I thought we would escape the census man, but like a book I was sandwiched between two bookends. While we were home in the States the census man came by several times. When he found out we lived outside the country he left but came back another time because he forgot he had been by. George was a little older than I, so I understand!
The other bookend, Jeffrey, appeared at our door yesterday and there was no escape from being counted. Realizing that Zambia tallies foreigners and that Jeffrey wasn’t going away, even though it was my lunchtime (something sacred in Zambia), I invited him out to our insaka (thatched meeting place), and proceeded to answer his questions. In this country census workers are called “enumerators” and wear orange vests instead of badges.
Because it’s been ten years since I last answered a census, I couldn’t tell you if the questions are different from the ones in the States. But, I found some of them rather interesting. Jeffrey prefaced one of the questions in true Zambian fashion, very politely. “This question is rather delicate,” he began. “Is anyone in this house disabled?” Hmm, does that count emotionally or mentally? Some of the other questions were, “Where you dispose of your trash?” (We burn it.) “Do you have a TV? Vehicle? Internet? Laptop?” I was a little concerned he was going to pass this information onto shady characters. He also asked if we had a motorcycle but I told him not anymore. We used to, but it’s too dangerous to drive one here. “Where do you get your water from?” (A borehole, or well). Source of power? (Electricity, when it works.) He smiled knowingly.
After he finished he slapped a white sticker on our front door notifying his superiors that we’d been counted. I asked him how long I have to keep the sticker on the door. He said, “Mmm, about five years.” I said, “That sticker is not staying on my door for five years,” I answered firmly. He then said, “Okay, about five months. Just so they know I came by.” Everything's negotiable here, except being counted!
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