Mid-morning we are back in town to get a taxi for Dave to go to the airport. The city is a pleasure on a Sunday morning--so quiet, very few people. Dave left to begin his long journey back to the U.S., and I went to the internet cafe to communicate with the team at home.
Empty city streets.
I walked back to the guesthouse at midday and enjoyed a good lunch of leftovers from dinner. I took advantage of the downtime--everyone at church--to begin to catch up on all the things we have not gotten to: tracking expenses, notes for the blog, to do lists for our Zambia team.
At 1:00 pm, Pauline and Theresa came to collect me, and we set out for Kantolomba. We had arranged to meet Josephine to visit Daniel's grave. When we pulled into the main road in Kantolomba, Georgina, Josephine and Veronica climbed into the car and we proceeded to the cemetery. I had already talked with Theresa about photographs, and she said I was very welcome to take pictures at the grave site.
Every time I enter the graveyard I am struck by the markers. As we drive along, I see that an enormous percentage of the birth dates are in the 1960s and 70s. We have said it before and it remains true: there is an entire generation of young people dying in southern Africa. The second most common age group to see marked on the graves is Daniel's--children who lived one or two years, or only a matter of months.
We reached Daniel's unmarked grave--Josephine is working on saving the funds to pay for a simple marker--and they invited me to take photographs. I felt somewhat uncomfortable, wanting more just to be there with our friends, with Daniel. And, I also know that Daniel has the opportunity to make a tremendous difference in the life of his community. He was a special soul who was here for so little time but became known to many hundreds of people around the world in his short life. He puts an adorable, lovable face to the horrifying statistics we hear. As I stood to take pictures, the women knelt to pray with Daniel, seeming to want to share this moment with all of you. Once documented, I joined them. We stayed there together in silence for a while, and as we stood to go I asked if it would be okay to add something. I told Daniel thank you from all of us, the Living Compassion team comprised of thousands of people around the globe--retreatants; those who read the blog; people who donate time, money, love; all who participate. Thank you and we hold you with us.
We walked back to the car in silence, past the endless graves of strangers, fellow human beings.
It was not long before conversation turned to other things, and I was struck at how death is such an everyday part of life here. Just in this little community of 11,000 people, there are deaths each day.
We went to the potter's house to collect as many pots as I could fit in my suitcase to bring back. Then we walked through the compound and said goodbyes. I told everyone we would see them in April and they smiled, now knowing that we keep our promises.
Recently made pots; not yet fired.
Completed pots.
I had a lot of help picking out which pots to buy.
The potter and her family.
We headed back to town, went to the bank and the internet cafe, and then to the guesthouse where we were scheduled to collect a batch of bags from Martin.
Inside the internet cafe.
For the first time the quality of the product Martin delivered was disappointing. Several of the patches bearing Living Compassion's logo on the front were poorly printed and/or cut. He explained that the screen printing had not been done well. We all decided we could not bring these back to the U.S. to sell--it would be a misrepresentation of Africa. The work we usually bring home is beautiful, careful, and complete. We are not willing to deliver the impression that craft work in Zambia is shoddy. Mr. Kayula joked with Martin that people in the U.S. will say, "Those Africans can't even manage to sew properly." I was relieved that we agreed we did not want to bring the product back. It was a lesson for all of us in the importance of doing things well.
We thanked Martin, Theresa, Pauline, and Mr. Kayula, and then I sat down to go over budgets. As I was waiting for my computer to boot up, one of them asked me a question that sparked me to show a photograph from the Bridge Walk. I had never thought to do that before. They were fascinated. We ended up going through the whole folder of photos from the 2006 Walk. They were very touched to see hundreds of strangers halfway across the world gathering to raise money for Kantolomba. It was fun for them to see the pictures of the piles of donated backpacks that they helped sort and distribute to the children. As we browsed, we realized it would be fun for them to learn more about all of you--the folks back on the U.S. side of the equation. Through blogs, emails and events, many of you have learned a lot about these folks. You know Theresa, Pauline, Mr. Kayula, Georgina, Josephine, Veronica, Steve, Mr. Chaila, and Godfrey but they don't know you--the people who read the blog, who gather backpacks, who send donations, who contribute monthly. So, if you feel moved, send a picture of yourself--snail mail would work well--and write a little something, even just your name if you like. Next time we come to Zambia we will introduce you.
Backpacks at the Bridge Walk.
We finished our budget meeting in time for me to have a chance to get some packing done, knowing that tomorrow, Monday, would be a big last day. Later I foraged in the fridge and managed to make a decent dinner, then was off to sit and get to bed early.
Using the chitenge bags to protect the pots during travel.