A day in the life of a volunteer                               Rebecca Zausmer

Early rays of sun glance off the mud rondavel walls but the air is icy as I step outside. I wave to Michelo singing outside her house and scamper to the mess, neighbourhood dogs crowding around demanding affection. Rob has made porridge with Medan’s pounded ground nuts and, glad of the warmth, I huddle by the braai with a bowl of the creamy meal and mug of coffee. My day begins.

 Smiles and a jumble of “Murishani”s greet me as I head past chickens pecking in the dust, past babies being bathed and toddlers pottering to the Crèche, past white-washed buildings, across the dusty field into school. ‘Good morning Miss Zausmer!’ my Grade 8 class choruses. The 40 pupils sit three to a desk; they’re already restless and a little fed up. English homework hasn’t been done but it’s no great surprise; life is not easy for them with chores at home and work in the fields. And there is no electricity for lighting after dark. I start the lesson regardless – ‘Adjectives’. They’re finding them confusing and I struggle to illustrate the concepts. I sigh. We must take a different tack; they can teach me adjectives in Bemba. They love my ridiculous mimes of “fat” and “thin” and my feeble efforts at Bemba, and their laughter resounds loudly around the school.

 Lunch, spent sharing the morning’s quirks and discussing how to get to Ndola to buy in supplies, is cut short with the approaching drone of Martin’s motorbike. This afternoon I am to investigate why dams aren’t being used to full effect. We weave our way through the bush and, as Martin navigates us through scrub, I wave happily at the people who dot the footpaths. Progress around the households is slow. Martin greets and offers introductions and I smile, trying to gauge the conversations. But they are all welcoming and, as I teeter on rough benches outside their homes, they patiently answer my questions in the hope that I signal the coming of something good. Three houses are all we manage this afternoon before the sun starts to sink. On our journey back through the long shadows we hit rush hour traffic; at least three bikes!

 Food by head torch is our usual ritual but tonight, after showering off the day’s dust, we’re in the imbalasa around a handsome fire. The spicy boerewors sausage spits over the embers. Emma stirs the inevitable tomato relish and shoos away a dog who is eying the meat, crooked tail quivering in delight. As we carry plates and pans back and forth, Nick points out how black the sky is. The moon is just a slice; dense sprays of stars are our ceiling tonight.

 Under warm thatch, we chatter long into the night talking of Kaloko and the people here, about ourselves, our past, present and future. Sometimes we’re quiet, thoughtful, yet utterly content with new friends and our bush existence which has so quickly come to be home. People and place are inextricably linked in any environment – Kaloko is no exception. Yes, I had moments of uncertainty, even of frustration, but more often than not I felt a deep satisfaction and joy. It was an experience I would live over and over again.

 

rondavel                  a hut

braai                      open grated fire for cooking

“Murishani”            “Good morning” in Bemba, the local language

imbalasa               a traditional thatched shelter