs and smiles and of course thousands of questions. Eager to know all the smallest details of my life I was swarmed with these beautiful girls who have been nothing but kind and generous with me. During my first few nights as their dorm supervisor or dorm “mom” I was still a bit uneasy with my role as someone responsible for 17 girls who have no more than 13 years of age. However, with time I came to realize that that uneasiness was nothing compared to the feeling accompanying the non-stop question of: “will you be my polé?” or “play mom” which you constantly receive from the 150 or so girls at the school. As all the other volunteers I too finally had to give in and accept the title of a mom and the constant calling of ‘polé’ before I was hit again with another emotional train. Missing home and my loved ones that I had left behind, merely a few days back, came the visiting Sunday of the month. The day where families and friends would come to visit their daughters at the school. From early morning I could hear my girls shouting and running and ordering each other around, all excited and anxious to see their families. They woke up as early as 5 am to get a chance to shower and iron and dress up and as they put it “look pretty” for their parents. I saw lots of these girls happily in the arms of their families, running around with their younger siblings or taking pride in showing their parents what they have learnt or experienced during their stay at the school. It brought tears to my eyes seeing these girls with their families, I had just left my family and missed them with all my heart, although in a mere matter of a few days I had bonded with these girls and suddenly felt a strange pride in them and now they were my family and I was theirs. However on the other side I also saw the eager, awaiting eyes of the girls who waited hours and hours watching all the other parents come and go for their daughters, anticipating the arrival of their own families. The families who never showed up. The ones who never show up. That night I held one of my girls in my arms for the first time while she cried. She cried and cried giving me tens of different excuses for why she was crying until eventually trusting me enough with her real pain. The pain of not having anyone asking about you. Not having anyone come to visit you. She had waited the entire day, only to be disappointed.