Jen Across the Sea

Today was the day I was supposed to spend all day on the couch

2010-08-27T17:39:00.000+01:00

But I didn't. I once again, for the fifth day in a row of my vacation, spent it sitting in front of my computer doing work... which is great because next week... I go back to work. I wish I was one of those people who could write in their blog that they wished they could get off their lazy asses and do something- but unfortunately, I always seem to be doing something. The problem is- I'm always doing it ON my ass.

I must run. I repeat this everyday to myself. It rarely happens these days. It makes me sad. If I get out three times a week it is a good week. I used to consider myself a runner. I have downgraded myself to a jogger. A casual exerciser.

Then I went for my dress fitting. I was told that the only way I'd look any better in the dress was if I, myself, looked better in the dress. The seamstress looked me in the eye and said, "You just need to loose 10lbs." I felt like I was in Zoolander and Mugatu was yelling at me, "Oh, I'm sorry, did my pin get in the way of your ass? Do me a favor and lose five pounds immediately or get out of my building like now!"

So, I am now leaving my computer- I completely blame it on my new MacBook Pro that is so beautiful that typing on it is like stroking God- and going for a run.

In the rain. It just started raining. What?!

Ok. I have a theory. Running in the rain doubles your miles. Yep. When you're out running in the rain and people see you they think, "Man, that person is really dedicated." and therefore the extra karma points you get on that doubles the miles...

And with that thought- here I go.

Nuptual Culture-Clash Part Deux

2010-08-27T17:24:00.000+01:00

Continuing on...

And both the stag do and the Best Man's speech are all things done to the groom- not done by the groom. Except for the 'Groom's speech'.

Oh! hold back, ladies! He has to say something! This part of the wedding celebration does not fall into the category "secretly-loved-by-the-groom". Unlike the previously mentioned events, this one is dreaded by all British grooms from John O'Groats to Land's End. The reason for this is, paradoxically, the all-consuming wish to not be the center of attention.

I think this dread is shared by Best Men and their speech duty as well but the dread is trumped by the man-love code which I guess is stronger than love-for-your-future -wife code. I have been told that the groom's speech will be as short as politely possible. Maybe I'll get a fist-bump at the end?

The dread of being the center of attention is strangely at odds with the stag do (an entire weekend planned in the groom's honour) and the fact the best man's speech is entirely focused on him, but in the end, the groom accepts no responsibility for either act and therefore secretly loves them.

Where as, it seems, the bride must accept full responsibility for everything else. And therefore I secretly hate my wedding.

In another life, if I'm good enough, I'll come back as a British Groom.

Nuptual Culture-Clash

2010-08-25T17:38:00.001+01:00

We both speak the same language (arguable, I know and a whole topic unto itself). We are both middle-class with relatively small extended families. We share a religion, political leanings and comedic tastes (minus his funny bone for all things dealing with flatulence) So, what went wrong shortly thereafter "Yes"?

He is British and I am American. That is what went wrong.

We are neither like the couples in the film "Confetti" nor any of those embarrasing couples glorified on youtube with choreographed bridal party dances. But I have been raised looking at pictures of overly-tanned, under-fed and draped in meringue brides who are flanked by eight bridesmaids on each side all wearing some jeweled-coloured dress with shoes dyed to match.

He, on the other hand, has grow up watching Four Weddings and Funeral and simultaneously revering and fearing the 'Stag Do' and 'Best Man's Speech'. Those two events effectively sum up an Englishman's wedding. Everything else is just done with a stiff upper-lip and all that. pip. pip.

To be continued...

A Year and a Half Later in The Domestic

2010-08-25T17:01:00.000+01:00

As I am encouraging my students to have their own 'learning blogs' I feel that I should set a good example and get back into writing my own blog. It's been quite a ride since my last post. I've been out of Africa for two years and I haven't looked back.

One three-year highly-skilled migrant visa stamped into my passport
Two teaching certifications in the US and the UK
One M.Ed in Secondary Education
One new curriculum (A Levels)
Two new subjects (Film and Media)
and
One new job as Head of Department of previously mentioned curriculum and subject.

And I got engaged.

While the former list consumed most of my hours. It's the last item that has consumed my head and heart. Another human being has chosen me- from all the other humans on the earth- to be the love of his life! Mr. Paul Anthony King has chosen me! I am such a lucky girl. And of course... I have chosen him back... but he asked first. :)

Ah, a wedding to plan. (or rather a wedding that is being planned) My friend, Jo, told me shortly after he popped the question, "You were born to plan a wedding" and at the time I completely agreed with her- until I realized that, yes, I was born to plan weddings- just not my own.

Here is a bit of advice for the high maintenance bride who does not think she is a high maintenance bride. You are this person if, in the event of a fire, you would grab your planner, your mac, and your sketchbooks before anything else in the house.

Get married no more than 6 months after you get that ring!

You will drive yourself crazy otherwise. The bliss of the glossy magazines wears off after two months, the fun of finding 'The Dress' lasts only a few trips. You'll discover your fiance will only help make decisions if they are imminent and we all know you can make a Chinese dragon costume out of some tin foil and pipe cleaners so save yourself the annoyance of calligraphers, stationers or florists and get thee to Hobby Lobby! You'll do it better yourself anyways.

My Year in Africa

2009-02-02T14:32:00.000Z

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

2007-11-08T17:42:00.000Z

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...

2007-11-06T15:24:00.000Z

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...

2007-11-06T14:58:00.000Z

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

2007-09-24T08:47:00.000+01:00

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

2007-09-19T11:29:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-09-05T17:07:00.001+01:00

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

2007-08-26T10:38:00.001+01:00

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

2007-08-26T10:11:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-26T08:30:00.000+01:00

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

Notes from an Art Teacher

2007-08-26T07:54:00.000+01:00

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.

Lucky

2007-08-21T09:40:00.000+01:00

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!

Me and My African Heart

2007-08-21T09:38:00.000+01:00

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!

Displacement

2007-08-14T19:01:00.000+01:00

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.

Reality and running

2007-08-14T18:22:00.000+01:00

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.

Some Notes

2007-08-14T18:15:00.000+01:00

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.

The Walled City

2007-08-07T15:40:00.001+01:00

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.

Day Three

2007-08-07T15:39:00.003+01:00

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…

Crashing Wizards

2007-08-07T15:39:00.001+01:00

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.

Touchdown

2007-08-06T15:33:00.001+01:00

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

Another adventure, Another continent

2007-07-29T06:35:00.000+01:00

Hello, Hello trusty friends- I am resurrecting "Jen Across the Sea"! I apologize for having not written anything for over a year but I've had some unexpected turns that kept me from writing- but I've returned with another huge adventure in front of me and I'd love to take you along for the ride!

First the update- out with the old and in with the new. That pretty much sums up my time of absence.
1. Met lovely new* boyfriend
*who is really no longer new since we're almost at a year!
(I will refer to the lovely new boyfriend as "Paul"... since that's his name and I doubt he would appreciate being refered to the nickname my students gave him, which I think is endearingly cute, but one which may cause him to blush and I can't think of anything else at midnight on the eve of my departure)
2. Moved into a classic london townhouse with 5 roomates
3. Went to mad job fair and accepted mad job in Zambia!
(See blog entry "Don't eat the Ostritch" for creepy foreshadowing)
4. Then moved out of london townhouse and in with aforementioned lovely boyfriend
5. Continued romance in Colorado, France, Italy, Wales, Cornwall, Devon, The Lake District, The Peak
District, The runnymeade roundabout, and Malta.
6. Said goodbye to the UK and all the wonderful people I came to love there.
7. Flew home to colorado to be with my family and the cutest neice ever before leaving for Zambia.
And now you're all caught up.

So, here I am- sitting up late because I can't sleep, itchy all over from the nerves, and scared that tomorrow will come. I hate goodbyes. I don't do goodbyes well. I usually skip them all together. When I was leaving Tonga- one of my closest friends actually had to ask me, minutes before I got in the taxi to go to the airport, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to me?" And I remember thinking- "well- getting in this taxi pretty much sums that up, doesn't it?" But only because I am a vertible waterworks. Prone to sentimentality and nostalgia. Cursed with a mind that works like a hollywood movie (think "The Way We Were" of slow-motion flash backs of all the happiest moments with some god-awful music like "Memories" or "Wind beneath my Wings" in the background.) And you'd think for someone who leaves so much this would get easier but I'm starting to think its getting harder.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring- well, actually I do. Alot of sitting on a plane...that will land in Frankfurt. I won't actually get to africa for another couple of days. What I'm going to do in Frankfurt for 12 hours is beyond me. I did think I would get a haircut but when I said, "I could get my hair cut in Germany" out loud, I reconsidered to visions of a shaved head or a mullet or some other horrific follicle concoction.

So, really, for the next 30 hours enroute, I will be reading Harry Potter, Real Simple, (aka. organization porn) and sleeping involuntarily with the help of coma-indusing pills, innocently named "sleep aid" from Costco.

Then.... Well, I'll have to get back to you on that.

Things I am worried about on my next adventure:
Malaria and many, many, many other diseases
Ex-Pats and the lifestyle
My Job
Wether or not I'll be able to run
What to wear
My shippment actually arriving
Flying in Africa
Not having Paul with me

Living in Sin

2006-03-28T22:04:00.000+01:00

I died. Well, in the metaphorical "I can't think of a better excuse for not having written anything for months" sort of way. And the thing is, I wrote the following in a draft almost 2 months ago!

I can't believe it has been three months since I have wrote a new entry. I am a BAD blogger... and not as in bad-ass but as in, "I suck at this"

But as I sit here in my apartment, on one of the last nights in my flat alone, I can't help but think about what lies ahead of me on the 7th of April. Moving in with my culture shock. As the rain pelts down (as it has been doing for 3 months now) and the sky threatens to suffocate me with its gray claustrophobic blanket, I can't help but completely freak out that i am on this grim island.

So I'm living in sin. Yup. And I'm even receiving emails from my mom that say things like, "When we were first MARRIED..."
And the parents who raised me a good moraly sound girl (luckily they weren't around for my Manhattan experience) are now the parents of a girl who lives with her, "partner" Sorry Mom and Dad.

But there isn't much choice in the matter. I blame it on cultural sensitivity. Which is often a feature in my relationship since I had to get fake-married in Tonga in the name of cultural sensitivity and now, in order to fit in over here in the land of people with no family values, I am not getting married. Although, my "partner" is happily waiting for the government to stamp us with a civil marriage due to the fact we have had the same address for a number of months. That way he can say, " hey, we're Married! Glad that's done with" and head down to the pub for a pint.

However, I'm enjoying my new house regardless of the weight of my left hand. Which has decided it enjoys having an uncluttered space to use fully for things like... hm what do you use your left hand for? (sorry lefties)

As of late I have compared to a "huge bird that goes around collecting random things to bring home" I'm not sure if this has to do with my taste or the fact that I am building a home with enthusiasm, but either way- I'm nesting. And it feels like I have developed a psychological illness.

I have suddenly taken an interest in flowers. Which is really too bad for the flowers. I swear I can hear them crying as I choose them to take home and slowly kill. So, I bought the compost and the pots, the hanging baskets and plant food. I even own a watering can. I potted and sowed. Watered and fed... then they curled up and turned brown or stubbornly stayed in the soil. And I cried. But then they started to sprout and a few new flowers emerged! And I beamed. Then they cowered under the cold sky and closed up... and the tears ran again. Oh, the emotional rollercoaster!

Well, I have to go. A student needs my help. Those pesky kids...
Till later... promise... sort of...

Whatever you do- Don't eat the Ostritch!

2006-01-22T19:29:00.000Z

Hello friends- Its been nice hearing from you. It has been requested that I put up a picture of my new haircut... which, in retrospect, may have been an exaggeration on my part. Then again- if you're reading this blog you know that i'm prone to exaggeration! Some people call in dramatics, others maddness but, hey, whatever gets you through the night.
So, for those that made the request:

So, South Africa...
The south africa I grew to love is featured below:

The hotel swimming pool. (ps. took this really pixelated picture with new camera phone I got for christmas- the camera serves no other purpse than to text people images of south african swimming pools while they are stuck in a smelly highschool in dreary england.)

And for this reason (the swimming pool, not the phone) I want to move to africa. "Now, wait a second...", you might be thinking. "Has she really thought about this? Is basing a major life decision, to live on a continent ravaged by war and strife, on a hotel swimming pool a good idea? Is this the kind of decision making skills she is passing onto our impressionable youth?"

Maybe.
But I have other reasons too! Honestly, I do. Remember, I'm an adult now...

But look at that pool... with it's clear blue water flowing over the side down into a watefall, high above the courtyard, so when you are floating on your back you feel like you're floating among the treetops?

"No," you say. " First point- the picture is so blurry I cannot appreciate the wonder of which you speak. And second point- why the %#$@! would anyone move to africa based on a hotel swimming pool?!"

Well, its because of the people I met AT the swimming pool. Don't get me wrong- the sunning and the swimming and the massages and the daily runs and the gin and tonics were all very well and good- but it was being back in the company of people who shared so many of my thoughts and ideals that really sealed the deal. There were even a few RPCV's in the bunch.

The American accent was in the definite minority- so much so that when I ordered a drink at our conference reception the person next to me turned and said, "Western United States? California? Colorado?" And me, thrilled to hear his mid-west accent said, "Colorado-and what are you doing so far from Chicago?"

I thought I was the only one that played that game! To think of all those other ex-pats who overhear a voice from the states and silently play the "what state are they from" game. (Of course this isn't limited to accents. Clothes play a big part. People from the east coast tend to wear synthetic fabrics. Those from the west prefer cotton- or anything that has an REI tag on it!)

Anyways- back to my point. The people I met. I made a friend over breakfast (but later joined me at the pool!) who was from Yorkshire. We had a great discussion about the UK and she asked, a few minutes before we were due to be at the opening meeting- "How did you ever fall in love with a British man?" I said that I found their complete lack of emotion kinda cute. To which she snorted her tea out her nose and exclaimed, "I know! Men are shit at that anyways- but, God! The british managed to even make tha worse!" Needless to say- we were quite late to the opening plenary. And I had found myself a new friend.

That night (after a swim, of course) I went out with my new friend who works at an international school in Tanzania and her friend, a Head of another international school in Tanzania. They were brilliant. The most extroverted British ladies I had ever met. They spent the evening, over ostritch and apricot skewers, telling me about their life in Dar- the scuba diving, the swimming, the boating, the surfing, the wild game reserves, the food, the people... and I was sold. S-O-L-D

The next day, at breakfast, someone asked where I taught. (It became quite a cause of anxiety for me when people asked where I was from. It wasn't until later, when explained to me, that you only give your most recent residence, that I was at ease. No need to say where you live now and follow up with, "But i'm originally from.." I was told, "We are ALL from somewhere else... where you're from now is the interesting place. It's the reason you left the other's, isn't it? He had a point- but where I come from IS interesting. Thank God i'm not from Iowa.)

So, i was asked where I taught... I replied, "Oh... um, London." To which my RPCV friend says, "don't feel so bad about it!" To which my new British-Tanzanian friends said, "She has to feel bad about it- she's turned english!" And I could tell they were quite chuffed with this.

Over tea, during that afternoon's session at the conference (the actual reason I was there) the south african IT teacher starts chatting on about what we should do while were in Jo-burg. We should go here and go there but whatever we do... don't eat the ostritch. Up until this point I had been keenly focused on trying to hold this ridiculously small tea cup with a 1/2 inch handle without giving myself thrid degree burns. I had already plonked the think back into the saucer spilling half the contents but, damn, did that cup conduct heat! But at this comment, I managed to grasp that little nub long enough to squeak, "Why shouldn't we eat the ostritch?" And as my finger burned and thoughts of last nights scrumptious dinner filled my head, he answered, "Becuase the first case of bird flu was just discovered in Zimbabwe- in an ostritch." Sniffle, Sniffle. Cough. Cough. Do I have a fever?

As we all know- you can't get bird flu from eating the well-cooked infected poultry- but you CAN get some wicked sinus infection from having to sit next to a smelly Spaniard who coughed and breathed all over you for 11 hours in an enclosed airplane cabin. And while, i don't have bird flu- I would like my face to stop hurting now.

Ok, I'll wrap it up folks. I really enjoyed myself in South Africa- both professionally and personally. I met some great people, was asked to be one of the youngest IB examiners ever, and ate ostritch... possibly infected with bird flu.

However, on the last day, an hour before I was to leave for the airport, I was lounging by the side of the pool trying to get enough vitamin D to last me through to April (when I go home again) When my friend, the Head of the international school in Tanzania, sat down next to me. She said, "Here is my email address. I hope we can keep in touch. I think I might be starting ITGS at my school in year or so... You might be a good person to chat with." And with that she smiled, wished me a good flight and dove into the pool.

And that is the reason why I want to move to Africa.

Haircut for my Third Continent

2006-01-08T23:38:00.000Z

When I arrived in london on friday night, I was a sensible girl wearing jeans and tucking my dull hair into a low ponytail (as i've done since leaving tonga over a year ago- but by sunday evening I had chopped up my hair, got it highlighted gold, and bought some gold 4-inch heels to match! What happened!?

Well, I'll tell you. I am going to South Africa!!!

Ok, I didn't get a haircut because i'm finally going to Africa- but I did get a haircut because I'm grown-up enough to get someone to pay for me to go to South Africa!

I'm so excited- and i'll tell you all about it when i return- but first i just want to give a little credit where credit is due.

I had a little inside joke with myself until a few months ago. My inside joke was that I would say, "Oh, how grown up!" to anyone who did anything even slightly domesticated... or let's just say normal. And I would smirk. This does NOT mean that i was judging or thinking of myself as better. This you have to understand. Everyone is allowed their own path and adventures- no matter in what form they come. But for me, to be a "grown-up" was something that other people did. I myself was not grown-up.

I knew this because:
a) I didn't have any wrinkles
b) I didn't have any money
c) Objects such as cars and houses were things I was not allowed to play with and believed i'd have to win the lottery to afford.
d) My college loans were my biggest "downer" and
e) I still liked the idea of backpacking around the world, living off $1 a day, and sleeping anywhere they'd have me.

Then the unthinkable happened:
a) I got wrinkles.
b) My regular paychecks started to accumulate.
c) I actually contemplated buying a car.
d) My college loan is now the smallest bill I have...and no longer my biggest downer, either
e) And while sleeping a few feet from an irishman with smelly feet in Seville- I realized that, in fact, I didn't want to backpack around the world living off $1 a day.

But that doesn't mean I still don't want to go around it....

It just means that I want to do it like a grown-up.

And this past weekend in London was my first weekend as a grown-up. And it was lovely- I don't think i've ever been in a better mood!

Phrases like, "settling" and "sell-out" and "boring" were all I used to think of when I'd hear the word grown-up. But now, NOW I hear words like, "opportunity" and "security" and, belive it or not, "fun"! Because let me tell you- South Africa is going to much better with money than it would be without!

But we all get there at different times. My wonderful parents knew this. They'd tell me about all the perks. I'd see them when I'd go out with my good friend and her husband back in colorado. But I wasn't ready. Now that i'm here- I can't believe I waited this long! And thanks for everyone's patience!

But the best part about being a grown-up is that you're allowed to OWN your mistakes, to take risks knowing that you can deal with the results, and be bold enough to get bangs... or "fringe" as my british hairdresser insisted.
And when she started cutting- I knew that however it turned out, the grown-up in me would handle it and the kid in me would just laugh.

Home from the Holidays

2006-01-02T20:11:00.000Z

My plane landed at Heathrow on the last day of 2005.

When the plane left colorado soil, I couldn't help but get choked up about having said goodbye to the people I love.

And when the plane touched down onto UK soil, I couldn't help but get choked up about saying hello to the boy I love.

But for all those hours in between (apart from the 2 hours of my life watching The Dukes of Hazard which I will never get back) I spent the time pondering the meaning of home:

The oddity of having to get travel insurance to visit the place where I grew up. The strange sensation of clearly knowing the directions from my house to the airport I had left and how to get home from the airport to which i was going. The idea that while I was in colorado I was as conscience of the words I was using as much as when I am in the company of Britons. How, after 6 months of complaining about british TV, I couldn't bring myself to watch even 20 minutes of the American version after being stressed out by the intensity of Entertainment Tonight. And, while britishrailasis is its own breed of illness, I had forgotten about the nausea-inducing car sickness that comes from the wide, careening roads of southern metro-Denver. Then the Tylenol PM kicked in and I was out until I was jarred awake from the jolting landing.

There is a law in the universe which says that your bags will arrive in accordance to how fast you want to see whoever is on the other side of customs. This also stands for passport control and the speed of disembarking from the aircraft. By this I mean that if you have no one waiting for you on the other side- your bags will come out first, the immigration officer will stamp your passport without looking at you and you will be seated in an aisle seat two rows back.

However, if the love of your life is standing on the other side of the glass doors of international arrivals- you will be seated in in the last window seat in the last row, the immigration officer will assume your work visa is a forgery, and your bags will be lost. Good thing Romeo did not have to pick Juliet up from Verona's international airport.

And, lucky for me, the universe pulled some strings and I only had to suffer seat 30E, a few extra questions, and my bags arriving dead last.

New Year's Eve was spent overwhelming my boyfriend with my adoration and american generosity translated into christmas gifts. (which equals an entire suitcase-full) It took him two days, one nap, and three blushes, but he eventually made it though all his gifts and was sufficiently embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

And if you combine my jetlag, his constant studying, and the exhaustion of gift-receiving, you have a recipie for a New Year's Eve spent with one's eye's closed. So we slept through the turning of the new year and awoke momentarily among the wrapping paper and champange glasses loosely lying in our hands to whisper happy new year, give each other a kiss, and immediately resume snoring. But for all those years I had wished for parties and glamour- my best new year's was spent alseep.

On New Year's Day we found ourselves walking along the streets of my village and came upon a wheelbarrow race. And since England spends the entire holiday season, from the 20th of December to the 2nd of January completely housed, pissed, drunk, loopy, smashed, and wasted- it was only appropriate that the family wheelbarrow race included having to chug or "neck" a pint of beer ever few feet while making the loop around the village. There is a picture below to illustrate the event.

But all good things must come to an end. And so my Christmas Vacation is done. My boyfriend has returned to studying for hellish exam part duex (he passed part une!) and I have to return to my moody teenagers tomorrow morning. But it was truly lovely being in my big, intense, open-skyed, spread-out, inexpensive, good-quality, earnestly nice, quietly xenophobic, food-loving, blued-sky, central heated home. But it is strangely comfortable to return to my pub-going, round-buying, grey-skyed, bitterly-cold, poorly programmed-tv, public transportation dependent, self-depricating, understated, understocked, expensive, witty, reserved home.

What I'm Thankful for...

2005-11-26T00:43:00.000Z

I'm thankful to be an american- because we are free. And i'm not talking about the 1st amendment- I'm talking about the fact we have the freedom to be both ironic and earnest whenever the mood fits. We can proudly be patriotic and speak passionately about our intrests and successes but also exhibit great modesty and cynicism. We are allowed to tell people exactly what we think and we do it very efficently while announcing how much our house costs at that same time or we can be discreet and quiet and hypocrytical. We have the freedom to BE whatever emotion we feel.

The english cannot.

And its hard to celebrate a holiday filled with earnest patriotism towards our culture and families in a country where they disregard any moment of heart-felt emotion with a, "oh, come off it." And then add some glorious english wit on top of it.

And it was very difficult for our "host-country nationals" to not wear party hats or bring "pressies" to the dinner. The common quote was, "it must be like a little pre-christmas party." or,"I thought it would be like on friends" No, its not. But when it was explained we were only met with rolled eyes and ,"oh, americans...."

Its pointless to explain- in reality you're making things worse for yourself to explain it all. Because with every, "its all about family and traditions..." you're only proving how "earnest" you are about the whole affair--- and making them very uncomfortable out it all. They don't know what to do with someone who expresses their emotions. Its not that they don't have them- its that they are only allowed to use their humour to express them (and this includes understatement)
ex. huge, lavish feast = a bit of a snack

If you were english, regardless of whetheryou loved it or hated it- you would describe Thanksgiving as:
"its all a bit of a bother, really. I mean, honestly- you cook and cook and cook- only to fall asleep minutes after eating the food you spent all day cooking. Its entirely backwards with vegetables for your "pudding" and marshmallows in your potatoes. The only redeeming factor of the whole experience is being able to get pissed "

But if you want to sum it all up- I would use this one word:

LEFTOVERS

We love 'em. The english, "just don't do that sort of thing."

Enough said.

Fat Ladies, Subway, and too many bus tickets

2005-11-21T05:45:00.000Z

Yesterday was a beautiful sunny day in london. Unfortunately, when the sun went down I found myself in an anglo-version of "Hotel California"

Let me explain:

Met my friend to view some naked ladies with "more to love" at the Rubens exhibit at the National Gallery. It was, as the english would say, "not bad". Perhaps I was, "a bit moved" by the larger than life paintings of heroic scenes of tragedy and passion. Rubens was decidedly NOT english.

Afterwards we went out to get some chinese food in SoHo but ended up in a cuban-themed cafe eating the best all-american cheeseburgers i've had since hopping the pond. yum. things were good.

Then the sun set.

Being the brownie-point seeking girlfriend I am, I thought of THE best idea- how about I take my boyfriend, who is on-call at a hospital across town in a bad neighborhood, some yummy dinner? Ooo Ohh- this is good! I thought. I took out my trusty London tube map for a quick study, "yes- just take the northern line south to embankment and transfer onto the district/circle line to Whitchapel!" easy-peasy, i thought. (for the sake of the construction of the story- you should know that up to this point i have spent £9.40 on a return train ticket into london)

So, I said goodbye to my friend at leicster square and bought a single tube ticket to zone 2 for whitchapel (£2.40). Took it to embankment where I promptly was told, upon exiting the train, that the District and Circle lines were closed and I'd have to find another way. I then pulled out my tube map and found another route taking me back the way I came, with a transfer at Tottenham court road, then another transfer at liverpool street and then two stops later- whitechapel. No big deal. Although it did cross my mind to turn back (As if i was on the Pirates of the Carribean ride at disneyworld)

Ok, got back on the tube and re-traced my steps. first transfer- OK. Second transfer- O... no, not OK! I was on the wrong line! How did that happen? I was on the right platform... Next stop I hopped off the tube. Algate station. Algate, Algate... I remember algate- I passed it that one day... I think i can walk from here...I know where I am...

Well, the second time I passed algate station after walking for 10 minutes, i realized that, in fact, I did NOT know where i was. And when alone, on a dark street in a strange city neighborhood, I have a very hard time convincing myself to look at a map. So I didn't. And I passed algate station for a thrid time. What the $#@* ? Eventually I looked at a map as a few people started to snicker, "I'd put that away if I were you.." when i passed them holding it out in front of me.

Needless to say, I got to the hospital a while later after doing the best impression of olympic speedwalkers ever done in actual seriousness. And, as usual, my lovely boyfriend (for whom I lamely picked up a subway sandwich since I didn't have the guts to go into the fish and chips shop across the street which was heaving with what are refered to as "hoodies" and get him the dinner he would have prefered) ducked out of surgery in his sexy blues and met me at the front entrance with a stethoscope around his neck- and it occured to me that I would have braved far worse just for the priviledge of seeing him like this.

The meeting was over too soon and he kissed me goodbye with the words, "just take the number 25 bus and you'll be fine" and I was swallowed back up by the bitter night.

The number 25 bus came, and I purchased a ticket, (£1.20) and boarded. The bus went two stops and the driver yelled, "last stop for me- gotta get off the bus" So we all piled off the bus to wait for the next bus 25.

It came, but when i tried to get on- the driver told me I had to buy another ticket to ride- then politely closed the doors in my face and drove off.

Bought another ticket (£1.20) and tried to board another bus, but was told it was only going two more stops. And suddenly- a famliar feeling came over me.... britishrailitis! it had mutated into londontransportitis!

The next bus eventually took me to Tottenham court road where I was to catch the tube to waterloo (£2.00) but on the way a man that boarded the bus asked the driver if he had to purchase another ticked since his last bus just terminated unexpectedly. The answer- "no." Ahhhhh.....

When I got to waterloo, I had visions of a quiet ride with my ipod, perhaps doodling a bit, for a peaceful hour on the train until I could fall into my feather-down bed...Then the loudspeakers kicked in-

"We're sorry to announce but the 20:50 train to Ascot has been cancelled. We are sorry if this has caused a delay to your journey." Yeah, i bet you do feel sorry, you... bleeping bleep bleep!!

Another hour and a half in waterloo- with no gaurantee that the next train will go either!

I sat down, dejected with tears in my eyes, i just wanted to go home. home home home.

"Ring. Ring. Ring." My phone. "Hello?"

"Hi baby." it was my boyfriend. "Where are you?"

I sniffled, "I'm at waterloo." Trying desperatley to hold back the floods, "My train's been cancelled."

"Great!" he said.

"What?!" I cried.

"Now you can come home with me. I got off work early. Come home with me and we'll cuddle on the couch..."

That last £1.20 i spent to get to him was the easiest pound-twenty of the day.

In all- public transportation for 24 hours in london cost me- £25.70. Nearly 50$!!!! I think next weekend I'll be staying in Ascot.

Bonfire Night (aka Guy Fawkes Night)

2005-11-13T19:43:00.000Z

Unlike my failure to explain where the term "flat" came from- I AM able to explain the reason why I was forced to spend last saturday night trapped aboard a Thames River Cruise with coke-snorting 20-somethings and a name-dropping "tosser" who refered to a 50 million pound business deal as just his hobby. I never really knew the meaning of a "tosser" until I met this man. (see also twat, cad, arsehole, and pretentious son of a ....) But I was able to let that slide to due the incredible fireworks that I witnessed! (see above photo... although not actually a photo of what I saw- it is a representation of the experience.)

So, I was there because my boyfriend wanted to share his most favorite holiday with me-although I don't think his childhood memories included drunken, grinding bodies on a clastophobic floating meat market. I think it was more along the lines of wool, hot chocolate and dangerous firearms.

I am refering to Guy Fawkes Night (or in the political correct UK- Bonfire Night) The short of the story is this: 400 years ago a Catholic man, dressed like a pilgrim, (see picture below) decided that he was going to help in a plot to kill the Protestant king of England during the Opening of Parliment.

Unfortunately, they let the plan slip- because they were very bright and sent around a written note explaining, in detail, the plan to all the Catholic members of Parliment. "But I sealed it with wax?!" the troubled MP thought.

So on the night of the plan, Guy Fawkes was caught sitting in the basement of Parliment surrounded by barrels and barrels of gunpowder with some matches and a timer. Oops.

Needless to say, he was convicted, hung, drawn and quartered, then for good measure- burned. Hence the burning of effigies. Clearly it is a hugely popular holiday with pyromaniacs and not such a popular holiday with the Catholics.

This holiday is also reponsible for my boyfriend, and practically all other Britons, to be able to recite the following:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By god's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

Ah, that's a nice children's rhyme, is it not?

Tonight I had Curry for Dinner

2005-11-02T07:56:00.000Z

Yes, that's about the most intersting thing I have to tell you besides my utmost hatred for people who dislike halloween or those who mutter words like, "Halloween is just another example of the way America and its materialism is encroaching on England..."

They're just insanely jealous since they don't have a holiday that saves them from the mass merchandising of Christmas (no, not materialstic at all) I mean, folks- its November 1 and they've had christmas cards and reindeer out since mid-october! And i thought jinglebells in september was odd in Tonga... now i know where they got it from!

So, in response to the disease all britons suffer from on November 1 called, "alreadyatetoomanymincedpiesanditsonlynovemberone-tosis" they decide to haul off the following weekend and burn effigies of people and blow things up. No, they're not repressed. Nooo...

This happens this weekend. Although it seems to have started early or my quiet village of sunninghill is turning south-central.

Well, I would like to give a holla to by friends in seattle. All of them-eventhough I haven't heard from them in a long-long time. Doesn't it mean anything anymore when people eat Sipi together!? Congrats Jess and Talai-Peau is beautiful.
Good luck in the real-world mark and erin and thanks for introducing me to casey- my source of a social life outside of teachers or doctors. Sunni and Carissa- hope things are going well for you two.

Jim-Rock on. Are you really gone from Tonga in 2 months?

And to my lovely friend Karen. She's off in Africa living her incredible life hoping to get a job in the Florida Keys. And I'm here.

Fakaofa au

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-30T18:43:00.000Z

Witches!

1/4 Marathon

2005-09-28T19:50:00.000+01:00

In life, there are only two things you can be absolutley sure of: taxes and death- in America. But here in the Uk, they add another one onto that- no matter what, without fail, if you really, desperately need to get somewhere- the train you need will be cancelled.

There's a special kind of emotion dedicated only to British Rail. In fact, I had gone my entire 26 years without feeling this special emotion that God designated just to incidents with the British Rail. And when I first experienced it- I thought I was ill. My chest tightened, my throat closed up, my eyes burned, and all my muscles went limp in paralysis. But I recovered with dignity as I called my boyfriend and spent the surplus time, waiting for the next train to show, describing how no other emotion I had ever felt quite compared to this.. this... Britishrailisis.

And that was before I had started this job and still thought England was quaint, the countryside beautiful, and the rain refreshing.

Fast forward to last saturday. I spend the entire day teaching myself what I have to teach the kids on Monday, grading papers, and generally feeling wholly overwhelmed and stressed because I know I won't have sunday to work because I am supposed to run a 1/2 marathon I hadn't even trained for! Then my sweetie of a boyfriend calls me and tells me I should come into london for the night eventhough he has to go to work on sunday and I need to be in windsor by noon for this race! I tell him that I will only come out there if he is on the platform, waiting for me, at 6o'clock because I see no reason to bust my butt to get there only to see him for an hour before we fall asleep, exhauted, on the couch with the TV on. So I vowed i would be there at 6. And that left me with 10 minutes to get to the station- sans shower and on a bike.

To illustrate my state previous to going to the station- I was actually crying WHILE putting on mascara. This activity is that of an insane person because it is paradoxical and at one point I was laughing at the absurdity of the black streak running down my cheek while applying yet another coat. "I need more time, I just need more time!" I muttered as I stared at my bag, unable to comprehend what i would need to take with me. "need more time, yeah, need more time" the little rain-man inside of me repeated.

I managed to get a toothbrush and a book of puzzles (soduku, if you're wondering) to do on the train into the bag. I rushed across the street to get cash at the pound-seventy-five-each-time-you-withdrawl-cash-because -my -town -is-too -small -to -have -an -actual -bank -in -it -devil -of -an- ATM -machine. At which I was unable to work out which way the card was inserted until a little, old, humped-back englishwoman with a cane explained to my idiot-ass it went the other way around.

Got money, got on bike, realized had flat tire and rode on the rim of my back wheel all the way to the station with two minutes to spare.

But something was wrong. You can feel it before you get to the station. Something's not right in the land of Ascot. No, no..very children-of-the-corn-like. People milling about outside of the station instead of inside. Too many taxis...

"What is happeneing with the trains to London?" I ask the midget-lady behind the glass.
"Not running" She says
"OK... so how to I get to london then?"
"You take the bus." She says
"To..."
"To the next station and get a train from there."
"And where is this bus you speak of?"
"Out there." And she waves to the general direction of outside
"Um, Ok.. and when is it arriving?"
"It should be there." I look. No bus.
"Its not there. Where exactly should i be looking?"
"Out in front of the station." And I think i'm crazy becuase I cannot see it.
"Um.. can I take my bike on this supposed bus?"
"I dont know you'll have to ask the bus driver."
"And when will I get this opportunity seeing as there is no bus..."
Then suddenly I see the bus! As if it was sitting at platform 9 and 3/4 and me, the american muggle, couldn't see it!
And it is driving very rapidly away from me!
"add explitives here" I go back to the brainless midget lady and I feel like breaking the glass.
"Ok, so i missed it while talking to you. When is the NEXT bus?"
She sighs, "10 minutes. But you'll miss the train at the next station anyway and will have to take the 6:20."
Meaning I have another hour to wait and i'll be in london at 7:30! IF i could even get to the next station! Ga!

And I couldn't take it. I didn't know what to do. And then my britishrailisis started acting up. I could feel my throat closing and my eyes watering... tears began to fall. Uncontrollable tears- "I don't understand you crazy, backward people!" I wanted to yell! "Why won't anyone help me!?"

"I just want to see my boyfriend... and not get fired at my horrible job which is sucking the life out of me. And I want to play in the sun and not die when I attempt to run this 1/2 marathon and while I'm thinking about it- I'd really just like to see my mom and dad!!!!! Wahhhhh!"

"Uh, miss?" I turn to the kind voice behind me.
"Yuh, yuh, yuh, yes,s,s,s."
"Give me your bike miss, we'll take care of this."
"Wh, wh, what?"
"Just take a seat here, miss." I sit on the bench. And I watch my bike being loaded into a taxi cab
"OK, miss. You're in no state to take a train. We're putting you in a taxi to go into london."

I'm dumbfounded as i get into the car and proceed to rack up a 200 pound cab fare to Waterloo- all paid for by British Rail.
And this is my theory. The brits don't know what to do when someone cries in public. They just panic when someone is not maintaining decorum at all times. My dad's quote was that in NYC, you could have cried and cried until your flesh wasted away off your bones before anyone would help you. But in the UK, where they are lacking what we might call hospitality, if they see someone crying- well, do anything you can to get rid of them!

But the best part about this story was arriving at waterloo and seeing mark waiting on the corner, watching for the taxis. He had been waiting there for an hour in the cold wind, sending me texts that he'd make it all better. And when I saw him turn towards me and open his arms to hug me- he did make it all better. And we ended up having a spectacular evening.

So much so that when I returned home the next day, I faithfully went to windsor to meet my friend to run this crazy 1/2 marathon...which i turned into a 1/4 of a marathon because...well, becuase I wanted to be happy and 7 miles was the perfect amount of running to make me happy.

It has been a good week. And I owe it all to Mark. He 's done a great job at getting me to smile when I can't think of much to smile about. And he even sent me roses at work yesterday! Which made the clockwork journey to london last night that much sweeter. And the commute back out to school this morning bearable.

Well, if you're still reading- congratulations! You've passed an endurance test! good job.
Now, off you go. Back to life. And I'll go back to mine.

Till then.

The definition the term "flat"

2005-09-24T21:41:00.000+01:00

I've had someone ask me recently what the history behind the term, "flat" is. Here's my answer: I can only assume they the people of britian used to once live in curved apartments but discovered that if they flattened out the floor their tea wouldn't tip over and scald their crotches.

Anyways, life here in england is continuing to be a challange. I remember the euphoria I felt about life in tonga those last few months I was there. Ahhh... you do join the peace corps so you can have endless saturdays- unfortunately those don't come until the end. then everything is near perfect and you don't want to leave. But that's the thing about culture shock, isn't it? You have a year of hell, a 1/2 year of getting it together and then finally you're at home and you leave.

I think this applies to england as well. Its all very frustrating right now. I'm slowly learning where things are and I rarely pull out into oncoming traffic anymore. But I'm so homesick for colorado and the sunshine.

My job is crazy too. I was hired to be an IT teacher and start up an ipod program. But sometime between when i was hired and the beginning of school they decided to overhaul the whole network, put in new servers, create new policies, etc.. and now my job is forever complicated by bugs and images and netbooting and all other kinds of technical crap i have zero interest in.

But the kids are great and the new teachers i started with resemble the kinds of friends you make in the peace corps (friends created by the common experience of an intense situation) but they're loads of fun when you need a night out.

I'm retuning to pre-peace corps life when you did completely identify with Office Space.

But, on a happier note, (which this letter does not seem to express) I'm going in to london tonight for a little date. And I really do get excited when my train pulls into waterloo and I walk through the rush of londoners, get on my bike and navigate my way through double-decker buses and taxis. Its such a rush to be living in london. Walk over london bridge and see the tower of london and tower bridge reflected in the thames...(sigh)

Till later

ipods have taken over my life!!!!

2005-09-22T20:20:00.000+01:00

I am writing this from inside my closet at my school. It is 8:30pm and I am surviving off tea and...more tea. Since returning from outward bound I have decided to get down to business and do the job I was hired to do. Unfortunately, after returning from a week away from school, my head of department grabs me and cries, "you are NEVER to go away for a week again!!!" and while i start thinking I could request stock options, she drags me into her office and proceeds to tell me that while i was away- they changed my job description!

I have now gone from a computer teacher with a crazy ipod program to being a computer teacher with a crazy ipod program, who also is in charge of taking care of all the laptops in the school! Even the ones the kids bring in! Tech support is NOT my forte'. I'm a freakin' graphic designer?! well, now i'm a graphic designer with all the top passwords and remote desktop...and the same salary. boo

Anyways, my procrastinating time is over. back to work.

Like Father like Daughter

2005-09-18T03:45:00.000+01:00

While I was growing up, my family always knew how to spice up a quiet evening. We got out the slide projector! And all the slide were carefully organized by my father in a massive tackle-box like container. It was always handled with the care of evidence at a crime scene. Yet, no matter how careful we were- we never managed to get through our family slide festivals without twisting our necks into unnatural positions to look at reflecting images of the past. I always loved these nights tucked away in the basement, getting a glimpse into my parent's past. But the best part about the slide festivals were the stories. Stories which I can repeat to this day as if I was a member of a tribe whose history was dependent upon story-telling.

One of these stories was about my dad and his adventure in Outward Bound. Granted, I always used to laugh when he'd put up the picture he took of the 'rock climbing" portion of his 10 days. It appeared to be just a gentle slope with scattered rocks and on the bottom right of the screen you can see the group all harnessed up and surrounded with heavy ropes. I'd say it was more like rock stepping-over than rock climbing. But I always knew that there was much more to that trip than that one photo. I knew about the instructor who wore flip-flops and carried a camp seat with him. I knew that my dad kept the group going during a low point by singing the children's songs he sang to my brother and I (since we were just tiny babies then) I knew that he was the oldest member of the group, that he had to spend 24 hours alone in the wilderness and I knew that they were the reason my dad is obsessive about zip-lock bags. (to keep things organized and dry) But most of all I knew what an impact it had on him and what an accomplishment it was that he finished the course.

And ever since I saw those slides as a kid- I wanted to take an outward bound course too. What I didn't realize was that I had been in one since my father strapped a backpack to me at age 5 and made me hike miles and miles with only "Disney's Greatest Hits" playing on my walkman. This didn't occur to me until this past week while I was away on a fieldtrip with my 9th graders... at Outward Bound in Wales.

We backpacked for two days but in England it's called "walking" because "backpacking" doesn't lend itself to the understated language of the British. (and I tried to wear flip-flops but was told firmly to find "appropriate" footwear but I did take along a camp-chair!)*

*I must digress on this flip-flop issue. I have great hiking boots, I love them, in fact. They're durable and dependable and are well broken-in. But nothing can compare to exploring your environment in a pair of .99 cent flip-flops. And I know because for two years I trudged and trekked across the jungles of the south pacific with no more than half an inch of rubber between my feet and the earth. And never once did I find them to be "inappropriate".

We jumped off 30 ft. telephone poles while trying to grab onto a trapese (with a harness but this doesn't do anything to aleviate the fear.)

We went "Gorge Walking" - also known as "Canyoning" and let our bodies be swept down a raging river, through shoots and over rocks- and we even had three jumps over waterfalls! The last one being a sheer cliff over 25 ft. above the water!

I tried rock climbing for the first time in the pouring rain (also known as "pissing rain" here) so it was really cold, wet and slippery but I loved every minute of it!

And all this while overcoming my greatest challenge- getting 14 year old boys to go to bed by 10:30 and getting the girls to stay out of their rooms! (sigh) I am too young to have to act as a parent to teenagers for that long. 40 minute classes I can handle. 24 hours for 7 days in a row? another monster entirely.

But it was great fun to hang out with the instructors and watch my kids challange themselves and grow as individuals. And Wales really is beautiful... even if they do speak Elven and aren't included on the EU map.

So, I did complete an Outward Bound Course- if only as a chaperone to my kids ( I did find out that i'm actually too old to go on the one my dad did. The age limit is 25! One year!.. and I'm starting to feel old) But nevertheless, minus one activity, I did it all and loved every minute of it.

Well, that's all for now.
Till next time.

But its all worth it

2005-09-05T08:08:00.000+01:00

I am in a hurry off to class on a monday morning- but I want to make sure everyone knows this one little point:
No matter how much grief I give to my life here in the UK, there IS a reason I'm here. And he is worth every pain, irritance, and lonely night. Because in him I find my laughter and solace- and when i'm with him, nothing seems to matter quite as much as wanting to make him smile. And i love him.