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!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
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....
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
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
Notes from an Art Teacher
Answers to "What is your day like"? question:
I wake up at 6. I Attempt to make my hair look presentable but without a hairdryer or a proper brush I consistently fail. Both are in my shipment and unfortunately the "peace corps look" doesn't really cut it at school. Then Heida- my crazy puerto rican next door neighbor and new best friend, and I drive into school picking up people from the side of the road and giving them rides. Then get to school, curse the internet, attempt to check my email, but then get rudely interrupted by my job.
The great thing is, though, that I get to act like an art teacher.... because I AM an art teacher!!! I get to talk about the energy in the room, the beauty of colours, and the idea of freedom of expression. I LOVE IT. Being an art teacher makes you different from the other teachers. Kids talk to you about things they don't tell other teachers. They're much more open and unguarded. The other day I had a student come into my office- and I though she was going to ask something like, "Did we have homework due today?" But instead she said, "Ms. Blum, can I show you something that has really inspired me?" And she gets out this dutch fashion magazine and proceeds, for the next ten minutes, describing and showing me all the images in the magazine that inspired her! It was sooo awsome. I was just overjoyed that she wanted to share all of this with me!
But then I have to teach IT and its not as great but becuase they know me as the art teacher its not so bad. This, of course, excludes the tiny, tiny baby alien-children I have to teach in 6th and 7th grade which cause me more exasperation and frustration than all my 17 year olds combined!
Afterschool, I go for my run out in the bush (but today I get to go swimming in the pool!) Then attempt to get back online before Heida and I go home. One of us makes dinner and we eat together and laugh. Then time for bed. Not that exciting, really. But its all that stuff that happens to you while you're doing those things that make it fun.
I had a Peace Corps volunteer come and stay with me for a few nights (i'm part of a PCV hosting program here) and that was loads of fun to talk to someone who is out in the bush living in a mud brick house. She invited me out- so i hope to get out there sometime. It was funny b/c she seems to think I had the "real" peace corps experience. HA! and she's in Africa!
I am learning the language. Its coming along. And I think I've even found a language tutor. I have a nice usable vocabulary of about 15 words now. And the locals LOVE it when you greet them in their language, even when that's only as far as you can go. Execpt for one woman at the market who responded to my "Zikomo" (thank you) with "Yeah" (in the tone of "whatever")
I did have a very local experience at a market that my co-art teacher, Vandita (a local zambian artist) took me to. As soon as we got there the car was surrounded by boys begging. The market was packed. Flies and wasps everywhere. It smelled like rotting vegetables, BO and fish. Tiny little aisles to walk down and everywhere people pleading, "madam, madam, please look. fresh tomatoes. please look." I had to force myself to stay there when all i wanted to do was leave immediately. I knew that if i stayed long enough I would adapt to the environment and be comfortable. So i took a few laps of the place, smiled at people, watched Vandita shopping and buying things and then dove into it. I eventually walked away with a whole basket full of vegetables that cost a fraction of the usual price and looked a hundred times better than what is at the supermarkets. And I felt more connected to the community.
I also check in with Lucky when I run by his little shack. Remember those little shops at the side of the road in Tonga? Those were called "Falekaloas" Here they are called "Katembas" Lucky asked me to buy him a radio to help him listen to the lessons that are broadcasted. I also got to meet his sister, Mary. Mary isn't quite right but happy. Lucky has a cataract in his eye and looks as if he is blind from it. I am not really sure if Lucky actually goes to school since he showed me his "homework" again and it was the same paper, marked over again and again.
I have a housekeeper. (again, I am procrastinating, but i swear, one day, I will explore the house-help thing) Her name is Yvonne. She is a lovely, lovely woman. She only comes two days a week but I almost want her to come everyday just so i can pay her more and have her around. Unfortunately, she speaks Bemba and not Nyanja so she's can't teach me. I have lables all over the house with the words for things. She thinks its hilarious. Today she made me porriage for breakfast and a hard-boiled egg but i didn't have time to eat the egg so i told her to have it and she was so adamant, "No, no madam- YOU eat the egg. You need to have breakfast." But once I presented the egg to her as a present (given and accepted with both hands) then she smiled because she knew she couldn't refuse and had to eat it.
I wake up at 6. I Attempt to make my hair look presentable but without a hairdryer or a proper brush I consistently fail. Both are in my shipment and unfortunately the "peace corps look" doesn't really cut it at school. Then Heida- my crazy puerto rican next door neighbor and new best friend, and I drive into school picking up people from the side of the road and giving them rides. Then get to school, curse the internet, attempt to check my email, but then get rudely interrupted by my job.
The great thing is, though, that I get to act like an art teacher.... because I AM an art teacher!!! I get to talk about the energy in the room, the beauty of colours, and the idea of freedom of expression. I LOVE IT. Being an art teacher makes you different from the other teachers. Kids talk to you about things they don't tell other teachers. They're much more open and unguarded. The other day I had a student come into my office- and I though she was going to ask something like, "Did we have homework due today?" But instead she said, "Ms. Blum, can I show you something that has really inspired me?" And she gets out this dutch fashion magazine and proceeds, for the next ten minutes, describing and showing me all the images in the magazine that inspired her! It was sooo awsome. I was just overjoyed that she wanted to share all of this with me!
But then I have to teach IT and its not as great but becuase they know me as the art teacher its not so bad. This, of course, excludes the tiny, tiny baby alien-children I have to teach in 6th and 7th grade which cause me more exasperation and frustration than all my 17 year olds combined!
Afterschool, I go for my run out in the bush (but today I get to go swimming in the pool!) Then attempt to get back online before Heida and I go home. One of us makes dinner and we eat together and laugh. Then time for bed. Not that exciting, really. But its all that stuff that happens to you while you're doing those things that make it fun.
I had a Peace Corps volunteer come and stay with me for a few nights (i'm part of a PCV hosting program here) and that was loads of fun to talk to someone who is out in the bush living in a mud brick house. She invited me out- so i hope to get out there sometime. It was funny b/c she seems to think I had the "real" peace corps experience. HA! and she's in Africa!
I am learning the language. Its coming along. And I think I've even found a language tutor. I have a nice usable vocabulary of about 15 words now. And the locals LOVE it when you greet them in their language, even when that's only as far as you can go. Execpt for one woman at the market who responded to my "Zikomo" (thank you) with "Yeah" (in the tone of "whatever")
I did have a very local experience at a market that my co-art teacher, Vandita (a local zambian artist) took me to. As soon as we got there the car was surrounded by boys begging. The market was packed. Flies and wasps everywhere. It smelled like rotting vegetables, BO and fish. Tiny little aisles to walk down and everywhere people pleading, "madam, madam, please look. fresh tomatoes. please look." I had to force myself to stay there when all i wanted to do was leave immediately. I knew that if i stayed long enough I would adapt to the environment and be comfortable. So i took a few laps of the place, smiled at people, watched Vandita shopping and buying things and then dove into it. I eventually walked away with a whole basket full of vegetables that cost a fraction of the usual price and looked a hundred times better than what is at the supermarkets. And I felt more connected to the community.
I also check in with Lucky when I run by his little shack. Remember those little shops at the side of the road in Tonga? Those were called "Falekaloas" Here they are called "Katembas" Lucky asked me to buy him a radio to help him listen to the lessons that are broadcasted. I also got to meet his sister, Mary. Mary isn't quite right but happy. Lucky has a cataract in his eye and looks as if he is blind from it. I am not really sure if Lucky actually goes to school since he showed me his "homework" again and it was the same paper, marked over again and again.
I have a housekeeper. (again, I am procrastinating, but i swear, one day, I will explore the house-help thing) Her name is Yvonne. She is a lovely, lovely woman. She only comes two days a week but I almost want her to come everyday just so i can pay her more and have her around. Unfortunately, she speaks Bemba and not Nyanja so she's can't teach me. I have lables all over the house with the words for things. She thinks its hilarious. Today she made me porriage for breakfast and a hard-boiled egg but i didn't have time to eat the egg so i told her to have it and she was so adamant, "No, no madam- YOU eat the egg. You need to have breakfast." But once I presented the egg to her as a present (given and accepted with both hands) then she smiled because she knew she couldn't refuse and had to eat it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Lucky
Tonight I went running on the path where the milk incident occurred and once again, I had another experience! But this time, the rest of my run was filled with hope, satisfaction, and goodwill. So as we rounded the same corner where a week ago I watched a wet spot on the ground in sadness, a little shack-shop (I have to learn the name for these stands) stood on the left- manned by two brothers. One was aged about 7 and the other was probably 11. And as soon as we came upon the stand, the 11 year old was on his feet running towards us with papers in his hand.
Usually, when you see a Zambian boy with papers in his hands, it means he wants you to donate money for a sport trip or a choir trip, or to just give him money under this ruse. So this time, since I still am running without any money, I lifted my hands up, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t…” Then I saw a glimpse of the papers- and it appeared to have multiple choice questions on it. I stopped and asked, “Wait a second, is that… homework?” And the boy said, in great English, “yes, yes, madame- will you please help me?” And I thought, “Ha! If there is one thing I can do to help- its certainly homework! … unless its math of course”!
So he showed me his paper, a list of random questions that was clearly designed by some ministry to pass on knowledge about all the social and environmental issues in Zambia from water sanitation to recycling. The question he wanted to know the answer to was, “Air-pollution causes ____________” And the multiple choice options included sexually transmitted diseases and some other not-quite-right options for me to choose from. I finally chose, “lung infections” and hoped that I was right.
He was so happy! I've never seen such a smile!
“Oh, thank you, thank you madam! I’m going to pass my exams now. I know I will!”
And he started to run back to his stand then stopped, turned back and said. “My name is Lucky! What is your name?”
And I answered- to which he shouted again, “See you again!”
I waved with a,”Good luck on your exams, Lucky!” and ran off. It was a great- and its my favorite running route for sure. I’m looking forward to checking in with Lucky again soon to find out if he passed his exam- and hopefully air pollution does cause lung infections!
Usually, when you see a Zambian boy with papers in his hands, it means he wants you to donate money for a sport trip or a choir trip, or to just give him money under this ruse. So this time, since I still am running without any money, I lifted my hands up, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t…” Then I saw a glimpse of the papers- and it appeared to have multiple choice questions on it. I stopped and asked, “Wait a second, is that… homework?” And the boy said, in great English, “yes, yes, madame- will you please help me?” And I thought, “Ha! If there is one thing I can do to help- its certainly homework! … unless its math of course”!
So he showed me his paper, a list of random questions that was clearly designed by some ministry to pass on knowledge about all the social and environmental issues in Zambia from water sanitation to recycling. The question he wanted to know the answer to was, “Air-pollution causes ____________” And the multiple choice options included sexually transmitted diseases and some other not-quite-right options for me to choose from. I finally chose, “lung infections” and hoped that I was right.
He was so happy! I've never seen such a smile!
“Oh, thank you, thank you madam! I’m going to pass my exams now. I know I will!”
And he started to run back to his stand then stopped, turned back and said. “My name is Lucky! What is your name?”
And I answered- to which he shouted again, “See you again!”
I waved with a,”Good luck on your exams, Lucky!” and ran off. It was a great- and its my favorite running route for sure. I’m looking forward to checking in with Lucky again soon to find out if he passed his exam- and hopefully air pollution does cause lung infections!
Me and My African Heart
August 20, 2007
My friend told me yesterday that while she was speaking to our Zambian friend Kay, he mentioned me. I was assuming it was in the context of him helping me buy a car or some other business matter- but instead she said, “ Kay told me you weren’t white.” Confused, I replied, “What?” in case I hadn’t heard her right. “Yeah, that’s what I said to him. I said ‘I pretty sure she’s white- with the blonde hair and all. But he shook his head and said, ‘No. no. She is white on the outside- but inside, inside she has a black heart. She is African.” Oh, the smile that spread across my face! Where he got that from, I have no idea. Heida told me that Kay then went on about the fact I had gone to his home and met his family and that I was shaking everyone’s hands and chatting, and making fun. That made me feel great- I just wish I had gotten the rhythm to go along with my African heart!
My friend told me yesterday that while she was speaking to our Zambian friend Kay, he mentioned me. I was assuming it was in the context of him helping me buy a car or some other business matter- but instead she said, “ Kay told me you weren’t white.” Confused, I replied, “What?” in case I hadn’t heard her right. “Yeah, that’s what I said to him. I said ‘I pretty sure she’s white- with the blonde hair and all. But he shook his head and said, ‘No. no. She is white on the outside- but inside, inside she has a black heart. She is African.” Oh, the smile that spread across my face! Where he got that from, I have no idea. Heida told me that Kay then went on about the fact I had gone to his home and met his family and that I was shaking everyone’s hands and chatting, and making fun. That made me feel great- I just wish I had gotten the rhythm to go along with my African heart!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Displacement
August 13, 2007
I just got back from my first art experience here in Zambia. It was an art exhibit put on by various grassroots NGO’s to support the situation in Zimbabwe. As you can imagine- the borders of all the African states surrounding Zimbabwe are packed with refugee’s fleeing Mugabe’s regime. In South Africa, these refugees were asked to participate in an Art Camp where they were asked to create art that represented their experience of civil war, displacement, and being a refugee. It was moving to say the least- and many interesting conversations ensued.
One between me and an professor at the University of Zambia. Since coming to Zambia I have been hearing a lot of talk about “The United States of Africa” And not just from Zambians- those from Swaziland, Zimbabwe and South Africans too. Of course each has their own opinion. I have heard that there must be stronger regional ties before something as big as a United Africa is to happen- but they do not think its impossible. They are concerned that there is not enough neighborly support within regions- as with Zimbabwe. Its neighbors are hoping that they will be able to take care of it on their own. But the problem keeps spilling over the borders. Botswana is having lots of social problems taking in the Refugees.
But that being said- I have heard so much about the African Freedom Fighter- the mercenary whose mission is to free Africa, originally from colonial rule but now from injustice, dictators. Those people travel over the “United States of Africa” and are taken in, cared for, fed and clothed, by the people they are fighting for.
However- I hear “World Bank” a lot. It finds its way into most political conversations. Aid is a commodity here- a bargaining tool. I will have to investigate further into this but it is curious.
I just got back from my first art experience here in Zambia. It was an art exhibit put on by various grassroots NGO’s to support the situation in Zimbabwe. As you can imagine- the borders of all the African states surrounding Zimbabwe are packed with refugee’s fleeing Mugabe’s regime. In South Africa, these refugees were asked to participate in an Art Camp where they were asked to create art that represented their experience of civil war, displacement, and being a refugee. It was moving to say the least- and many interesting conversations ensued.
One between me and an professor at the University of Zambia. Since coming to Zambia I have been hearing a lot of talk about “The United States of Africa” And not just from Zambians- those from Swaziland, Zimbabwe and South Africans too. Of course each has their own opinion. I have heard that there must be stronger regional ties before something as big as a United Africa is to happen- but they do not think its impossible. They are concerned that there is not enough neighborly support within regions- as with Zimbabwe. Its neighbors are hoping that they will be able to take care of it on their own. But the problem keeps spilling over the borders. Botswana is having lots of social problems taking in the Refugees.
But that being said- I have heard so much about the African Freedom Fighter- the mercenary whose mission is to free Africa, originally from colonial rule but now from injustice, dictators. Those people travel over the “United States of Africa” and are taken in, cared for, fed and clothed, by the people they are fighting for.
However- I hear “World Bank” a lot. It finds its way into most political conversations. Aid is a commodity here- a bargaining tool. I will have to investigate further into this but it is curious.
Reality and running
August 14, 2007
So today I went running with my friend through the bush. It was great to get away from the streets and mini-busses and just let go- jumping through brush, dodging cobra snakes, and coming across warm Zambians with an easy “Bwanji” ready on their tongues.
As we rounded a corner I could see two men riding bicycles and another boy running along the side. I didn’t really think anything of it until a package fell off the first bike and then another package fell off the second bike- and I though I would run up ahead to pick them up and bring them to the men. But then I noticed that something wet was pouring out of the bag… milk! So I rushed forward at a full sprint to save the milk jugs from losing anymore of its precious contents. And as I picked up the jugs, I could see that they were old juice jugs that they had taken up the road to be filled with milk by a farmer. The little boy came running back, “Oh, thank you madam, thank you for helping us in our time of need!” And by then the old men, hunched with age, had dropped their bikes and were also rushing up- and then the heartbreak.
Me, standing there with two milk jugs that had lost so much, and him standing across from me staring at the wet ground- watching the milk sink into the red dust. He was distraught. And I was so powerless. I hadn’t come running with anything- no money or a way to help. I couldn’t go back with the men to buy more milk- Even though that would have been so easy! I stood there ackwardly- and the little boy took one of the jugs. I twisted the old cap onto the other container and handed it back to the old man who was just shaking his head, staring at the ground. I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset because I certainly had the power to help- but didn’t have the means at the time! How precious that milk must have been to him- and to think that moments earlier I was upset at that I still didn’t have any white-out!
The rest of my run was slow and thoughtful. Sad, regretful, and ashamed. How quickly that boy was to thank me- yet I had done nothing other than save the jugs just moments earlier than he was able- and the face of the old man pointing to the ground, greedily soaking up the milk.
So today I went running with my friend through the bush. It was great to get away from the streets and mini-busses and just let go- jumping through brush, dodging cobra snakes, and coming across warm Zambians with an easy “Bwanji” ready on their tongues.
As we rounded a corner I could see two men riding bicycles and another boy running along the side. I didn’t really think anything of it until a package fell off the first bike and then another package fell off the second bike- and I though I would run up ahead to pick them up and bring them to the men. But then I noticed that something wet was pouring out of the bag… milk! So I rushed forward at a full sprint to save the milk jugs from losing anymore of its precious contents. And as I picked up the jugs, I could see that they were old juice jugs that they had taken up the road to be filled with milk by a farmer. The little boy came running back, “Oh, thank you madam, thank you for helping us in our time of need!” And by then the old men, hunched with age, had dropped their bikes and were also rushing up- and then the heartbreak.
Me, standing there with two milk jugs that had lost so much, and him standing across from me staring at the wet ground- watching the milk sink into the red dust. He was distraught. And I was so powerless. I hadn’t come running with anything- no money or a way to help. I couldn’t go back with the men to buy more milk- Even though that would have been so easy! I stood there ackwardly- and the little boy took one of the jugs. I twisted the old cap onto the other container and handed it back to the old man who was just shaking his head, staring at the ground. I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset because I certainly had the power to help- but didn’t have the means at the time! How precious that milk must have been to him- and to think that moments earlier I was upset at that I still didn’t have any white-out!
The rest of my run was slow and thoughtful. Sad, regretful, and ashamed. How quickly that boy was to thank me- yet I had done nothing other than save the jugs just moments earlier than he was able- and the face of the old man pointing to the ground, greedily soaking up the milk.
Some Notes
August 12, 2007
I’ve finally learnt how to say hello in Nyanja- the most prevalent of the four languages in Zambia, and the first person I say it to responds, “I speak Lozi”.
Ironically, the way you say ,”I don’t know how to speak Nyanja is “Sindilankhula Chinyanja.”
The men call each other affectionately, “Chkata”. Which apparently roughly translates to “Dick”. "Kachkata" is also a favorite thrown out there- but not necessarily the favorite of the reciever. The added "Ka" is "little".
While car shopping with a local Zambian friend, we got pulled over by the police at a checkpoint. Apparently we didn’t have the proper road tax sticker. Fair Enough. So we had to relinquish our keys over to the policeman, who then directed us over to his police vehicle, where his partner, sitting in the back seat with a wad of kwacha next to him, was happily taking cash for the offense. After we paid our fine, and eventually got our keys back after many, “um- he has them.”, “No, I don’t have them, he must have them”, we were happily on our way. But our Zambian friend was quite upset- “I can’t believe he made me pay him! I grew up with that guy! Our mother’s were best friends! We played football together! I can’t believe he still made me pay the fine!” To which I replied- Isn’t that a good thing that the government is fighting corruption and not doing “favours”. And he replies, “Of course! Corruption is terrible- it must stop! But, you don’t understand- I GREW UP with him! He should not have made me pay!” And with that we swerved sharply to avoid hitting the seven other lanes of on-coming traffic.
Do you know about the After-8pm-Grocery-Store Phenomenon- that after 8pm grocery stores are obligated to play the most depressing slow jams they can find. So that when you’ve been working late, and you have nothing in your fridge and you have to buy food to cook a dinner for one you find yourself crying over the tomatoes. Yeah- you know it. We’ve all been there. Well, this phenomenon has not passed Zambia. And about the time that, “I’ll be right here waiting for you” came on the intercom- I embarrassingly started welling up while trying to decide which long-life milk-in-a-box I should purchase. It was not a highlight.
I’ve finally learnt how to say hello in Nyanja- the most prevalent of the four languages in Zambia, and the first person I say it to responds, “I speak Lozi”.
Ironically, the way you say ,”I don’t know how to speak Nyanja is “Sindilankhula Chinyanja.”
The men call each other affectionately, “Chkata”. Which apparently roughly translates to “Dick”. "Kachkata" is also a favorite thrown out there- but not necessarily the favorite of the reciever. The added "Ka" is "little".
While car shopping with a local Zambian friend, we got pulled over by the police at a checkpoint. Apparently we didn’t have the proper road tax sticker. Fair Enough. So we had to relinquish our keys over to the policeman, who then directed us over to his police vehicle, where his partner, sitting in the back seat with a wad of kwacha next to him, was happily taking cash for the offense. After we paid our fine, and eventually got our keys back after many, “um- he has them.”, “No, I don’t have them, he must have them”, we were happily on our way. But our Zambian friend was quite upset- “I can’t believe he made me pay him! I grew up with that guy! Our mother’s were best friends! We played football together! I can’t believe he still made me pay the fine!” To which I replied- Isn’t that a good thing that the government is fighting corruption and not doing “favours”. And he replies, “Of course! Corruption is terrible- it must stop! But, you don’t understand- I GREW UP with him! He should not have made me pay!” And with that we swerved sharply to avoid hitting the seven other lanes of on-coming traffic.
Do you know about the After-8pm-Grocery-Store Phenomenon- that after 8pm grocery stores are obligated to play the most depressing slow jams they can find. So that when you’ve been working late, and you have nothing in your fridge and you have to buy food to cook a dinner for one you find yourself crying over the tomatoes. Yeah- you know it. We’ve all been there. Well, this phenomenon has not passed Zambia. And about the time that, “I’ll be right here waiting for you” came on the intercom- I embarrassingly started welling up while trying to decide which long-life milk-in-a-box I should purchase. It was not a highlight.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
The Walled City
Day Four
August 4th, 2007
Before I continue, I’ll just let you know that as it stands, internet access is dubious. Which is quite surprising since my friend in the freakin’ Sudan seems to be able to get on daily and even chat on Skype. Where as for me- nothing. The school’s internet works on a 128kpbs connection that slows to little more than pre-1997 internet standards when more than 5 people are connected. Not good for a school of 550 students and faculty. Then at home- it costs about $80 a month for the privilege of dial-up and $100 for broadband. So, at the moment- if you get an email- consider yourself very special, indeed.
That being said- what am I complaining about? I’m a white girl from Denver living in a flat with more amenities than I had in England while living in a country decimated by AIDS, and poverty. Reality check, Jen. It can be difficult to forget that here. I know it sounds bizarre but in Lusaka- the poverty is all hidden away. Lusaka, for me, is “The Great Walled City” When you drive down the street- you do not see mansions. You do not see manicured lawns. You do not see a family of 8 living in a lean-to. You do not see the starving or the sick. You see walls. Tarmac, dirt, and walls. Then a gigantic shopping centre.
So, What is behind the walls? Well- I live behind one of those walls. The school is behind one of those walls- but the “compounds” are behind those walls too. These walled ghettos were named “compounds” during the Apartied reign and have stuck ever since. It is not just the privileged who get to live within walls. As it was once said- Are you trying to keep something out or keep something in?
The other night I was lucky enough to get to go inside one of these compounds. Some Ex-pats here spend there entire time in Lusaka and never step one foot inside these walls. In fact, the guy who was driving- who has lived here for over a year now, said that was his first time inside a compound. We were dropping off a lady who works as a Nanny for one of the teachers. In a further entry I’ll discuss the whole “housekeeper/Nanny/Driver/Gardener/Cook thing. But for now, we were dropping Joyce home, and I was given a lot to think about. We entered the compound and suddenly I was back in a village on ‘Eua. In place of the grass huts there were breeze block structures. But as in Tonga, the doors were hanging fabric. There were defined roads and little stands selling the corn maize, eggs, coca-cola, and top up mobile phone cards. It was night but this place was alive! Everyone was out of there house- walking in the street, playing in the ditches along side of the road, cooking out front of their house on charcoal burners called “Brassiers”, stirring big pots of shima. All the houses were dark, as there was no electricity but there seemed to be very little in the houses when you looked in the windows. But I felt at home. I thought to myself, “If I was in the Peace Corps, this is where I would be living. Not in a townhouse with a pool” And as we left the compound to return to the streets lined with walls I felt very conflicted and certain that if I did not stay connected with what is behind those walls- then my time here will be wasted. But the key to finding my way into that world may be very hard to find, indeed.
August 4th, 2007
Before I continue, I’ll just let you know that as it stands, internet access is dubious. Which is quite surprising since my friend in the freakin’ Sudan seems to be able to get on daily and even chat on Skype. Where as for me- nothing. The school’s internet works on a 128kpbs connection that slows to little more than pre-1997 internet standards when more than 5 people are connected. Not good for a school of 550 students and faculty. Then at home- it costs about $80 a month for the privilege of dial-up and $100 for broadband. So, at the moment- if you get an email- consider yourself very special, indeed.
That being said- what am I complaining about? I’m a white girl from Denver living in a flat with more amenities than I had in England while living in a country decimated by AIDS, and poverty. Reality check, Jen. It can be difficult to forget that here. I know it sounds bizarre but in Lusaka- the poverty is all hidden away. Lusaka, for me, is “The Great Walled City” When you drive down the street- you do not see mansions. You do not see manicured lawns. You do not see a family of 8 living in a lean-to. You do not see the starving or the sick. You see walls. Tarmac, dirt, and walls. Then a gigantic shopping centre.
So, What is behind the walls? Well- I live behind one of those walls. The school is behind one of those walls- but the “compounds” are behind those walls too. These walled ghettos were named “compounds” during the Apartied reign and have stuck ever since. It is not just the privileged who get to live within walls. As it was once said- Are you trying to keep something out or keep something in?
The other night I was lucky enough to get to go inside one of these compounds. Some Ex-pats here spend there entire time in Lusaka and never step one foot inside these walls. In fact, the guy who was driving- who has lived here for over a year now, said that was his first time inside a compound. We were dropping off a lady who works as a Nanny for one of the teachers. In a further entry I’ll discuss the whole “housekeeper/Nanny/Driver/Gardener/Cook thing. But for now, we were dropping Joyce home, and I was given a lot to think about. We entered the compound and suddenly I was back in a village on ‘Eua. In place of the grass huts there were breeze block structures. But as in Tonga, the doors were hanging fabric. There were defined roads and little stands selling the corn maize, eggs, coca-cola, and top up mobile phone cards. It was night but this place was alive! Everyone was out of there house- walking in the street, playing in the ditches along side of the road, cooking out front of their house on charcoal burners called “Brassiers”, stirring big pots of shima. All the houses were dark, as there was no electricity but there seemed to be very little in the houses when you looked in the windows. But I felt at home. I thought to myself, “If I was in the Peace Corps, this is where I would be living. Not in a townhouse with a pool” And as we left the compound to return to the streets lined with walls I felt very conflicted and certain that if I did not stay connected with what is behind those walls- then my time here will be wasted. But the key to finding my way into that world may be very hard to find, indeed.
Day Three
August 2nd, 2007
Most of my days follow the pattern of: Oh my god I’m in Zambia. Hey, look I have a pool! Mm- not really into breakfast since I have to cook my eggs in a cast iron culdron provided by the school until my shipment arrives. Wait for the bus. Continue to wait for the bus. Eventually get on the bus. Go shopping. I’m sorry, how much for that?! Continue shopping. Ug. What I need, I already own but it’s in my shipment! Think about the internet and crave. Stress about getting a car. Stress about being pressured into getting a housekeeper. Stress about how to go for a run. Meet cool people. Learn new things. Go to parties. Sleep. Oh my God, I’m in Zambia…
Most of my days follow the pattern of: Oh my god I’m in Zambia. Hey, look I have a pool! Mm- not really into breakfast since I have to cook my eggs in a cast iron culdron provided by the school until my shipment arrives. Wait for the bus. Continue to wait for the bus. Eventually get on the bus. Go shopping. I’m sorry, how much for that?! Continue shopping. Ug. What I need, I already own but it’s in my shipment! Think about the internet and crave. Stress about getting a car. Stress about being pressured into getting a housekeeper. Stress about how to go for a run. Meet cool people. Learn new things. Go to parties. Sleep. Oh my God, I’m in Zambia…
Crashing Wizards
Day Two
This article appeared in the Zambian Times the second day I was in the country. It reads as follows:
Chikankata pupils riot
By Choolwe Kasamu
CHIKANKATA High School pupils in Mazabuka on Saturday night ran amok, stoning and damaging property worth millions of Kwacha.
Chikankata member of Parliament, Munji Habeenzu, confirmed in an interview that one teacher’s house and some classroom glass panes were extensively damaged after pupils protested against alleged witchcraft at the institution.
Mr Habeenzu condemned the riot which started around 21:00 hours.
Local security officers were reinforced by the Zambia Police officers from Mazabuka.
Area councillor, Conrad Ngoma, also confirmed that one teacher was only rescued by his collegues who hid him from the angry pupils.
The rumpus erupted after pupils heard that a suspected wizard had crash-landed near a hospital bed of their grade 9 colleague who is currently admitted to Chikankata Mission Hospital .
Eye witnesses and patients at the hospital confirmed that a suspected wizard crash-landed and was only rescued by some hospital staff.
So far, police have not made any arrests.
Right, okayyyyyy….???
So, after some investigation it turns out that this is a completely normal happening and I shouldn’t be worried, unless a wizard crash-lands in my house. In which case- that is very, very bad.
I had questions.
“You have magic in your country.” Was the initial response to the enquiry into the wizard’s poor flying habits.
“I can’t confirm or deny that, really” was my response.
“Well, wizards have been crashing a lot lately- more than usual. People are praying a lot more for them to crash”
Obviously.
“Why do people want them to crash?”
“Because wizards are evil, they do the devil’s work against God and they fly around at night…. Like your wizard’s do-but ours do not have brooms.”
Of course, brooms are silly.
“So, if people pray the wizards crash? Ok, I can dig that. But what does a crashed wizard look like? Does he come falling from the sky- through the ceiling?”
“No! They’re invisible!”
“So, how do you know if a wizard has crash-landed?”
“Because they are usually naked, don’t know where they are or who they are.”
Ahhhhh…. Magic.
Or a really imaginative way to explain mental illness- and in a hospital no less! Imagine.
So that was day two.
This article appeared in the Zambian Times the second day I was in the country. It reads as follows:
Chikankata pupils riot
By Choolwe Kasamu
CHIKANKATA High School pupils in Mazabuka on Saturday night ran amok, stoning and damaging property worth millions of Kwacha.
Chikankata member of Parliament, Munji Habeenzu, confirmed in an interview that one teacher’s house and some classroom glass panes were extensively damaged after pupils protested against alleged witchcraft at the institution.
Mr Habeenzu condemned the riot which started around 21:00 hours.
Local security officers were reinforced by the Zambia Police officers from Mazabuka.
Area councillor, Conrad Ngoma, also confirmed that one teacher was only rescued by his collegues who hid him from the angry pupils.
The rumpus erupted after pupils heard that a suspected wizard had crash-landed near a hospital bed of their grade 9 colleague who is currently admitted to Chikankata Mission Hospital .
Eye witnesses and patients at the hospital confirmed that a suspected wizard crash-landed and was only rescued by some hospital staff.
So far, police have not made any arrests.
Right, okayyyyyy….???
So, after some investigation it turns out that this is a completely normal happening and I shouldn’t be worried, unless a wizard crash-lands in my house. In which case- that is very, very bad.
I had questions.
“You have magic in your country.” Was the initial response to the enquiry into the wizard’s poor flying habits.
“I can’t confirm or deny that, really” was my response.
“Well, wizards have been crashing a lot lately- more than usual. People are praying a lot more for them to crash”
Obviously.
“Why do people want them to crash?”
“Because wizards are evil, they do the devil’s work against God and they fly around at night…. Like your wizard’s do-but ours do not have brooms.”
Of course, brooms are silly.
“So, if people pray the wizards crash? Ok, I can dig that. But what does a crashed wizard look like? Does he come falling from the sky- through the ceiling?”
“No! They’re invisible!”
“So, how do you know if a wizard has crash-landed?”
“Because they are usually naked, don’t know where they are or who they are.”
Ahhhhh…. Magic.
Or a really imaginative way to explain mental illness- and in a hospital no less! Imagine.
So that was day two.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Touchdown
July 31, 2007****
Uhhhhhh….. right. I’m in Zambia. Ummmm… ok. Trying to come to terms with this concept. In the middle of Africa. Trying not to repeat, “holy S**t, I’m in Zambia” every two minutes…alternating with, “What have I done, oh dear god, what have I done?!”
It’s too early too tell. That’s what I keep thinking. Who knows what is ahead of me. Being in a country for 6 hours is not exactly the time to start making generalizations.
So far, this is all I know:
1. My Luggage is somewhere between Colorado and Lusaka. We don’t know where and we don’t know when it will arrive.
2. I do not live on Campus.
3. I live at 21A Sable Road in flat #4. My house has a built-in bar under the stairs, a pool in the garden, and reminds me of the Brady’s house from the 70’s.
4. I have no idea where I am in relation to anything.
5. My house has 12 lockable doors.
6. Holy S**t, I’m in Zambia!
**** written on above date but published later when I finally got a connection to the outside world
Uhhhhhh….. right. I’m in Zambia. Ummmm… ok. Trying to come to terms with this concept. In the middle of Africa. Trying not to repeat, “holy S**t, I’m in Zambia” every two minutes…alternating with, “What have I done, oh dear god, what have I done?!”
It’s too early too tell. That’s what I keep thinking. Who knows what is ahead of me. Being in a country for 6 hours is not exactly the time to start making generalizations.
So far, this is all I know:
1. My Luggage is somewhere between Colorado and Lusaka. We don’t know where and we don’t know when it will arrive.
2. I do not live on Campus.
3. I live at 21A Sable Road in flat #4. My house has a built-in bar under the stairs, a pool in the garden, and reminds me of the Brady’s house from the 70’s.
4. I have no idea where I am in relation to anything.
5. My house has 12 lockable doors.
6. Holy S**t, I’m in Zambia!
**** written on above date but published later when I finally got a connection to the outside world
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)