My Year in Africa

Written on my last flight back from Zambia to the UK

My year in Africa is over. I am 2 hrs away from Heathrow- Zambia is 8 hours behind me. I’m not sure I will ever return to Zambia- but there is more of Africa to see… I’m just not sure if I want to see it.

Africa hurt. The moments of joy were few and far between- its hard for someone who treasures joy to live in a place where there is so little of it. Yvonne cried this morning, begged me to stay, and cried for the loss of her salary and the school fees- her eyes begging me to give her more money. It was awful. There was no joy in that.

It’s over now- all of it- the ex-pat life, the poverty, the constant demands, the racial tensions, the exploitation, the coldness, and the lack of substance. Its over for me at least but it continues on there. How can such a place be so superficial? How can such a place harbor nothing but drinking, promiscuity, gossip and material wealth? Not even NYC came close to that. It probably all boils down to the type of people who go to Africa and why they are there. I am so happy to have left- that country held nothing for me. It was empty.

My year in Africa. It sounds so momentous, so life changing, so adventurous- but it was actually pretty boring. Maybe I am tired of my life changing. Besides, the adventures in to be had in Lusaka were hard to come by. I wish it had been different but it was the best I could make it. I just seemed to be warring against everything and everyone. No contentment was to be found. But to be content and happy in Zambia seems a ridiculous concept when you are surrounded by poverty and sickness- to be happy is to be guilty.There was nothing more I could do. And even when I had done so much for Yvonne and Kay- they still asked for more.

I am happy to not call Zambia my home any longer. It never was, though. It never felt like home even when I surrounded myself with my things and decorated- it never felt like home. London has always felt like home. The UK has always been comfortable to me. And now I am returning there- returning home- and returning to Paul.

Ah! 20 minutes to landing. Almost home. Almost in Paul’s arms. Almost complete. Almost at the beginning- it’s all so very exciting. Just all the minutes between now and then. 20 minutes to landing, more time to taxi and disembark. Add on minutes for customs, queues and waiting for the baggage- then those last minutes of loading it onto the trolley and walking through customs out into the arrivals lounge. Then the seconds before we see each other and the last final seconds until we are touching. Those are the sweetest and hardest moments to endure.

The landing gear just went down. How exciting. I am so close to home, now. But I wonder if home will bring me that peace or if home can still over me the adventure and excitement I crave. I can only hope that my desire for the subversive and risky stays alive. That I will continue to love people who are weird and non-conformist and those who embrace themselves for who they are- those people who fulfill their needs and aren’t afraid to do so. I love skinny-dipping and feeling the wind against my body. I love to feel free and boundless- full of joy. Emotions- I love those too- and drama and romance and a good story with a happy ending. I don’t want these things to disappear from my life as I find peace and contentment. How does it all fit together?

Touch down. Here we go! The next chapter of my life is about to begin. Wish me luck!

Botulism and Me

Before I begin the blog, I want to start by saying that, indeed, the little mother fers in my intestines (who graciously did not show their little single-cell organism-selves in my test but the Dr. was pretty sure they were just hiding) are dying due to the miracle drug cipro (which i'm starting to think i need to carry around with me)

And so we begin...

Yesterday, while out on my run, I came upon a little girl who was about 6 years old. She was dressed in a little red t-shirt and little blue shorts and had a brightly coloured chitenge cloth wrapped around her torso which contained her small 2 year old brother. She was purposefully bouncing along the side of the road, with half of her height hidden by the toddler slug on her back, holding the hand of her other younger sister who was probably around the age of 4. The 4 year old was carrying a very large container upon her head full of sloshing water. I was the only adult around. I greeted them, wondering if I could chat with them, but they didn't have much interest beyond saying hello to me- they clearly had a more imporant task to complete. I was saddened by their shortened childhood, by the burden of responsibility, but also so amazed at the abilites of humans when circumstance requires so much more from us.... or is it that so much less is expected of western children? Then I remembered this article I had come across a few weeks earlier in "She", a British women's magazine...

The article was called, "How to be a Great Parent" and it was structured around a series of questions. One of the questions read:
I have three children- a boy of 13 and girls aged 8 and 10. My son says he no longer needs a babysitter when we go out and is happy to look after his sisters. What do you advise?"

The answer:
I used to be a police officer and there was an unwritten law that if a child was left alone under the age of 14, or if a child wasn't yet 16 and was looking after someone younger, we were concerned. Therefore, I would not recommend leaving a 13-year old to look after his sisters, even if he's sensible and has never stepped out of line in his life. He really can't assume that kind of responsibility. Having someone else's life in your hands is a tremendous burden-no matter how old you are. Many parents find looking after two children under 10 stressful-how much more challenging would that be for a 13year old? Bear in mind that the reason you're leaving someone in charge is in case things go wrong- whether its an accident in the home, one of the children suddenly falls ill or a stranger at the door. Are you sure that you would be fully confident in a 13 year old's ability to cope? Think about it.

Well, I did. I thought about it for all of two seconds, then without a shadow of a doubt screamed- YES, I AM CONFIDENT A 13 YEAR OLD WOULD BE ABLE TO COPE!

Have these people ever met a 13 year old? They might be a bit moody and spend alot of time in their rooms but they are able to complete tasks most adults find daunting. I know. I teach them everyday. And every day they amaze me with their problem solving skills and new ways of looking at a situation.

Not to mention that I just saw a 6 year old walking down the street with total confidence in herself that she could run whatever errand she had been assigned and come back with both siblings in tow.

PS. Just on a side note- I am entering a chili cookoff tomorrow among my fellow teachers and I have to say, that just now, after tasting my Carnal Chocolate Chili, that it is one deeelicous chili!

PSS. Which brings me to another side note- one day, when i was little, my mom called my brother and me down from our rooms to show us something while she was making dinner. In her hands was a tin of tomatoes. It was bulging from the top and bottom. She said- "Do you see this can? What is wrong with it?" We described it and she then proceded to scare the living Sh1t out of us as she told us that inside this buldging can of tomatoes lived a terrible, terrible bacteria called Botulism. And that this would kill you within 24 hours- and then she carried on described all the awful things the bacteria does to you before you die. Tim and I stood there stunned for awhile before my mom happily said, "That's all" and turned back to her spaghetti sauce.

Ever since then, I've been petrified of tinned tomatoes. I study all of them very carefully before choosing one just in case one might kill me in 24 hours by paralysis and loss of control of all bodily functions. However, today, I was confronted with 100 tins of tomatoes that all looked slightly dodgy but I really needed to make this chili and I don't think God has chosen botulism as the way for me to go...

So, This might be the last thing I ever write.
Damn- I wish it had been better.
Peace.

In South Luangwa...

In South Luangwa...

The people are terrified of elephants and hippos but could really care less about lions.

There is a guide named Richard who told us a story- about how his commrade got eaten by a crocodile and his superior officer, who was not a good man, made him go into the water to look for him but then heard people shouting 'a croc got him' and thought it was he who the croc had gotten so he ran like a drunk, mad-man out of the water with his heart in his throat before finally realizing that it was not he who had been caught but rather his superior officer and he didn't feel bad about it at all when they caught the man-eating croc and slit open his belly to find two human arms inside- all without using one coherent sentence before he stumbled into the bush to go take a piss.

There are bushcamps were you wake up with the sunrise at your feet and the warm light filtering throught the soft mesh of the mosquito net.

There are also bushcamps that let you get to know whom ever you are staying with very well since all that seperates the toilet from the rest of the room is a thin sheet of fabric.

There is a place where you can dance naked in the african rain in a treehouse.

The zebra are shy and there are way too many impala.

You come to hate the impala

You meet those that are so rich they have no concept that someone would not have been to england.

You spend alot of time discussing grand ol' england and birds.

And you also meet those that ask, after a short discussion of the various ethinicities found in various areas in london, "Where has the real england gone? Are there any real englishmen left?"

You also have to suffer through many, "well spotted, good man" and I wish i was kidding.

You realize that the insect repellent you've been slathering on your skin actually takes off the nail polish on your toes and rubs the ink right off its own packaging.

You also realize that without that repellent you would be eaten alive by the tstse flies.

You think its silly that you have to be escorted to and from your room every evening... until you realize that a leopard had been prowling through camp during dinner.

You've never heard the word "thermals" used by people so regularly other than your aeronautical engineer boyfriend

Hot can't even come close to describing 2pm

Feces has never been so interesting.

When I think about my parasite...

Here I am in my office at 5pm on a tuesday thinking about the little ameobas that are living in my gut. They certainly do have a sense of humour. We've gotten to know each other over the last three weeks. They had a party in my intestines on sunday night, keeping me awake for hours. Then when I finally relented and when to the Doctor, they decided that they would not, under any circumstances be giving me any test samples. But 24 hrs later, in the middle of a class they kicked up again- however I am smuggly satisfied that now I can prove their existence and will get the medicine to kill them all.

Did you know that reoccupation with one's health and or bowel movements is an official sign of culture shock? Well, its not too hard to believe since over that last 5 years or so I have become increasingly more in-tune with my lovely intestines. However, is it just ironic that you are most likely to experience culture shock in places where your gut does become a main feature in your life?

I would also say that the amazing level of anger felt toward the quiet zambia girl in the Zamtel office as she told me for the third time that they would not be giving me dial-up in my house for the zillionth stupid reason, would come under the term culture shock.

And perhaps my obession with my "orangerie". Which, i have to say, if any of you do come and visit you will agree it is the most awesome room in the world. (oh shoot, exaggeration is also a habit of culture shock!)

So, here I am in my office at 5:15 on a tuesday thinking about how I will probably have to stay here for two more years. Not the two i signed up for but for an addtional one on top of that. Why? Out of love for zambia? I wish this was the case and it may be in a year or two but right now, its because of those meddling kids! That's the worse and best thing about being a teacher- you come to love your kids and I would never want to leave this 10th grade class until I've seen them through the IB.

Right, its 5:20 and I should have told you something interesting by now. Its much like MC Frontalot's song- I hate your blog. Sorry, I'll try harder...

Going Bush

This weekend, Bryony, Heida, and I piled ourselves into Bryony's 4-Door RAV 4 and took off for the Central Province to meet up with a Peace Corps Volunteer-Rob-whom we met a few weeks ago. I was dying to see what it was like to live out in a village and we had loaded up our boot with 6 boxes of books to help Rob start up a library at his local school.

However, the weekend turned out slightly different than I had imagined but I was so happy. Utterly, completely, totally Chimwewe. (That's my African name, by the way for those who do not know. I was given this name by Kay, after his favorite sister who has passed away. It means happiness and joy)

In fact, I was so happy this weekend that it made me want to join the Peace Corps again! I forgot how much fun it is to spend your days just exploring and learning and living. But they aren't messing around here in Zambia- its a pretty hardcore experience but one that is amazing. I have so much respect for the volunteers here- and I was nostalgic for my time in Tonga as well. It is bizarre how similar Tonga is to Zambia- and the experience of living here. Perhaps all developing countries have a similiar thread...

Anyways- to the story. We packed up the car, filled our jerry-can up with a tank of gas, and headed out on the Great North Road. Along the way we had a few tense police check-points but soon they became routine and you learnt to just smile big, be as warm and friendly as possible and you'll be waved through. At one check point we smiled broadly, and the officer just said, "I like your smile! Go on through!" That was nice. We filled up half way through our journey and made friends at the petrol station. They seemed concerned that we didn't have a man in the car but they laughed heartily when I commented that perhaps I was a man... After finding out that the PCV here hitch the many, many hours out to their sites with truckers or whoever will have them- I thought our circumstance was quick nice.

Eventually we arrived- after passing 10km from the congo border and finding ourselves on the high plateau surrounded by mountains. It was really beautiful out there. We came upon Rob walking along the road in Serenje which is no bigger than one main street. We were skeptical at first when we set off with our Google map containing no street names or any other landmarks other than a few villages dotted along the way- and Rob had told us vaguely that he would meet us "in Serenje." We kept thinking, "but WHERE in serenje". But when it came down to it- we found him pretty easily since he was easily recognizable as the only white guy walking down the street.

He took us to the Peace Corps "Boma" where all the volunteers from that Province get together for some R&R. We met some other volunteers staying there for the weekend- all very friendly- and plopped our stuff down on the floor before Rob excitedly rattled off the options. He was super-excited to get all the books and said he hadn't been expecting that many. I didn't see how they could get books any other way out there since the mail system is practically non-existent.

We swapped the boxes of books for people and once again headed off on the road to find the Kundalila waterfalls. I didn't know what quite to expect so I packed for backpacking- which came in handy when i realized that we would be hiking to the falls- properly hiking. Of course, flip-flops are my best friends and I have no problem negotiating various terrains in them but luckily for Jane, I had packed my keen hiking sandals and she felt much more steady once we switched them out. It was also made clear to us as we hiked to the falls that we needed swimsuits. Ummm.... whoops. This was one article I was not carrying with me but, hey, I had yet to skinny-dip in Africa and now I can happily say that i have skinny-dipped in yet another place in the world.

By the time we made it up to the summit and down to the waterfall my legs were shaking- but I was sooo excited by the experience that I barely noticed my legs as the three boys said, "Hey Jen, come with us up to upper pool!" I happily scrambled my way up over rocks, climbing through trees, and forged the river until we came to the upper pool. It was so loud you could barely hear one another but it was magnificent. Above us, out of the mist, rose the 80m high rock face with the water falling and diving into the deep blue pool below. "How good are you at swimming, Jen" Zack asked. I shrugged my shoulders, "I'm good". And he replies, "Good. You'll need to be" And with that the four of us picked our way to the deepest point and dove in. Immediately my breath was sucked out of my lungs from the freezing water and the current was so strong that whatever I was wearing was now around my ankles and I had to give up on my modesty.

With the water rushing in my ears and the current pushing so hard I had to hold onto a rock to stay in place- it became clear that the purpose of the upper pool was not to idly paddle around in the water- but to swim underneath the waterfall to the rock face. And more importantly, survive while doing this. Now, those of you who know me- you know that I am not a particularly poor swimmer and, in fact, i feel more in my element while wet than in any other enviroment. There has only been two times in my life when I thought to myself that I could drown. Once was when my body was thrown around in 15 foot waves off the coast of mexico and I came out missing two teeth- this was the second time.

You start by pushing off whatever rock you are clinging to and into the rushing water. You swim as hard and as fast as you can towards the torrential waterfall, coming down on you from 80m above. You can't see anything, you can barely breath. Water is coming at you from all directions, and into your mouth, up your nose, in your eyes- and the noise! You could employ various strategies- swimming underwater for as long as possible then coming up for air. But the problem being that you cannot garauntee that you will be able to breathe in any air when you come up. Or you can do breast stroke with your head buried but its just not powerful enough to get you to the wall....

I tried over and over, and probably drank enough water to ensure that I have all the parasites and water-borne diseases you can get in Zambia- but I still could not make it to the wall. Eventually, exhausted and coughing, I gave up. I would have kept trying if it wasn't for that final time when I ran out of air, couldn't find any air- only water, and just had to give up until my body was swept with the current back to the rocks that lined the edge of the pool.

Defeated, yet totally exhilirated, we climbed back down from the upper pool all smiles and shaking from the cold, the nerves, and the failure of our muscles.

Once back down we recovered while warming ourselves on the warm rocks, eating samosas and drinking beer before we started our climb back up to the car.

On the drive home, sandwiched between Rob and Zack, with Pablo and Jane in the very back, we sang along to Right Said Fred and The Killers before we stopped mid-way in search of the local brew- tea wine. We pulled off the road, at dusk, and parked in front of a store. Pouring out the car, we headed around to the back of the store where about 20 people were sitting under a little thatched shelter, sharing tea-wine. For the millionth time since arriving in serenje, I wished that I was a PCV as Rob spoke in Bemba to make the introductions and arrange for two bottles of wine. What I would have given to have been able to speak to them. The Lala's (yet another tribe) invited us to sit with them and they gave us plastic cups to be passed around filled with the brew. It tasted like all other homebrews, just like the Hopi in Tonga- except instead of pineapples they used tea. I have to say I am particular to the pineapple.

Once again, I was all smiles, so excited to be having all these new experiences as we piled back into the car to grab a drink and get some dinner. Now, by "dinner" I mean a plate of chips and a samosa. There was no food. Not even some pasta or eggs or tomatoes. Nothing. It was fried or fried or beer.

Back at the Boma we hung out, attempted to play, "beer cricket" (at which i failed miserably) and watched the chappelle show- which is ironic since the Chappelle show provided me with hours of escapism in tonga! I was disappointed to not have stayed in the village but I have a feeling that I will be bugging Rob until I get the full experience in the village.

The next day we drove Rob to his site to see the school where the books will be used and to see his house. The school had two rooms and we got to meet one of the teachers. I was very happy to be donating the books there- as long as someone is going to treat it as a library and not give away the books.

Then Rob took us to his site. Awsome, let me tell you. Just bad-ass. He's out there in this mud-brick, thatched-roofed hut with a dog, a rabbit, and even a swimming hole just a 10 minute walk away. I am so jealous. After we took loads of pictures of his site- including the "toilet" (aka hole in the ground") we braved the oppressive heat to see his fish ponds. Rob is trying to start up fish farming in his village as part of his project. I could have hung out there all day but we still had the 5 hour drive back to look forward to.

The drive back was spent using the last of our cash on buying baskets, melons, honey, tomatoes, potatoes, and charcoal. We learned that the African Potato is belived to be a cure for AIDS. Which may sound bizarre but it is better than the other "cures" I've heard of. The Honey is mostly sold to be turned into beer, and the tomatoes were 1/2 the price they are in lusaka.

When we arrived back to Lusaka and passed the city limits I became so much more aware of the state of the city. How dirty, decrepit, and poverty stricken it is in comparison to the bush. In the bush- they are without- but with less needs as well. In the city its hard to live as easily off of the basics. In the city, you can't have a house made of thatched reeds, you can't have your pigs and chickens roaming around, you aren't able to farm your land- if you have any land at all and in the village someone will always take care of you. In the city you have to pay rent (which is ridiculously high) you need transport, you need education to get a job, you need cash- and lots of it. But the city is also seen as a place of opportunity. A place to get an education, to earn money, to have a better life. We certainly do have more amenities- access to electricity and running water, more commerce, more variety of foods and people. But the choice between the city-life and bush-life has been argued since cities began.

I, myself didn't have much time to ponder this question when I arrived home because my body decided to give up on me. It had enough and wanted to sleep...alot. All that excitement and adventure-it was like I was two again and just got home from the amusement park after eating too much cotton candy. But even if I couldn't do anything but lay on my bed and close my eyes- I was blissfully happy.

Poverty

So, what is poverty? Technically, I've lived "in poverty" in Tonga. Technically, I've seen it and read about it and even preached about it to my students. But this week I have met people who have niether money, education, or even their health. Compassion manifests itself as a physical reaction in me now- I feel my skin prick, my throat closes, and my heart feel so heavy.

This past week has been emotionally trying. Lots of stuff to handle. I have spent alot of time in the "compounds" with the families we are filming for our documentary. The poverty and the sickness are overwhelming but so is their generosity! I have never felt so welcome and cared for by people with so little. I have to rush home, actually because I must drive Yvonne, my housekeeper, home to her family and I would like to spend some time with them.

You will learn more about Yvonne but i just wanted you to know this story she told me and how it has caused me to cry often this week when i think about it. Yvonne is a "mother" to 7 children two of them are her own but the rest are orphans. Last year the person who employed Yvonne left Zambia and she was without work for all of last year. She told me that every day she would leave the house to go and look for works since she is the head of the family. She would leave her children in her house and they would spend all day singing hymns and praying their mother would find a job. When she would come home the neighbors would tell her how her children prayed all day for her and when she got into the house they would run up to her and cry, "mommy, mommy, did you find a job?" And she would have to tell them that she did not- and once again they would not have dinner. She had no money and no food with 7 mouths to feed. But her children would smile and say, "that's ok mommy, God will find you a job. He will bring you one- we know it!"
Then at this point she turns to me and says, "And then God brought you to me, madam. He answered my prayers with you."

I have never felt, in my whole life, like a messenger of God's will more than at that moment.

There are more stories to tell. So many each day but I must go now to be with Yvonne and her family.
This weekend Heida, Bryony, and I are driving up to the Central Province, near the town of Serenje, to the village of musamani to visit a Peace Corps Volunteer we met a few weeks ago. I am so excited to go and live a rural village and I am sad that it is only for one night. But I am sure the 48 hour adventure will bring more experiences than I am able to re-tell.

Have a great weekend!

Be. Terryfied.

Right. Ok. How to even begin this story.
Let's start with setting the scene- its around 1am on a Saturday night in Lusaka. Its a lovely warm evening- I even decided to wear a skirt and heels... and we met our friends at the club, Lounge. Our friends are locals but will refered to as A and S for reasons to which I won't bother going into at this point- and the club we were at was in a local part of town and generally "muzungus" (white people/foreigners) are not seen here. In fact, Heida, Bryony and I were the only muzungus there. However, the scene at lounge was fading and we decided to head off to another club with more flavor- Chez Temba. Unfortunately- we never got there.

Heida, Bryony, and I all piled into Heida's car- which i was driving- and pulled out behind A and S who were in their own lovely Audi (A's pride and joy) We turned the corner and started crawling our way through the crowds streaming out from other clubs- until we came to a stop. At this point the crowds streaming out the club started to stream directly into A's car! Comicly, we started to laugh at how many people were being crammed into A's car but then realized that one was now walking back to our car to get in. (At this moment, i'm sure all the readers of this entry will start to imagine themselves in this story and probably start thinking, "so a total stranger, who you know nothing about, who you don't even know if he is related to A, is now going to get into a car with three white girls....no. I don't think I would be ok with that." That was my feeling too at the time. You shouldnt' ignore those feelings.

Now we're on the road- and by road, I mean the main "highway" of lusaka called the great east road, just going along- enjoying ourselves and doing the introductions with our new passenger who's name is Terry. Terry is now telling us how he can supply us with whatever substance we need. I ignore this and choose to focus on A's car... which has now come to a complete stop in the middle of the road!

Upon a closer look, I see that there is another car in front of A and I start to think that there has been an accident- but how had i missed that? I think back.. there was another car and it did cut over in front of A...

By this point I am upon the cars and decide to go around A so I can roll down the window and find out the situation. I am going about 2 miles per hour as I take in the scene:

A is being pulled from the car. The others are piling out of the car in protest. Another man gets out of a rusty, banged up blue sedan that is parked at an angle- clearly they had driven in front of A and made him stop. Then I see them- the guns. They both have huge semi-automatic rifles.

My skin turns prickly, I'm just staring at the guns- then my foot is down on the accelerator, I'm attempting to shift Heida's automatic car (since my own car is a manual) , and then everyone is yelling at once. I just keep repeating, "shit, they have guns. Guns! did you see that- they had guns!" and Heida is yelling, "we have to go back. A is back there, we have to go back." Bryony is yelling, "what the hell is going on? What was happening back there?' and our new friend Terry is repeating, "its the police. just go. don't stop. just go. its just the police." Of all the confusion at that moment, the one thing i did know was that was NOT the police.

I turn at the next street to make a U-turn. My thinking is slow, I keep trying to shift- i say, "lets just park here until whatever shit is going down back there finishes. I really don't want to get invloved with those fucking guns." But Heida is having none of it. A is back there. And to her credit, I understand what she was feeling. I would have been there in a minute had it not been for the guns. So Heida demands me to let her drive her car... if only to keep me from shifting between park and neutral. Terry is still repeating that we should just keep going and that we can't park here.

We're now back on the road, heading back towards the scene. Heida slows up beside the two cars on the opposite side of the meidan. She rolls down her window. And the three muzungu girls stare out the window- everything is in slow motion: A is being punched multiple times, S is backed up against the median. A's shirt is torn and those fucking guns are still being waved around. We hear lots of yelling from everyone. One of the men is slashing A's tires with a bayonnet on the end of the rifle.

We're making another U-turn. I am pleading with Heida not to stop, not to get involved- to just park and wait. But the car is still making progress towards A. Then the other car leaves as soon as it appeared. Everyone piles back into A's car and the car slowly limps forward.

But its not over. Not in our minds. The three white girls in the car are scared silly- emotions running high- yelling questions at the car in front. Trying to calm our racing hearts. So we continue to follow A. He's inching along in his maimed vehicle trying to find a place to stop. We eventually find ourselves on the abandoned railway flats in downtown Lusaka. Now, downtown Lusaka is sketchy at 12noon- so who knows what will occur at 2am! We were forced to stop here, on our search for a garage because smoke was now pouring from the car.

As soon as the cars came to a stand still, the 7 people in the other car pour out of it and directly over to our us- they are coming at the windows with angry fingers pointing. But not pointing at us. Nope, pointing at Terry.

"It was you they were looking for!" They yelled. Terry just laughed. No wonder he kept telling us to keep on driving. I hissed at him to stop laughing in Nyanja and for once I was greeted not with laughing but stunned silence. He says to us, "Are you afraid of me?" and Heida laughs back, "Ha! Afraid of you? No. Angry with you more like it. And you need to leave."

Every car that drove by was under suspicion. Every noise made you wonder if the men with the guns had followed us. Terry insisted that all he did was kick someone at the club. None of us believed that for a second. A changed his shirt and called a tow truck. The other zambians called a cab and left. Bryony flirted and I started to laugh about the situation- and thought about how to doument my first run in with semi-automatic weapons. Eventually we started to relax.

I called a cab for Terry. S paid the fare and both him and A decided to reconsider their friendship with Terry.
The towtruck came and out of the cab, literally, rolled two stinking drunk (kukolewa) zambians who somehow managed to get A's car secured to their rusty recovery truck.. by hauling the front up 6 feet into the air so that his tail pipe and bumper scraped along the ground.

We spent two more hours waiting for them to fix A's car, which never happened, then drove into the safety of kabulonga and my house. Sleep blissfully came around half 4 and my adventure was thankfully over.... until the next one, of course!

Rastas and the Marblebelt

Yesterday, we recieved a text from Mwomba, the primary school art teacher and a local artist, that there was to be a bonfire party that night. I was very excited since the people at this bonfire party were to be local artists. The local artists here are quite active- both socially and politically- even when faced with gross censorship.

Side note:
Porn is illegal here. Images of the naked body are prohibited and certainly any images of a sexual nature are taboo. Two zambian artists were found in possession of some videos of Norwegian conceptual art. On these tapes there were some experimental works- such as a naked woman rolling around in paint and throwing herself against a canvas. The Zambian authorities deemed this as porn and threw them in jail. So the art community rallied and found a South African lawyer to come and argue the case of distinction between porn and art (brilliant!!!) Fortunately, the lawyer proved skillfull and the artists were set free. But the entire artists community was warned of raids upon their collections to find pornographic materials or offensive images. So all the artists had to hide their works, bury them or send them away. This was only 2 years ago.

However, when we arrived the place was dark. We pulled up to the gate honked our horns, flashed our lights, got out of the car, knocked on the gate itself- then waited for 10 minutes before someone finally opened the gate. And the person that opened the gate was a rasta-man!

He waved mwomba and us through with a warm smile and the three of us were so excited to be meeting this person. We couldn't wait to get out of the car and talk with him. His name was bobbajake (ignore the spelling) and he is a sculptor who lives with a painter in a little house set up beside their big barn-like studios and work spaces. He has two dogs- who like to eat the fleas off each other and a cat who puts up with being licked by the dogs but let her true wishes be known when she jumped into our car.

His dreds were piled up on top of his head a good 12 inches high and kept neatly under a knitted cap. We had clearly interrupted him at work since his clothes were covered with residue from the marble he works with but he didn't seem to mind and apologized that he had moved the bonfire to coordinate with the international artists conference that is happening this week in Lusaka.

He absentmindedly rolled the biggest cheech-and-chong style joint I had ever seen in one hand while taking us on a tour of his studio. The paintings were amazing but his sculpture space was wholly enlightening! I bothered him with loads of questions about his work and his process- and the noise of the tools (which remind me of the dentist office and have no idea how anyone can work with that all day) And then he started to talk about his materials. Where he gets the marble from- and apparently he gets the stones from just finding them around Lusaka!

Side note:
Everyone has heard of the copperbelt. But did you know about the marblebelt? or the Uraniumbelt? or the Diamondbelt? Well all of those exisist in Zambia too- but they are all undeveloped and secret. The land on which these natural resources abound are known only to certain people and only certain sales are made... so it seems. But Bobbajake was telling me how its getting harder and harder to obtain his marble because the land around lusaka is getting bought up at such a fast rate for development and they are building right on top of these huge deposits of marble! He said, "if i was clever I would buy up all the land just to have my marble" and he's got a very clever point! We even bantered around the idea of setting up an ethical marble quarry. But anyways...

He had lots to share and I felt very fortunate to hear his ideas and stories- so much to learn! I'll let you know how the bonfire goes this week... and if I ever make it to work on friday!

When you get married in Zambia

When you get married in Zambia the following things happen to you:
1. You are taught how to be good in bed by a large woman who lays on top of you while you girate below her.
2. You must sleep with pins under your lower back to learn how to arch your back correctly.
3. You must learn the traditional engagement dance which you will perform in front of your to-be in-laws to demonstrate your fertility
4. Each partner is given a "middle man" who is an advocate for the other family and acts like a marriage counselor. (Example: you come home late from the pub. Your wife is really angry at you. You don't know what to do. So you call up your middle man- who is probably your wife's cousin or brother and he tells you to go buy some flowers and make her breakfast in bed. Problem sovled and make-up sex ensues)
5. On your marriage night, you must shave each other's private areas and collect all the hair together in a bowl to show unity which is then presented to the families.

The divorce rate in Zambia is exremely low. I can imagine that the thought of having a large zambian woman lay on you with pins under your back while learning a sexy dance to do in front of your inlaws is enough to keep you thinking that the snoring just really isn't that bad. And then there's the pubic hair thing....

Stuff carried on the top of one's head

Before I came to Zambia- I had this vision of women in very brightly colored and highly patterened clothing, walking through the brush, balancing their belonging atop their heads. But then I would say to myself, "They probably don't do that in Zambia- and if they did, they probably don't do it in the City." But I have been pleasantly proven wrong!

It is a regular occurence to see ladies and men walking along the road bearing heavy loads on their heads- but it is not limited to natural resources as you may imagine....

A single milk carton
A plaid/tartan suitcase
An uneven, barely-tied-together collection of branches
A collection of bound stalks of straw twice the length of the carrier's body
A stack of towels
A huge ceramic planting vase
A big, blue, tupperware container
A package of 10 Toilet rolls