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!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Be. Terryfied.
Right. Ok. How to even begin this story.
Let's start with setting the scene- its around 1am on a Saturday night in Lusaka. Its a lovely warm evening- I even decided to wear a skirt and heels... and we met our friends at the club, Lounge. Our friends are locals but will refered to as A and S for reasons to which I won't bother going into at this point- and the club we were at was in a local part of town and generally "muzungus" (white people/foreigners) are not seen here. In fact, Heida, Bryony and I were the only muzungus there. However, the scene at lounge was fading and we decided to head off to another club with more flavor- Chez Temba. Unfortunately- we never got there.
Heida, Bryony, and I all piled into Heida's car- which i was driving- and pulled out behind A and S who were in their own lovely Audi (A's pride and joy) We turned the corner and started crawling our way through the crowds streaming out from other clubs- until we came to a stop. At this point the crowds streaming out the club started to stream directly into A's car! Comicly, we started to laugh at how many people were being crammed into A's car but then realized that one was now walking back to our car to get in. (At this moment, i'm sure all the readers of this entry will start to imagine themselves in this story and probably start thinking, "so a total stranger, who you know nothing about, who you don't even know if he is related to A, is now going to get into a car with three white girls....no. I don't think I would be ok with that." That was my feeling too at the time. You shouldnt' ignore those feelings.
Now we're on the road- and by road, I mean the main "highway" of lusaka called the great east road, just going along- enjoying ourselves and doing the introductions with our new passenger who's name is Terry. Terry is now telling us how he can supply us with whatever substance we need. I ignore this and choose to focus on A's car... which has now come to a complete stop in the middle of the road!
Upon a closer look, I see that there is another car in front of A and I start to think that there has been an accident- but how had i missed that? I think back.. there was another car and it did cut over in front of A...
By this point I am upon the cars and decide to go around A so I can roll down the window and find out the situation. I am going about 2 miles per hour as I take in the scene:
A is being pulled from the car. The others are piling out of the car in protest. Another man gets out of a rusty, banged up blue sedan that is parked at an angle- clearly they had driven in front of A and made him stop. Then I see them- the guns. They both have huge semi-automatic rifles.
My skin turns prickly, I'm just staring at the guns- then my foot is down on the accelerator, I'm attempting to shift Heida's automatic car (since my own car is a manual) , and then everyone is yelling at once. I just keep repeating, "shit, they have guns. Guns! did you see that- they had guns!" and Heida is yelling, "we have to go back. A is back there, we have to go back." Bryony is yelling, "what the hell is going on? What was happening back there?' and our new friend Terry is repeating, "its the police. just go. don't stop. just go. its just the police." Of all the confusion at that moment, the one thing i did know was that was NOT the police.
I turn at the next street to make a U-turn. My thinking is slow, I keep trying to shift- i say, "lets just park here until whatever shit is going down back there finishes. I really don't want to get invloved with those fucking guns." But Heida is having none of it. A is back there. And to her credit, I understand what she was feeling. I would have been there in a minute had it not been for the guns. So Heida demands me to let her drive her car... if only to keep me from shifting between park and neutral. Terry is still repeating that we should just keep going and that we can't park here.
We're now back on the road, heading back towards the scene. Heida slows up beside the two cars on the opposite side of the meidan. She rolls down her window. And the three muzungu girls stare out the window- everything is in slow motion: A is being punched multiple times, S is backed up against the median. A's shirt is torn and those fucking guns are still being waved around. We hear lots of yelling from everyone. One of the men is slashing A's tires with a bayonnet on the end of the rifle.
We're making another U-turn. I am pleading with Heida not to stop, not to get involved- to just park and wait. But the car is still making progress towards A. Then the other car leaves as soon as it appeared. Everyone piles back into A's car and the car slowly limps forward.
But its not over. Not in our minds. The three white girls in the car are scared silly- emotions running high- yelling questions at the car in front. Trying to calm our racing hearts. So we continue to follow A. He's inching along in his maimed vehicle trying to find a place to stop. We eventually find ourselves on the abandoned railway flats in downtown Lusaka. Now, downtown Lusaka is sketchy at 12noon- so who knows what will occur at 2am! We were forced to stop here, on our search for a garage because smoke was now pouring from the car.
As soon as the cars came to a stand still, the 7 people in the other car pour out of it and directly over to our us- they are coming at the windows with angry fingers pointing. But not pointing at us. Nope, pointing at Terry.
"It was you they were looking for!" They yelled. Terry just laughed. No wonder he kept telling us to keep on driving. I hissed at him to stop laughing in Nyanja and for once I was greeted not with laughing but stunned silence. He says to us, "Are you afraid of me?" and Heida laughs back, "Ha! Afraid of you? No. Angry with you more like it. And you need to leave."
Every car that drove by was under suspicion. Every noise made you wonder if the men with the guns had followed us. Terry insisted that all he did was kick someone at the club. None of us believed that for a second. A changed his shirt and called a tow truck. The other zambians called a cab and left. Bryony flirted and I started to laugh about the situation- and thought about how to doument my first run in with semi-automatic weapons. Eventually we started to relax.
I called a cab for Terry. S paid the fare and both him and A decided to reconsider their friendship with Terry.
The towtruck came and out of the cab, literally, rolled two stinking drunk (kukolewa) zambians who somehow managed to get A's car secured to their rusty recovery truck.. by hauling the front up 6 feet into the air so that his tail pipe and bumper scraped along the ground.
We spent two more hours waiting for them to fix A's car, which never happened, then drove into the safety of kabulonga and my house. Sleep blissfully came around half 4 and my adventure was thankfully over.... until the next one, of course!
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!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Rastas and the Marblebelt
Yesterday, we recieved a text from Mwomba, the primary school art teacher and a local artist, that there was to be a bonfire party that night. I was very excited since the people at this bonfire party were to be local artists. The local artists here are quite active- both socially and politically- even when faced with gross censorship.
Side note:
Porn is illegal here. Images of the naked body are prohibited and certainly any images of a sexual nature are taboo. Two zambian artists were found in possession of some videos of Norwegian conceptual art. On these tapes there were some experimental works- such as a naked woman rolling around in paint and throwing herself against a canvas. The Zambian authorities deemed this as porn and threw them in jail. So the art community rallied and found a South African lawyer to come and argue the case of distinction between porn and art (brilliant!!!) Fortunately, the lawyer proved skillfull and the artists were set free. But the entire artists community was warned of raids upon their collections to find pornographic materials or offensive images. So all the artists had to hide their works, bury them or send them away. This was only 2 years ago.
However, when we arrived the place was dark. We pulled up to the gate honked our horns, flashed our lights, got out of the car, knocked on the gate itself- then waited for 10 minutes before someone finally opened the gate. And the person that opened the gate was a rasta-man!
He waved mwomba and us through with a warm smile and the three of us were so excited to be meeting this person. We couldn't wait to get out of the car and talk with him. His name was bobbajake (ignore the spelling) and he is a sculptor who lives with a painter in a little house set up beside their big barn-like studios and work spaces. He has two dogs- who like to eat the fleas off each other and a cat who puts up with being licked by the dogs but let her true wishes be known when she jumped into our car.
His dreds were piled up on top of his head a good 12 inches high and kept neatly under a knitted cap. We had clearly interrupted him at work since his clothes were covered with residue from the marble he works with but he didn't seem to mind and apologized that he had moved the bonfire to coordinate with the international artists conference that is happening this week in Lusaka.
He absentmindedly rolled the biggest cheech-and-chong style joint I had ever seen in one hand while taking us on a tour of his studio. The paintings were amazing but his sculpture space was wholly enlightening! I bothered him with loads of questions about his work and his process- and the noise of the tools (which remind me of the dentist office and have no idea how anyone can work with that all day) And then he started to talk about his materials. Where he gets the marble from- and apparently he gets the stones from just finding them around Lusaka!
Side note:
Everyone has heard of the copperbelt. But did you know about the marblebelt? or the Uraniumbelt? or the Diamondbelt? Well all of those exisist in Zambia too- but they are all undeveloped and secret. The land on which these natural resources abound are known only to certain people and only certain sales are made... so it seems. But Bobbajake was telling me how its getting harder and harder to obtain his marble because the land around lusaka is getting bought up at such a fast rate for development and they are building right on top of these huge deposits of marble! He said, "if i was clever I would buy up all the land just to have my marble" and he's got a very clever point! We even bantered around the idea of setting up an ethical marble quarry. But anyways...
He had lots to share and I felt very fortunate to hear his ideas and stories- so much to learn! I'll let you know how the bonfire goes this week... and if I ever make it to work on friday!
Side note:
Porn is illegal here. Images of the naked body are prohibited and certainly any images of a sexual nature are taboo. Two zambian artists were found in possession of some videos of Norwegian conceptual art. On these tapes there were some experimental works- such as a naked woman rolling around in paint and throwing herself against a canvas. The Zambian authorities deemed this as porn and threw them in jail. So the art community rallied and found a South African lawyer to come and argue the case of distinction between porn and art (brilliant!!!) Fortunately, the lawyer proved skillfull and the artists were set free. But the entire artists community was warned of raids upon their collections to find pornographic materials or offensive images. So all the artists had to hide their works, bury them or send them away. This was only 2 years ago.
However, when we arrived the place was dark. We pulled up to the gate honked our horns, flashed our lights, got out of the car, knocked on the gate itself- then waited for 10 minutes before someone finally opened the gate. And the person that opened the gate was a rasta-man!
He waved mwomba and us through with a warm smile and the three of us were so excited to be meeting this person. We couldn't wait to get out of the car and talk with him. His name was bobbajake (ignore the spelling) and he is a sculptor who lives with a painter in a little house set up beside their big barn-like studios and work spaces. He has two dogs- who like to eat the fleas off each other and a cat who puts up with being licked by the dogs but let her true wishes be known when she jumped into our car.
His dreds were piled up on top of his head a good 12 inches high and kept neatly under a knitted cap. We had clearly interrupted him at work since his clothes were covered with residue from the marble he works with but he didn't seem to mind and apologized that he had moved the bonfire to coordinate with the international artists conference that is happening this week in Lusaka.
He absentmindedly rolled the biggest cheech-and-chong style joint I had ever seen in one hand while taking us on a tour of his studio. The paintings were amazing but his sculpture space was wholly enlightening! I bothered him with loads of questions about his work and his process- and the noise of the tools (which remind me of the dentist office and have no idea how anyone can work with that all day) And then he started to talk about his materials. Where he gets the marble from- and apparently he gets the stones from just finding them around Lusaka!
Side note:
Everyone has heard of the copperbelt. But did you know about the marblebelt? or the Uraniumbelt? or the Diamondbelt? Well all of those exisist in Zambia too- but they are all undeveloped and secret. The land on which these natural resources abound are known only to certain people and only certain sales are made... so it seems. But Bobbajake was telling me how its getting harder and harder to obtain his marble because the land around lusaka is getting bought up at such a fast rate for development and they are building right on top of these huge deposits of marble! He said, "if i was clever I would buy up all the land just to have my marble" and he's got a very clever point! We even bantered around the idea of setting up an ethical marble quarry. But anyways...
He had lots to share and I felt very fortunate to hear his ideas and stories- so much to learn! I'll let you know how the bonfire goes this week... and if I ever make it to work on friday!
When you get married in Zambia
When you get married in Zambia the following things happen to you:
1. You are taught how to be good in bed by a large woman who lays on top of you while you girate below her.
2. You must sleep with pins under your lower back to learn how to arch your back correctly.
3. You must learn the traditional engagement dance which you will perform in front of your to-be in-laws to demonstrate your fertility
4. Each partner is given a "middle man" who is an advocate for the other family and acts like a marriage counselor. (Example: you come home late from the pub. Your wife is really angry at you. You don't know what to do. So you call up your middle man- who is probably your wife's cousin or brother and he tells you to go buy some flowers and make her breakfast in bed. Problem sovled and make-up sex ensues)
5. On your marriage night, you must shave each other's private areas and collect all the hair together in a bowl to show unity which is then presented to the families.
The divorce rate in Zambia is exremely low. I can imagine that the thought of having a large zambian woman lay on you with pins under your back while learning a sexy dance to do in front of your inlaws is enough to keep you thinking that the snoring just really isn't that bad. And then there's the pubic hair thing....
1. You are taught how to be good in bed by a large woman who lays on top of you while you girate below her.
2. You must sleep with pins under your lower back to learn how to arch your back correctly.
3. You must learn the traditional engagement dance which you will perform in front of your to-be in-laws to demonstrate your fertility
4. Each partner is given a "middle man" who is an advocate for the other family and acts like a marriage counselor. (Example: you come home late from the pub. Your wife is really angry at you. You don't know what to do. So you call up your middle man- who is probably your wife's cousin or brother and he tells you to go buy some flowers and make her breakfast in bed. Problem sovled and make-up sex ensues)
5. On your marriage night, you must shave each other's private areas and collect all the hair together in a bowl to show unity which is then presented to the families.
The divorce rate in Zambia is exremely low. I can imagine that the thought of having a large zambian woman lay on you with pins under your back while learning a sexy dance to do in front of your inlaws is enough to keep you thinking that the snoring just really isn't that bad. And then there's the pubic hair thing....
Stuff carried on the top of one's head
Before I came to Zambia- I had this vision of women in very brightly colored and highly patterened clothing, walking through the brush, balancing their belonging atop their heads. But then I would say to myself, "They probably don't do that in Zambia- and if they did, they probably don't do it in the City." But I have been pleasantly proven wrong!
It is a regular occurence to see ladies and men walking along the road bearing heavy loads on their heads- but it is not limited to natural resources as you may imagine....
A single milk carton
A plaid/tartan suitcase
An uneven, barely-tied-together collection of branches
A collection of bound stalks of straw twice the length of the carrier's body
A stack of towels
A huge ceramic planting vase
A big, blue, tupperware container
A package of 10 Toilet rolls
It is a regular occurence to see ladies and men walking along the road bearing heavy loads on their heads- but it is not limited to natural resources as you may imagine....
A single milk carton
A plaid/tartan suitcase
An uneven, barely-tied-together collection of branches
A collection of bound stalks of straw twice the length of the carrier's body
A stack of towels
A huge ceramic planting vase
A big, blue, tupperware container
A package of 10 Toilet rolls
Notes from an Art Teacher
Answers to "What is your day like"? question:
I wake up at 6. I Attempt to make my hair look presentable but without a hairdryer or a proper brush I consistently fail. Both are in my shipment and unfortunately the "peace corps look" doesn't really cut it at school. Then Heida- my crazy puerto rican next door neighbor and new best friend, and I drive into school picking up people from the side of the road and giving them rides. Then get to school, curse the internet, attempt to check my email, but then get rudely interrupted by my job.
The great thing is, though, that I get to act like an art teacher.... because I AM an art teacher!!! I get to talk about the energy in the room, the beauty of colours, and the idea of freedom of expression. I LOVE IT. Being an art teacher makes you different from the other teachers. Kids talk to you about things they don't tell other teachers. They're much more open and unguarded. The other day I had a student come into my office- and I though she was going to ask something like, "Did we have homework due today?" But instead she said, "Ms. Blum, can I show you something that has really inspired me?" And she gets out this dutch fashion magazine and proceeds, for the next ten minutes, describing and showing me all the images in the magazine that inspired her! It was sooo awsome. I was just overjoyed that she wanted to share all of this with me!
But then I have to teach IT and its not as great but becuase they know me as the art teacher its not so bad. This, of course, excludes the tiny, tiny baby alien-children I have to teach in 6th and 7th grade which cause me more exasperation and frustration than all my 17 year olds combined!
Afterschool, I go for my run out in the bush (but today I get to go swimming in the pool!) Then attempt to get back online before Heida and I go home. One of us makes dinner and we eat together and laugh. Then time for bed. Not that exciting, really. But its all that stuff that happens to you while you're doing those things that make it fun.
I had a Peace Corps volunteer come and stay with me for a few nights (i'm part of a PCV hosting program here) and that was loads of fun to talk to someone who is out in the bush living in a mud brick house. She invited me out- so i hope to get out there sometime. It was funny b/c she seems to think I had the "real" peace corps experience. HA! and she's in Africa!
I am learning the language. Its coming along. And I think I've even found a language tutor. I have a nice usable vocabulary of about 15 words now. And the locals LOVE it when you greet them in their language, even when that's only as far as you can go. Execpt for one woman at the market who responded to my "Zikomo" (thank you) with "Yeah" (in the tone of "whatever")
I did have a very local experience at a market that my co-art teacher, Vandita (a local zambian artist) took me to. As soon as we got there the car was surrounded by boys begging. The market was packed. Flies and wasps everywhere. It smelled like rotting vegetables, BO and fish. Tiny little aisles to walk down and everywhere people pleading, "madam, madam, please look. fresh tomatoes. please look." I had to force myself to stay there when all i wanted to do was leave immediately. I knew that if i stayed long enough I would adapt to the environment and be comfortable. So i took a few laps of the place, smiled at people, watched Vandita shopping and buying things and then dove into it. I eventually walked away with a whole basket full of vegetables that cost a fraction of the usual price and looked a hundred times better than what is at the supermarkets. And I felt more connected to the community.
I also check in with Lucky when I run by his little shack. Remember those little shops at the side of the road in Tonga? Those were called "Falekaloas" Here they are called "Katembas" Lucky asked me to buy him a radio to help him listen to the lessons that are broadcasted. I also got to meet his sister, Mary. Mary isn't quite right but happy. Lucky has a cataract in his eye and looks as if he is blind from it. I am not really sure if Lucky actually goes to school since he showed me his "homework" again and it was the same paper, marked over again and again.
I have a housekeeper. (again, I am procrastinating, but i swear, one day, I will explore the house-help thing) Her name is Yvonne. She is a lovely, lovely woman. She only comes two days a week but I almost want her to come everyday just so i can pay her more and have her around. Unfortunately, she speaks Bemba and not Nyanja so she's can't teach me. I have lables all over the house with the words for things. She thinks its hilarious. Today she made me porriage for breakfast and a hard-boiled egg but i didn't have time to eat the egg so i told her to have it and she was so adamant, "No, no madam- YOU eat the egg. You need to have breakfast." But once I presented the egg to her as a present (given and accepted with both hands) then she smiled because she knew she couldn't refuse and had to eat it.
I wake up at 6. I Attempt to make my hair look presentable but without a hairdryer or a proper brush I consistently fail. Both are in my shipment and unfortunately the "peace corps look" doesn't really cut it at school. Then Heida- my crazy puerto rican next door neighbor and new best friend, and I drive into school picking up people from the side of the road and giving them rides. Then get to school, curse the internet, attempt to check my email, but then get rudely interrupted by my job.
The great thing is, though, that I get to act like an art teacher.... because I AM an art teacher!!! I get to talk about the energy in the room, the beauty of colours, and the idea of freedom of expression. I LOVE IT. Being an art teacher makes you different from the other teachers. Kids talk to you about things they don't tell other teachers. They're much more open and unguarded. The other day I had a student come into my office- and I though she was going to ask something like, "Did we have homework due today?" But instead she said, "Ms. Blum, can I show you something that has really inspired me?" And she gets out this dutch fashion magazine and proceeds, for the next ten minutes, describing and showing me all the images in the magazine that inspired her! It was sooo awsome. I was just overjoyed that she wanted to share all of this with me!
But then I have to teach IT and its not as great but becuase they know me as the art teacher its not so bad. This, of course, excludes the tiny, tiny baby alien-children I have to teach in 6th and 7th grade which cause me more exasperation and frustration than all my 17 year olds combined!
Afterschool, I go for my run out in the bush (but today I get to go swimming in the pool!) Then attempt to get back online before Heida and I go home. One of us makes dinner and we eat together and laugh. Then time for bed. Not that exciting, really. But its all that stuff that happens to you while you're doing those things that make it fun.
I had a Peace Corps volunteer come and stay with me for a few nights (i'm part of a PCV hosting program here) and that was loads of fun to talk to someone who is out in the bush living in a mud brick house. She invited me out- so i hope to get out there sometime. It was funny b/c she seems to think I had the "real" peace corps experience. HA! and she's in Africa!
I am learning the language. Its coming along. And I think I've even found a language tutor. I have a nice usable vocabulary of about 15 words now. And the locals LOVE it when you greet them in their language, even when that's only as far as you can go. Execpt for one woman at the market who responded to my "Zikomo" (thank you) with "Yeah" (in the tone of "whatever")
I did have a very local experience at a market that my co-art teacher, Vandita (a local zambian artist) took me to. As soon as we got there the car was surrounded by boys begging. The market was packed. Flies and wasps everywhere. It smelled like rotting vegetables, BO and fish. Tiny little aisles to walk down and everywhere people pleading, "madam, madam, please look. fresh tomatoes. please look." I had to force myself to stay there when all i wanted to do was leave immediately. I knew that if i stayed long enough I would adapt to the environment and be comfortable. So i took a few laps of the place, smiled at people, watched Vandita shopping and buying things and then dove into it. I eventually walked away with a whole basket full of vegetables that cost a fraction of the usual price and looked a hundred times better than what is at the supermarkets. And I felt more connected to the community.
I also check in with Lucky when I run by his little shack. Remember those little shops at the side of the road in Tonga? Those were called "Falekaloas" Here they are called "Katembas" Lucky asked me to buy him a radio to help him listen to the lessons that are broadcasted. I also got to meet his sister, Mary. Mary isn't quite right but happy. Lucky has a cataract in his eye and looks as if he is blind from it. I am not really sure if Lucky actually goes to school since he showed me his "homework" again and it was the same paper, marked over again and again.
I have a housekeeper. (again, I am procrastinating, but i swear, one day, I will explore the house-help thing) Her name is Yvonne. She is a lovely, lovely woman. She only comes two days a week but I almost want her to come everyday just so i can pay her more and have her around. Unfortunately, she speaks Bemba and not Nyanja so she's can't teach me. I have lables all over the house with the words for things. She thinks its hilarious. Today she made me porriage for breakfast and a hard-boiled egg but i didn't have time to eat the egg so i told her to have it and she was so adamant, "No, no madam- YOU eat the egg. You need to have breakfast." But once I presented the egg to her as a present (given and accepted with both hands) then she smiled because she knew she couldn't refuse and had to eat it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Lucky
Tonight I went running on the path where the milk incident occurred and once again, I had another experience! But this time, the rest of my run was filled with hope, satisfaction, and goodwill. So as we rounded the same corner where a week ago I watched a wet spot on the ground in sadness, a little shack-shop (I have to learn the name for these stands) stood on the left- manned by two brothers. One was aged about 7 and the other was probably 11. And as soon as we came upon the stand, the 11 year old was on his feet running towards us with papers in his hand.
Usually, when you see a Zambian boy with papers in his hands, it means he wants you to donate money for a sport trip or a choir trip, or to just give him money under this ruse. So this time, since I still am running without any money, I lifted my hands up, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t…” Then I saw a glimpse of the papers- and it appeared to have multiple choice questions on it. I stopped and asked, “Wait a second, is that… homework?” And the boy said, in great English, “yes, yes, madame- will you please help me?” And I thought, “Ha! If there is one thing I can do to help- its certainly homework! … unless its math of course”!
So he showed me his paper, a list of random questions that was clearly designed by some ministry to pass on knowledge about all the social and environmental issues in Zambia from water sanitation to recycling. The question he wanted to know the answer to was, “Air-pollution causes ____________” And the multiple choice options included sexually transmitted diseases and some other not-quite-right options for me to choose from. I finally chose, “lung infections” and hoped that I was right.
He was so happy! I've never seen such a smile!
“Oh, thank you, thank you madam! I’m going to pass my exams now. I know I will!”
And he started to run back to his stand then stopped, turned back and said. “My name is Lucky! What is your name?”
And I answered- to which he shouted again, “See you again!”
I waved with a,”Good luck on your exams, Lucky!” and ran off. It was a great- and its my favorite running route for sure. I’m looking forward to checking in with Lucky again soon to find out if he passed his exam- and hopefully air pollution does cause lung infections!
Usually, when you see a Zambian boy with papers in his hands, it means he wants you to donate money for a sport trip or a choir trip, or to just give him money under this ruse. So this time, since I still am running without any money, I lifted my hands up, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t…” Then I saw a glimpse of the papers- and it appeared to have multiple choice questions on it. I stopped and asked, “Wait a second, is that… homework?” And the boy said, in great English, “yes, yes, madame- will you please help me?” And I thought, “Ha! If there is one thing I can do to help- its certainly homework! … unless its math of course”!
So he showed me his paper, a list of random questions that was clearly designed by some ministry to pass on knowledge about all the social and environmental issues in Zambia from water sanitation to recycling. The question he wanted to know the answer to was, “Air-pollution causes ____________” And the multiple choice options included sexually transmitted diseases and some other not-quite-right options for me to choose from. I finally chose, “lung infections” and hoped that I was right.
He was so happy! I've never seen such a smile!
“Oh, thank you, thank you madam! I’m going to pass my exams now. I know I will!”
And he started to run back to his stand then stopped, turned back and said. “My name is Lucky! What is your name?”
And I answered- to which he shouted again, “See you again!”
I waved with a,”Good luck on your exams, Lucky!” and ran off. It was a great- and its my favorite running route for sure. I’m looking forward to checking in with Lucky again soon to find out if he passed his exam- and hopefully air pollution does cause lung infections!
Me and My African Heart
August 20, 2007
My friend told me yesterday that while she was speaking to our Zambian friend Kay, he mentioned me. I was assuming it was in the context of him helping me buy a car or some other business matter- but instead she said, “ Kay told me you weren’t white.” Confused, I replied, “What?” in case I hadn’t heard her right. “Yeah, that’s what I said to him. I said ‘I pretty sure she’s white- with the blonde hair and all. But he shook his head and said, ‘No. no. She is white on the outside- but inside, inside she has a black heart. She is African.” Oh, the smile that spread across my face! Where he got that from, I have no idea. Heida told me that Kay then went on about the fact I had gone to his home and met his family and that I was shaking everyone’s hands and chatting, and making fun. That made me feel great- I just wish I had gotten the rhythm to go along with my African heart!
My friend told me yesterday that while she was speaking to our Zambian friend Kay, he mentioned me. I was assuming it was in the context of him helping me buy a car or some other business matter- but instead she said, “ Kay told me you weren’t white.” Confused, I replied, “What?” in case I hadn’t heard her right. “Yeah, that’s what I said to him. I said ‘I pretty sure she’s white- with the blonde hair and all. But he shook his head and said, ‘No. no. She is white on the outside- but inside, inside she has a black heart. She is African.” Oh, the smile that spread across my face! Where he got that from, I have no idea. Heida told me that Kay then went on about the fact I had gone to his home and met his family and that I was shaking everyone’s hands and chatting, and making fun. That made me feel great- I just wish I had gotten the rhythm to go along with my African heart!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Displacement
August 13, 2007
I just got back from my first art experience here in Zambia. It was an art exhibit put on by various grassroots NGO’s to support the situation in Zimbabwe. As you can imagine- the borders of all the African states surrounding Zimbabwe are packed with refugee’s fleeing Mugabe’s regime. In South Africa, these refugees were asked to participate in an Art Camp where they were asked to create art that represented their experience of civil war, displacement, and being a refugee. It was moving to say the least- and many interesting conversations ensued.
One between me and an professor at the University of Zambia. Since coming to Zambia I have been hearing a lot of talk about “The United States of Africa” And not just from Zambians- those from Swaziland, Zimbabwe and South Africans too. Of course each has their own opinion. I have heard that there must be stronger regional ties before something as big as a United Africa is to happen- but they do not think its impossible. They are concerned that there is not enough neighborly support within regions- as with Zimbabwe. Its neighbors are hoping that they will be able to take care of it on their own. But the problem keeps spilling over the borders. Botswana is having lots of social problems taking in the Refugees.
But that being said- I have heard so much about the African Freedom Fighter- the mercenary whose mission is to free Africa, originally from colonial rule but now from injustice, dictators. Those people travel over the “United States of Africa” and are taken in, cared for, fed and clothed, by the people they are fighting for.
However- I hear “World Bank” a lot. It finds its way into most political conversations. Aid is a commodity here- a bargaining tool. I will have to investigate further into this but it is curious.
I just got back from my first art experience here in Zambia. It was an art exhibit put on by various grassroots NGO’s to support the situation in Zimbabwe. As you can imagine- the borders of all the African states surrounding Zimbabwe are packed with refugee’s fleeing Mugabe’s regime. In South Africa, these refugees were asked to participate in an Art Camp where they were asked to create art that represented their experience of civil war, displacement, and being a refugee. It was moving to say the least- and many interesting conversations ensued.
One between me and an professor at the University of Zambia. Since coming to Zambia I have been hearing a lot of talk about “The United States of Africa” And not just from Zambians- those from Swaziland, Zimbabwe and South Africans too. Of course each has their own opinion. I have heard that there must be stronger regional ties before something as big as a United Africa is to happen- but they do not think its impossible. They are concerned that there is not enough neighborly support within regions- as with Zimbabwe. Its neighbors are hoping that they will be able to take care of it on their own. But the problem keeps spilling over the borders. Botswana is having lots of social problems taking in the Refugees.
But that being said- I have heard so much about the African Freedom Fighter- the mercenary whose mission is to free Africa, originally from colonial rule but now from injustice, dictators. Those people travel over the “United States of Africa” and are taken in, cared for, fed and clothed, by the people they are fighting for.
However- I hear “World Bank” a lot. It finds its way into most political conversations. Aid is a commodity here- a bargaining tool. I will have to investigate further into this but it is curious.
Reality and running
August 14, 2007
So today I went running with my friend through the bush. It was great to get away from the streets and mini-busses and just let go- jumping through brush, dodging cobra snakes, and coming across warm Zambians with an easy “Bwanji” ready on their tongues.
As we rounded a corner I could see two men riding bicycles and another boy running along the side. I didn’t really think anything of it until a package fell off the first bike and then another package fell off the second bike- and I though I would run up ahead to pick them up and bring them to the men. But then I noticed that something wet was pouring out of the bag… milk! So I rushed forward at a full sprint to save the milk jugs from losing anymore of its precious contents. And as I picked up the jugs, I could see that they were old juice jugs that they had taken up the road to be filled with milk by a farmer. The little boy came running back, “Oh, thank you madam, thank you for helping us in our time of need!” And by then the old men, hunched with age, had dropped their bikes and were also rushing up- and then the heartbreak.
Me, standing there with two milk jugs that had lost so much, and him standing across from me staring at the wet ground- watching the milk sink into the red dust. He was distraught. And I was so powerless. I hadn’t come running with anything- no money or a way to help. I couldn’t go back with the men to buy more milk- Even though that would have been so easy! I stood there ackwardly- and the little boy took one of the jugs. I twisted the old cap onto the other container and handed it back to the old man who was just shaking his head, staring at the ground. I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset because I certainly had the power to help- but didn’t have the means at the time! How precious that milk must have been to him- and to think that moments earlier I was upset at that I still didn’t have any white-out!
The rest of my run was slow and thoughtful. Sad, regretful, and ashamed. How quickly that boy was to thank me- yet I had done nothing other than save the jugs just moments earlier than he was able- and the face of the old man pointing to the ground, greedily soaking up the milk.
So today I went running with my friend through the bush. It was great to get away from the streets and mini-busses and just let go- jumping through brush, dodging cobra snakes, and coming across warm Zambians with an easy “Bwanji” ready on their tongues.
As we rounded a corner I could see two men riding bicycles and another boy running along the side. I didn’t really think anything of it until a package fell off the first bike and then another package fell off the second bike- and I though I would run up ahead to pick them up and bring them to the men. But then I noticed that something wet was pouring out of the bag… milk! So I rushed forward at a full sprint to save the milk jugs from losing anymore of its precious contents. And as I picked up the jugs, I could see that they were old juice jugs that they had taken up the road to be filled with milk by a farmer. The little boy came running back, “Oh, thank you madam, thank you for helping us in our time of need!” And by then the old men, hunched with age, had dropped their bikes and were also rushing up- and then the heartbreak.
Me, standing there with two milk jugs that had lost so much, and him standing across from me staring at the wet ground- watching the milk sink into the red dust. He was distraught. And I was so powerless. I hadn’t come running with anything- no money or a way to help. I couldn’t go back with the men to buy more milk- Even though that would have been so easy! I stood there ackwardly- and the little boy took one of the jugs. I twisted the old cap onto the other container and handed it back to the old man who was just shaking his head, staring at the ground. I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset because I certainly had the power to help- but didn’t have the means at the time! How precious that milk must have been to him- and to think that moments earlier I was upset at that I still didn’t have any white-out!
The rest of my run was slow and thoughtful. Sad, regretful, and ashamed. How quickly that boy was to thank me- yet I had done nothing other than save the jugs just moments earlier than he was able- and the face of the old man pointing to the ground, greedily soaking up the milk.
Some Notes
August 12, 2007
I’ve finally learnt how to say hello in Nyanja- the most prevalent of the four languages in Zambia, and the first person I say it to responds, “I speak Lozi”.
Ironically, the way you say ,”I don’t know how to speak Nyanja is “Sindilankhula Chinyanja.”
The men call each other affectionately, “Chkata”. Which apparently roughly translates to “Dick”. "Kachkata" is also a favorite thrown out there- but not necessarily the favorite of the reciever. The added "Ka" is "little".
While car shopping with a local Zambian friend, we got pulled over by the police at a checkpoint. Apparently we didn’t have the proper road tax sticker. Fair Enough. So we had to relinquish our keys over to the policeman, who then directed us over to his police vehicle, where his partner, sitting in the back seat with a wad of kwacha next to him, was happily taking cash for the offense. After we paid our fine, and eventually got our keys back after many, “um- he has them.”, “No, I don’t have them, he must have them”, we were happily on our way. But our Zambian friend was quite upset- “I can’t believe he made me pay him! I grew up with that guy! Our mother’s were best friends! We played football together! I can’t believe he still made me pay the fine!” To which I replied- Isn’t that a good thing that the government is fighting corruption and not doing “favours”. And he replies, “Of course! Corruption is terrible- it must stop! But, you don’t understand- I GREW UP with him! He should not have made me pay!” And with that we swerved sharply to avoid hitting the seven other lanes of on-coming traffic.
Do you know about the After-8pm-Grocery-Store Phenomenon- that after 8pm grocery stores are obligated to play the most depressing slow jams they can find. So that when you’ve been working late, and you have nothing in your fridge and you have to buy food to cook a dinner for one you find yourself crying over the tomatoes. Yeah- you know it. We’ve all been there. Well, this phenomenon has not passed Zambia. And about the time that, “I’ll be right here waiting for you” came on the intercom- I embarrassingly started welling up while trying to decide which long-life milk-in-a-box I should purchase. It was not a highlight.
I’ve finally learnt how to say hello in Nyanja- the most prevalent of the four languages in Zambia, and the first person I say it to responds, “I speak Lozi”.
Ironically, the way you say ,”I don’t know how to speak Nyanja is “Sindilankhula Chinyanja.”
The men call each other affectionately, “Chkata”. Which apparently roughly translates to “Dick”. "Kachkata" is also a favorite thrown out there- but not necessarily the favorite of the reciever. The added "Ka" is "little".
While car shopping with a local Zambian friend, we got pulled over by the police at a checkpoint. Apparently we didn’t have the proper road tax sticker. Fair Enough. So we had to relinquish our keys over to the policeman, who then directed us over to his police vehicle, where his partner, sitting in the back seat with a wad of kwacha next to him, was happily taking cash for the offense. After we paid our fine, and eventually got our keys back after many, “um- he has them.”, “No, I don’t have them, he must have them”, we were happily on our way. But our Zambian friend was quite upset- “I can’t believe he made me pay him! I grew up with that guy! Our mother’s were best friends! We played football together! I can’t believe he still made me pay the fine!” To which I replied- Isn’t that a good thing that the government is fighting corruption and not doing “favours”. And he replies, “Of course! Corruption is terrible- it must stop! But, you don’t understand- I GREW UP with him! He should not have made me pay!” And with that we swerved sharply to avoid hitting the seven other lanes of on-coming traffic.
Do you know about the After-8pm-Grocery-Store Phenomenon- that after 8pm grocery stores are obligated to play the most depressing slow jams they can find. So that when you’ve been working late, and you have nothing in your fridge and you have to buy food to cook a dinner for one you find yourself crying over the tomatoes. Yeah- you know it. We’ve all been there. Well, this phenomenon has not passed Zambia. And about the time that, “I’ll be right here waiting for you” came on the intercom- I embarrassingly started welling up while trying to decide which long-life milk-in-a-box I should purchase. It was not a highlight.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
The Walled City
Day Four
August 4th, 2007
Before I continue, I’ll just let you know that as it stands, internet access is dubious. Which is quite surprising since my friend in the freakin’ Sudan seems to be able to get on daily and even chat on Skype. Where as for me- nothing. The school’s internet works on a 128kpbs connection that slows to little more than pre-1997 internet standards when more than 5 people are connected. Not good for a school of 550 students and faculty. Then at home- it costs about $80 a month for the privilege of dial-up and $100 for broadband. So, at the moment- if you get an email- consider yourself very special, indeed.
That being said- what am I complaining about? I’m a white girl from Denver living in a flat with more amenities than I had in England while living in a country decimated by AIDS, and poverty. Reality check, Jen. It can be difficult to forget that here. I know it sounds bizarre but in Lusaka- the poverty is all hidden away. Lusaka, for me, is “The Great Walled City” When you drive down the street- you do not see mansions. You do not see manicured lawns. You do not see a family of 8 living in a lean-to. You do not see the starving or the sick. You see walls. Tarmac, dirt, and walls. Then a gigantic shopping centre.
So, What is behind the walls? Well- I live behind one of those walls. The school is behind one of those walls- but the “compounds” are behind those walls too. These walled ghettos were named “compounds” during the Apartied reign and have stuck ever since. It is not just the privileged who get to live within walls. As it was once said- Are you trying to keep something out or keep something in?
The other night I was lucky enough to get to go inside one of these compounds. Some Ex-pats here spend there entire time in Lusaka and never step one foot inside these walls. In fact, the guy who was driving- who has lived here for over a year now, said that was his first time inside a compound. We were dropping off a lady who works as a Nanny for one of the teachers. In a further entry I’ll discuss the whole “housekeeper/Nanny/Driver/Gardener/Cook thing. But for now, we were dropping Joyce home, and I was given a lot to think about. We entered the compound and suddenly I was back in a village on ‘Eua. In place of the grass huts there were breeze block structures. But as in Tonga, the doors were hanging fabric. There were defined roads and little stands selling the corn maize, eggs, coca-cola, and top up mobile phone cards. It was night but this place was alive! Everyone was out of there house- walking in the street, playing in the ditches along side of the road, cooking out front of their house on charcoal burners called “Brassiers”, stirring big pots of shima. All the houses were dark, as there was no electricity but there seemed to be very little in the houses when you looked in the windows. But I felt at home. I thought to myself, “If I was in the Peace Corps, this is where I would be living. Not in a townhouse with a pool” And as we left the compound to return to the streets lined with walls I felt very conflicted and certain that if I did not stay connected with what is behind those walls- then my time here will be wasted. But the key to finding my way into that world may be very hard to find, indeed.
August 4th, 2007
Before I continue, I’ll just let you know that as it stands, internet access is dubious. Which is quite surprising since my friend in the freakin’ Sudan seems to be able to get on daily and even chat on Skype. Where as for me- nothing. The school’s internet works on a 128kpbs connection that slows to little more than pre-1997 internet standards when more than 5 people are connected. Not good for a school of 550 students and faculty. Then at home- it costs about $80 a month for the privilege of dial-up and $100 for broadband. So, at the moment- if you get an email- consider yourself very special, indeed.
That being said- what am I complaining about? I’m a white girl from Denver living in a flat with more amenities than I had in England while living in a country decimated by AIDS, and poverty. Reality check, Jen. It can be difficult to forget that here. I know it sounds bizarre but in Lusaka- the poverty is all hidden away. Lusaka, for me, is “The Great Walled City” When you drive down the street- you do not see mansions. You do not see manicured lawns. You do not see a family of 8 living in a lean-to. You do not see the starving or the sick. You see walls. Tarmac, dirt, and walls. Then a gigantic shopping centre.
So, What is behind the walls? Well- I live behind one of those walls. The school is behind one of those walls- but the “compounds” are behind those walls too. These walled ghettos were named “compounds” during the Apartied reign and have stuck ever since. It is not just the privileged who get to live within walls. As it was once said- Are you trying to keep something out or keep something in?
The other night I was lucky enough to get to go inside one of these compounds. Some Ex-pats here spend there entire time in Lusaka and never step one foot inside these walls. In fact, the guy who was driving- who has lived here for over a year now, said that was his first time inside a compound. We were dropping off a lady who works as a Nanny for one of the teachers. In a further entry I’ll discuss the whole “housekeeper/Nanny/Driver/Gardener/Cook thing. But for now, we were dropping Joyce home, and I was given a lot to think about. We entered the compound and suddenly I was back in a village on ‘Eua. In place of the grass huts there were breeze block structures. But as in Tonga, the doors were hanging fabric. There were defined roads and little stands selling the corn maize, eggs, coca-cola, and top up mobile phone cards. It was night but this place was alive! Everyone was out of there house- walking in the street, playing in the ditches along side of the road, cooking out front of their house on charcoal burners called “Brassiers”, stirring big pots of shima. All the houses were dark, as there was no electricity but there seemed to be very little in the houses when you looked in the windows. But I felt at home. I thought to myself, “If I was in the Peace Corps, this is where I would be living. Not in a townhouse with a pool” And as we left the compound to return to the streets lined with walls I felt very conflicted and certain that if I did not stay connected with what is behind those walls- then my time here will be wasted. But the key to finding my way into that world may be very hard to find, indeed.
Day Three
August 2nd, 2007
Most of my days follow the pattern of: Oh my god I’m in Zambia. Hey, look I have a pool! Mm- not really into breakfast since I have to cook my eggs in a cast iron culdron provided by the school until my shipment arrives. Wait for the bus. Continue to wait for the bus. Eventually get on the bus. Go shopping. I’m sorry, how much for that?! Continue shopping. Ug. What I need, I already own but it’s in my shipment! Think about the internet and crave. Stress about getting a car. Stress about being pressured into getting a housekeeper. Stress about how to go for a run. Meet cool people. Learn new things. Go to parties. Sleep. Oh my God, I’m in Zambia…
Most of my days follow the pattern of: Oh my god I’m in Zambia. Hey, look I have a pool! Mm- not really into breakfast since I have to cook my eggs in a cast iron culdron provided by the school until my shipment arrives. Wait for the bus. Continue to wait for the bus. Eventually get on the bus. Go shopping. I’m sorry, how much for that?! Continue shopping. Ug. What I need, I already own but it’s in my shipment! Think about the internet and crave. Stress about getting a car. Stress about being pressured into getting a housekeeper. Stress about how to go for a run. Meet cool people. Learn new things. Go to parties. Sleep. Oh my God, I’m in Zambia…
Crashing Wizards
Day Two
This article appeared in the Zambian Times the second day I was in the country. It reads as follows:
Chikankata pupils riot
By Choolwe Kasamu
CHIKANKATA High School pupils in Mazabuka on Saturday night ran amok, stoning and damaging property worth millions of Kwacha.
Chikankata member of Parliament, Munji Habeenzu, confirmed in an interview that one teacher’s house and some classroom glass panes were extensively damaged after pupils protested against alleged witchcraft at the institution.
Mr Habeenzu condemned the riot which started around 21:00 hours.
Local security officers were reinforced by the Zambia Police officers from Mazabuka.
Area councillor, Conrad Ngoma, also confirmed that one teacher was only rescued by his collegues who hid him from the angry pupils.
The rumpus erupted after pupils heard that a suspected wizard had crash-landed near a hospital bed of their grade 9 colleague who is currently admitted to Chikankata Mission Hospital .
Eye witnesses and patients at the hospital confirmed that a suspected wizard crash-landed and was only rescued by some hospital staff.
So far, police have not made any arrests.
Right, okayyyyyy….???
So, after some investigation it turns out that this is a completely normal happening and I shouldn’t be worried, unless a wizard crash-lands in my house. In which case- that is very, very bad.
I had questions.
“You have magic in your country.” Was the initial response to the enquiry into the wizard’s poor flying habits.
“I can’t confirm or deny that, really” was my response.
“Well, wizards have been crashing a lot lately- more than usual. People are praying a lot more for them to crash”
Obviously.
“Why do people want them to crash?”
“Because wizards are evil, they do the devil’s work against God and they fly around at night…. Like your wizard’s do-but ours do not have brooms.”
Of course, brooms are silly.
“So, if people pray the wizards crash? Ok, I can dig that. But what does a crashed wizard look like? Does he come falling from the sky- through the ceiling?”
“No! They’re invisible!”
“So, how do you know if a wizard has crash-landed?”
“Because they are usually naked, don’t know where they are or who they are.”
Ahhhhh…. Magic.
Or a really imaginative way to explain mental illness- and in a hospital no less! Imagine.
So that was day two.
This article appeared in the Zambian Times the second day I was in the country. It reads as follows:
Chikankata pupils riot
By Choolwe Kasamu
CHIKANKATA High School pupils in Mazabuka on Saturday night ran amok, stoning and damaging property worth millions of Kwacha.
Chikankata member of Parliament, Munji Habeenzu, confirmed in an interview that one teacher’s house and some classroom glass panes were extensively damaged after pupils protested against alleged witchcraft at the institution.
Mr Habeenzu condemned the riot which started around 21:00 hours.
Local security officers were reinforced by the Zambia Police officers from Mazabuka.
Area councillor, Conrad Ngoma, also confirmed that one teacher was only rescued by his collegues who hid him from the angry pupils.
The rumpus erupted after pupils heard that a suspected wizard had crash-landed near a hospital bed of their grade 9 colleague who is currently admitted to Chikankata Mission Hospital .
Eye witnesses and patients at the hospital confirmed that a suspected wizard crash-landed and was only rescued by some hospital staff.
So far, police have not made any arrests.
Right, okayyyyyy….???
So, after some investigation it turns out that this is a completely normal happening and I shouldn’t be worried, unless a wizard crash-lands in my house. In which case- that is very, very bad.
I had questions.
“You have magic in your country.” Was the initial response to the enquiry into the wizard’s poor flying habits.
“I can’t confirm or deny that, really” was my response.
“Well, wizards have been crashing a lot lately- more than usual. People are praying a lot more for them to crash”
Obviously.
“Why do people want them to crash?”
“Because wizards are evil, they do the devil’s work against God and they fly around at night…. Like your wizard’s do-but ours do not have brooms.”
Of course, brooms are silly.
“So, if people pray the wizards crash? Ok, I can dig that. But what does a crashed wizard look like? Does he come falling from the sky- through the ceiling?”
“No! They’re invisible!”
“So, how do you know if a wizard has crash-landed?”
“Because they are usually naked, don’t know where they are or who they are.”
Ahhhhh…. Magic.
Or a really imaginative way to explain mental illness- and in a hospital no less! Imagine.
So that was day two.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Touchdown
July 31, 2007****
Uhhhhhh….. right. I’m in Zambia. Ummmm… ok. Trying to come to terms with this concept. In the middle of Africa. Trying not to repeat, “holy S**t, I’m in Zambia” every two minutes…alternating with, “What have I done, oh dear god, what have I done?!”
It’s too early too tell. That’s what I keep thinking. Who knows what is ahead of me. Being in a country for 6 hours is not exactly the time to start making generalizations.
So far, this is all I know:
1. My Luggage is somewhere between Colorado and Lusaka. We don’t know where and we don’t know when it will arrive.
2. I do not live on Campus.
3. I live at 21A Sable Road in flat #4. My house has a built-in bar under the stairs, a pool in the garden, and reminds me of the Brady’s house from the 70’s.
4. I have no idea where I am in relation to anything.
5. My house has 12 lockable doors.
6. Holy S**t, I’m in Zambia!
**** written on above date but published later when I finally got a connection to the outside world
Uhhhhhh….. right. I’m in Zambia. Ummmm… ok. Trying to come to terms with this concept. In the middle of Africa. Trying not to repeat, “holy S**t, I’m in Zambia” every two minutes…alternating with, “What have I done, oh dear god, what have I done?!”
It’s too early too tell. That’s what I keep thinking. Who knows what is ahead of me. Being in a country for 6 hours is not exactly the time to start making generalizations.
So far, this is all I know:
1. My Luggage is somewhere between Colorado and Lusaka. We don’t know where and we don’t know when it will arrive.
2. I do not live on Campus.
3. I live at 21A Sable Road in flat #4. My house has a built-in bar under the stairs, a pool in the garden, and reminds me of the Brady’s house from the 70’s.
4. I have no idea where I am in relation to anything.
5. My house has 12 lockable doors.
6. Holy S**t, I’m in Zambia!
**** written on above date but published later when I finally got a connection to the outside world
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Another adventure, Another continent
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
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
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Living in Sin
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...
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...
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Whatever you do- Don't eat the Ostritch!
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.
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.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Haircut for my Third Continent
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.
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.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Home from the Holidays
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.
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.
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