I couldn't quite choose which story to tell from Malawi, so I decided to do a small snippet of our first week here.
17.12. Chipata, Zambia.
We spend the first day of our trip browsing the hardware stores of Chipata. Amazing how many hardware stores there are in a small village. We want a plastic cover for our tent; there are none. One shopkeeper offers us a bunch of plastic bags. We thank him and move on to groceries.
I find a pasta sauce called monkey gland sauce, and force Hanna to get it. I'm quite excited- I mean, in which marketing department brainstorming session was it decided that Monkey Gland Sauce would be just the name for a pasta relish?
At the campsite I check the ingredients, and am sad to note that there is no actual monkey in the sauce. We go to bed early, with a clear sky. Maybe we don't need a plastic, after all, we muse.
At 9pm it starts raining, and it doesn't stop all night; at 11.30 we finally give in, and call the owner, standing outside in our soaked pyjamas, and get him to open a room for us. Everything is wet, and we fan out our books and clothes to dry. I've never been so happy to pay for an overpriced room.
18.12. Lilongwe, Malawi
Early morning, and the previously sunny Chipata is damp and grey. Drinking our morning coffee, we decide to hitchhike to the border. As we cross, we meet a tour group and I strike up a conversation with a German couple. It works, and we get a free ride to Lilongwe, two hours further east.
The hostel is nice and cozy and it's nice to meet new people. We go our for a beer, and I choose a Malawian brew called Kuche Kuche. I spend the rest of the evening thinking what Kuche-Kuche might mean.
19.12. Liwonde National Park, Malawi
It's still a few days till Christmas, and we want to see a national park, and some animals. The bus station is un-African; it's pleasant and organised, and no one hassles us. Lilongwe is a provincial, sleepy town, and the bus station lacks the manic chaos of Lusaka, where a tourist gets pulled by the wrist into buses they don't want. It leaves only fifty minutes late.
The ride to Liwonde is beautiful. Scenery is usually impossible to describe, and hard at best; southern Malawi is an odd mix of South America and the Scottish highlands. Full of rolling green valleys, and suddenly a massive mountain rises up from nowhere, the sheer cliffs damp with dew and little thatched huts and barefoot kids dotted along the bottom.
When the bus arrives to Liwonde, we are surrounded by people. The park entrance is still a further 8 kilometers away, and it's raining. I look around for a taxi. A young man grins and pats the back of his bicycle, which is padded. This is the taxi, madam. Oh well. This is a first.
In the evening we cook the monkey gland sauce, which is very nice with our fish.
20.12. Liwonde NP
It rains, rains, rains. I don't have any waterproofs, I don't have long trousers. Actually, I don't even have an umbrella, come to think of it. The park is beautiful. The lodge has no electricity and has an incredibly romantic feel to it. We are right by the Shire river, with towering mountains on one side, and a marshland on the other. We go on a canooing trip, and I marvel at the silence. Occasionally, a hippo surfaces and yawns, but there are no other sounds. Antelopes stare at us and we stare back. The scenery is full of dozens of shades of green, and I never want to go home.
21.12. Lilongwe
I have a theory; the smaller the African bus station is, the more confusing it is. We're up early, and stand at Liwonde station, but cannot move- we are surrounded by conductors, all with conflicting information; the bus is coming later; the bus already left. The bus is here, but it's full; the bus only goes tomorrow. I swat people like bees out of my way, and choose a bus. It gets us to Lilongwe in record time.
We arrive to realise it's Sunday, and everything is closed. None of the ATM's have money in them. We pool our cash and buy some food, and at the hostel, we pool our change and buy a few kuche-kuches.
22.12. Mzuzu, Northern Malawi
There's certainly a routine now- alarm goes off at 6am, get up, pack bag, pay up, walk to the bus/train/taxi, get on, sit for hours, get bored, get tired. This is not a holiday, this is backpacking at it's toughest. At least I finally agree to buy a raincoat from the local market in Lilongwe, but only after haggling so long the vendor is willing to pay for me to go away.
I'm getting grumpy, but still stare at the fantastic plateau we drive through. Northern Malawi is even more stunning and dramatic than the southern part; more sparsely populated, full of blue mountains that stretch on to Tanzania and Zambia, with little valleys in between that grow tall, proud-looking pine trees, and a single straight road which cuts through the middle.
We always bet on the arrival time, and today, I win a beer with my pessimistic bet; we arrive an hour and a half late, and I'm tired, tired, tired.
23.12. Livingstonia
The plan is to spend Christmas at the Mushroom Farm, an eco-retreat in the middle of the Northern nothingness, few kilometers outside of Livingstonia. The farm has a compost toilet, a solar-powered shower, and it's set on a cliff overlooking lake Malawi. Unfortunately it is a ten-kilometre hike up a nearly vertical mountain. There's no transport, so we stock up on water and start hiking up. Of course, it's the first hot day since our arrival, and after a kilometre, I'm gasping for breath. After two, I want to throw myself off the cliff. A man appears from nowhere, and offers to carry my ten-kilogram bag for five dollars. Five dollars?! A ridiculous amount, I tell him, and hoist the bag back on my shoulders.
At three kilometres, I am dying but the scenery is stunning; the clouds hang next to us and it's getting cooler. Just when I think I'm done, a car comes up around the bend; it's an open-backed truck full of local people, bags, children and chickens. They manage to fit us in, and we get lost in the sea of people, bumping along the road, occasionally losing a bag or two.
The eccentric owner welcomes us, and we pitch our tent up right next to the cliff. The view is amazing. Tomorrow is Christmas, and I'm tucked away in the remotest part of Malawi.
Christmas Eve at the Mushrooom Farm
We had our morning coffee served to us on a terrace overlooking the valley. The terrace borders on the edge of the cliff and I can see the sheer drop down; I like being up high, so I sit there, sipping coffee and feeling like a lady from the colonial times, enjoying her mid-morning refreshment.
Few more people arrive, and we have red wine together by the fire as the damp evening sets in, swapping travel stories.
Santa doesn't come, though.
Christmas Day
It rains the whole night, and we sleep restlessly, patching up our tent using our raincoats. Exhausted, but determined to see Livingstonia, we hike up the remaining five kilometers uphill from the Farm. It is an odd town; built by the British some hundred years ago, it has a massive church, a museum and a hospital (on top of an almost inaccessible mountain) but only a very few residents. We sit at the steps of the Stone House, a grey, empty building and wait for the fog to clear and the rain to pause, and feel like we're Nicole Kidman in The Others.
On the way down, a group of kids follow us, and sing old Beatles songs to us, giggling furiously.
Mick, the very extrovert owner of the Mushroom Farm, slaughters two ducks and cooks us a massive Christmas dinner. We have a small but fun group; three Brits, Loren, Nick and Carrie, Eric, an American, and of course myself, Hanna and Mick. We laugh more than we eat, and by the log fire, Mick dreams up new cocktails for us to try. The mountains go pitch black and we cannot see anything. At two am, we crank up the volume on the small stereo, and take turns to DJ. We have an air guitar championships, and Carrie and I arm wrestle, and in the end, we decide we all win, and get another drink. We dance around the bar until 5 am until we can't drink anymore, and everyone falls asleep. It's been a good Christmas.
Boxing Day, Nkhata Bay.
We sleep for an hour, wake up to the rain, and throw our things together; we can't really be arsed with packing, so we end up with a bunch of plastic bags full of random belongings. Mick needs to drive to Mzuzu, so he gives us a lift, and probably saves our lives. I sleep the whole way. I feel each of my 29 years and 9 months- not that I'm counting down to my 30th birthday. Not at all.
Another bus, another change of scenery, another hostel and town. We are finally at Nkhata Bay, where I am meant to do absolutely nothing for the next eight days. This is a totally new world, a world of beach parties, sunshine, fruity cocktails and lots of backpackers. I am astounded; there are more white people in the hostel that I've seen in the last four months put together. It is nice though, but what gets me most excited though, is that I have an actual bed, in an actual room. Maybe even some sleep.
Tuesday 30 December 2008
Tuesday 16 December 2008
Almost Rosey
When the shock of living in the ugliest city in the world had finally settled in, about two weeks after I arrived to Lusaka in early September, I started counting down the days until I get to go travelling. At first, it seemed like ages away; three and a half months. I gritted my teeth and thought, right, I need to get something out of this experience. So I stayed, and counted the days. Three months, I get to go travelling. Ten weeks, two months, I can leave. A month, that'll go fast. Three weeks, two weeks, anyone can do that. Now, its mid- December, people at home are going on company Christmas parties, snogging people they don't even like, singing horrible 80's Christmas hits and buying stuff they don't want or need. And I'm sweating in a cramped internet cafe that drums bad African pop music, has a broken fan and a smelly guy next to me. But it doesn't matter. Because tomorrow, I'll be gone. So for the first time in ages, I feel fine. Almost rosey.
Sure, I have to come back in January. Sure, I need to work another couple of months. But in a way, it's not worth thinking about. What I want is a Malawian beach, a few beers and a nice Christmas with my friend; my thinking does not, and cannot go beyond that. Maybe a cocktail at new year, and a few cool backpackers to create a party. I don't know. All I know is that with every passing hour that puts miles between me and Lusaka tomorrow, I'll feel better. The Great East Road stretches endlessly beyond Lusaka; at the end of it, Malawi. I need this. It's time to put some fun in my life again.
Sure, I have to come back in January. Sure, I need to work another couple of months. But in a way, it's not worth thinking about. What I want is a Malawian beach, a few beers and a nice Christmas with my friend; my thinking does not, and cannot go beyond that. Maybe a cocktail at new year, and a few cool backpackers to create a party. I don't know. All I know is that with every passing hour that puts miles between me and Lusaka tomorrow, I'll feel better. The Great East Road stretches endlessly beyond Lusaka; at the end of it, Malawi. I need this. It's time to put some fun in my life again.
Saturday 13 December 2008
The Token White Chick
Maybe I'm a bit naive, but I never really paid much attention to skin colour in general in Europe. I was certainly never particularly aware of being white. It's not like I looked in the mirror and thought, right, I'm a white girl with blue eyes and brown hair. I never had to; I live in a world where being white is prevalent, dominant; you don't have to categorise yourself, because you are a part of the vast majority. Just pay attention the next time someone is described to you; you'll often hear thing like, "yeah, you know Nazneen? She's the pretty Indian girl who sits next to Fred....yeah, Fred, the black guy with glasses?"
But have you ever heard someone say "you know Maaret, the white girl next to Fred?", because it simply doesn't matter that I'm white; I live in a society where being white is the norm, and therefore I've never been aware of my skin colour. I can't help but wonder if I'd grown up as a bangladeshi girl, even in such a multicultural world as London, would I be more aware of what I look like?
In Africa, I certainly am. Not a day goes by when someone doesn't remind me of my colouring. Comically, most people feel the need to point this out to me, as if I might forget otherwise- no shit, I really am white? I am? - but the conversation often ends there. That's it- they have nothing to say to me as a person, it's just that I stand out. Like I said, I've spent my formative years in a multicultural society, so never once have I sat in a coffee shop in Lusaka thinking, shit, everyone here is black- how exotic! I've never been particularly swayed one way or the other by the fact that I'm in a predominantly black country, but that I'm white- that's a big deal for locals here. And quite understandably so.
It's late afternoon, and the bus station is heaving. There must be three to four hundred buses in various stages of loading and unloading passengers. They are all identical and blue, with no numbers or destination plates to distinguish them from one another, just lazy drivers asleep on the front seat and frantic conductors fighting over passengers. It's hot. My skirt sticks to my legs and I'm working my way through the labyrinth of exhaustion fumes and fruit vendors. I'm also trying to shake off a persistent man, who cannot believe his luck- he's found a white girl in Kulima Tower bus station! This is not a white person place; nowhere in central Lusaka is. He doesn't really have anything to say, or to sell, but he simply follows me, shouting, "hey, white man!". Absurdly enough, this offends me. Not the shouting, but that he is calling me a man, and there is certainly nothing mannish about me. But I'm used to the bus station and I cross over it quickly, a hot frying pan of metal and sweat. A conductor approaches me. Kabulonga? No. Chelston? No. He is at loss. These are the white people places; he has no other destinations to offer. I help him. Chawama. Chawama? Yes, Chawama. He checks to see if I'm sure, and shrugs, and points me towards a bus, quickly filling up. I choose a seat next to a woman with a baby- I always sit next to women. A man sits on my other side. His clothes are worn, but clean and meticulously ironed, and he has a kind face. We leave, I collect the notes from my neighbours and hand in the cash on behalf of the entire row. Why are you going to Chawama, asks the man with the kind face. Are you working on a project there? No, I answer, I live there. In Chawama, he says. In Chawama, I confirm.
He takes a moment to consider this, and we ran into heavy traffic heading out of the city. The driver is having none of it; at the intersection, he cuts diagonally across, driving through a petrol station, over a small hedge and the sidewalk, and joins the main road. No one bats an eyelid.
In Chawama, a group of drunken men leer at me, and one of them tries his luck. Again. I flick him my middle finger and an evil stare. He knows not to touch me- that's cultural understanding for you. The woman who keeps a roadside stall selling veggies sees me, and starts to bag tomatoes even before I reach her. She stops at two and I tell her to add more. Oh yes, you have visitors with you now, she says. They know everything about their token white girl. I stop at a small store to get eggs, and a small boy (no lie) sees me and bursts into tears. His mother and I start laughing, and as I take a step closer, he starts to positively wail. We are in tears of laughter, and I forget what I needed, and buy a coke instead.
Once I reach home, the breathless shopkeeper runs after me with two eggs. He smiles. You forgot these, he says, silly white lady.
But have you ever heard someone say "you know Maaret, the white girl next to Fred?", because it simply doesn't matter that I'm white; I live in a society where being white is the norm, and therefore I've never been aware of my skin colour. I can't help but wonder if I'd grown up as a bangladeshi girl, even in such a multicultural world as London, would I be more aware of what I look like?
In Africa, I certainly am. Not a day goes by when someone doesn't remind me of my colouring. Comically, most people feel the need to point this out to me, as if I might forget otherwise- no shit, I really am white? I am? - but the conversation often ends there. That's it- they have nothing to say to me as a person, it's just that I stand out. Like I said, I've spent my formative years in a multicultural society, so never once have I sat in a coffee shop in Lusaka thinking, shit, everyone here is black- how exotic! I've never been particularly swayed one way or the other by the fact that I'm in a predominantly black country, but that I'm white- that's a big deal for locals here. And quite understandably so.
It's late afternoon, and the bus station is heaving. There must be three to four hundred buses in various stages of loading and unloading passengers. They are all identical and blue, with no numbers or destination plates to distinguish them from one another, just lazy drivers asleep on the front seat and frantic conductors fighting over passengers. It's hot. My skirt sticks to my legs and I'm working my way through the labyrinth of exhaustion fumes and fruit vendors. I'm also trying to shake off a persistent man, who cannot believe his luck- he's found a white girl in Kulima Tower bus station! This is not a white person place; nowhere in central Lusaka is. He doesn't really have anything to say, or to sell, but he simply follows me, shouting, "hey, white man!". Absurdly enough, this offends me. Not the shouting, but that he is calling me a man, and there is certainly nothing mannish about me. But I'm used to the bus station and I cross over it quickly, a hot frying pan of metal and sweat. A conductor approaches me. Kabulonga? No. Chelston? No. He is at loss. These are the white people places; he has no other destinations to offer. I help him. Chawama. Chawama? Yes, Chawama. He checks to see if I'm sure, and shrugs, and points me towards a bus, quickly filling up. I choose a seat next to a woman with a baby- I always sit next to women. A man sits on my other side. His clothes are worn, but clean and meticulously ironed, and he has a kind face. We leave, I collect the notes from my neighbours and hand in the cash on behalf of the entire row. Why are you going to Chawama, asks the man with the kind face. Are you working on a project there? No, I answer, I live there. In Chawama, he says. In Chawama, I confirm.
He takes a moment to consider this, and we ran into heavy traffic heading out of the city. The driver is having none of it; at the intersection, he cuts diagonally across, driving through a petrol station, over a small hedge and the sidewalk, and joins the main road. No one bats an eyelid.
In Chawama, a group of drunken men leer at me, and one of them tries his luck. Again. I flick him my middle finger and an evil stare. He knows not to touch me- that's cultural understanding for you. The woman who keeps a roadside stall selling veggies sees me, and starts to bag tomatoes even before I reach her. She stops at two and I tell her to add more. Oh yes, you have visitors with you now, she says. They know everything about their token white girl. I stop at a small store to get eggs, and a small boy (no lie) sees me and bursts into tears. His mother and I start laughing, and as I take a step closer, he starts to positively wail. We are in tears of laughter, and I forget what I needed, and buy a coke instead.
Once I reach home, the breathless shopkeeper runs after me with two eggs. He smiles. You forgot these, he says, silly white lady.
Friday 5 December 2008
Danish Pig Fest in Lusaka!
Last Friday morning, I had just finished reading the newspaper, biased and poorly-written like every day, and was wondering how I should spend the remaining seven hours of the day, when our director walked in.
"Maaret. We've been invited to the Danish embassy for a formal lunch. It's their development aid programme, which is turning forty as a project, and they're having a party."
"A party? Today?" I said, and looked down at my old T-shirt, and rubbed my eyes, trying to remember if they had any traces of make-up left. I had a slight flash of panic. Everyone else would be in polished high heels and in lipstick that never smudged, and I would stand there, in my grubby sandals and shorts that had worn thin and colourless from the constant washing and drying in the sun. "Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?"
He waved his hand indifferently as though this was a totally unjust and ridiculous question.
"If you want to come along, it starts at two. These are Danes, so they'll probably party it up until quite late." He was enthusiastic, and took great pride in having visited Denmark and was excited about the prospect of meeting what he called "the Vikings".
"But anyway", he said, looking at me up and down, "we have plenty of time. You are free to go home and get changed". Wow, thanks.
I took a taxi home and back, and wondered about the Danish dress code. I had no idea, really. I knew formal was, of course, formal, and embassy people even more formal compared to normal formal. But in Zambia, traditional dress was usually OK too, so panicking and not really knowing what to do, I changed into my chitenge dress and slapped on the make-up I hadn't yet managed to lose, before racing back to the school.
Of course, in a true Zambian style, we arrived an hour and a half late, just as the drama performances and speeches were finishing. I made it directly over to the open bar, and it wasn't until I was holding on to a wonderfully cool glass of white wine that I looked around. And noticed something. I tapped the director on the shoulder.
"Hey. No one else is in formal dress. In fact, they look like they've just finished digging a ditch in the Northern Province." It was true; everyone was in shorts and T-shirts and holding up sticky babies and pints of beer. And I noticed something else.
"This is not the Danish Embassy. This is a Danish charity of some sort. Charities are always far more informal."The director didn't seem too bothered, despite his suit and tie. I looked around for food. There were some scraps lying around on a few plates, but there was nothing to suggest a formal lunch had been had. I turned back to my colleague. "What exactly did the invitation say?" He just kept staring into the distance, lazily, and suddenly I felt so irritated I wanted to smack him. I asked him again, a little more forcefully. He sighed.
"The invitation said they have a programme and they're having a lunch and a party for it. I can't remember. Lunch or dinner." I grabbed a sweet-looking Danish girl and asked her. She told me they had two functions, an informal lunch and a formal dinner, with different crowds. Great. I had no idea which one we'd been invited for, so I decided to quickly grab another glass of (free) white wine before we'd have to leave. People were drifting out, and suddenly, the director decided it would "probably be OK" if we waited until the dinner started at 7pm. I looked at my watch; it was 3.45pm. I felt mortified- we looked like two scavengers who were willing to wait three hours for free food, as everyone else left, the music was switched off and tables and flower arrangements were being scurried back and forth. I gratefully accepted a glass after glass of wine, and tried to make myself as unnoticeable as possible. Unfortunately it's very difficult when you're wearing a bright red, hugely flared traditional African dress.
Finally, embarrassed enough, I disappeared into the function room, and found a library, mostly full of books in Danish, but also, oddly, European travel guides. I found a Lonely Planet Britain, from circa 1980, and was shocked to see they still recommend the same pubs and bars as they did when I was born; proves what I thought- these guides never get updated, or if they do, it's always by some twat from middle of nowhere America or Australia, who's only been to the place for a week and gets a kick out of being an authority on it. I flicked to the description of London, only to get more irritated- "A dirty, expensive and crowded place, albeit with a few sights." I shoved it back in it's place, noticing that one of the authors had a Finnish surname. Bloody Anglophobes, I thought, and felt a small but particular bang of homesickness.
People finally arrived, we watched some more dancing, a comedy show and I had one last drink for the road. This was the first wine I'd had since leaving London, and it tasted fantastic. The dinner was quite grand (or maybe not so grand, but I've been in Zambia for three months, and anything that is not maize or a maize by-product tastes pretty wonderful to me). I felt tempted to photograph the buffet table for Marianne, but resisted. The table was full of meat, mainly pork; bacon, ham salad, pork chops and sausages of all sort. I giggled to myself, the crazy girl in the huge dress. There was something so Danish about the food that just by looking at it, it would've been possible to determine the nationality of the organisers. When the last ambassadors started winding down their dancing around 10pm, we called a taxi to take us back to our respective compounds; it seems that even hard-core party animals such as the Danes find Lusaka less than inspiring.
"Maaret. We've been invited to the Danish embassy for a formal lunch. It's their development aid programme, which is turning forty as a project, and they're having a party."
"A party? Today?" I said, and looked down at my old T-shirt, and rubbed my eyes, trying to remember if they had any traces of make-up left. I had a slight flash of panic. Everyone else would be in polished high heels and in lipstick that never smudged, and I would stand there, in my grubby sandals and shorts that had worn thin and colourless from the constant washing and drying in the sun. "Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?"
He waved his hand indifferently as though this was a totally unjust and ridiculous question.
"If you want to come along, it starts at two. These are Danes, so they'll probably party it up until quite late." He was enthusiastic, and took great pride in having visited Denmark and was excited about the prospect of meeting what he called "the Vikings".
"But anyway", he said, looking at me up and down, "we have plenty of time. You are free to go home and get changed". Wow, thanks.
I took a taxi home and back, and wondered about the Danish dress code. I had no idea, really. I knew formal was, of course, formal, and embassy people even more formal compared to normal formal. But in Zambia, traditional dress was usually OK too, so panicking and not really knowing what to do, I changed into my chitenge dress and slapped on the make-up I hadn't yet managed to lose, before racing back to the school.
Of course, in a true Zambian style, we arrived an hour and a half late, just as the drama performances and speeches were finishing. I made it directly over to the open bar, and it wasn't until I was holding on to a wonderfully cool glass of white wine that I looked around. And noticed something. I tapped the director on the shoulder.
"Hey. No one else is in formal dress. In fact, they look like they've just finished digging a ditch in the Northern Province." It was true; everyone was in shorts and T-shirts and holding up sticky babies and pints of beer. And I noticed something else.
"This is not the Danish Embassy. This is a Danish charity of some sort. Charities are always far more informal."The director didn't seem too bothered, despite his suit and tie. I looked around for food. There were some scraps lying around on a few plates, but there was nothing to suggest a formal lunch had been had. I turned back to my colleague. "What exactly did the invitation say?" He just kept staring into the distance, lazily, and suddenly I felt so irritated I wanted to smack him. I asked him again, a little more forcefully. He sighed.
"The invitation said they have a programme and they're having a lunch and a party for it. I can't remember. Lunch or dinner." I grabbed a sweet-looking Danish girl and asked her. She told me they had two functions, an informal lunch and a formal dinner, with different crowds. Great. I had no idea which one we'd been invited for, so I decided to quickly grab another glass of (free) white wine before we'd have to leave. People were drifting out, and suddenly, the director decided it would "probably be OK" if we waited until the dinner started at 7pm. I looked at my watch; it was 3.45pm. I felt mortified- we looked like two scavengers who were willing to wait three hours for free food, as everyone else left, the music was switched off and tables and flower arrangements were being scurried back and forth. I gratefully accepted a glass after glass of wine, and tried to make myself as unnoticeable as possible. Unfortunately it's very difficult when you're wearing a bright red, hugely flared traditional African dress.
Finally, embarrassed enough, I disappeared into the function room, and found a library, mostly full of books in Danish, but also, oddly, European travel guides. I found a Lonely Planet Britain, from circa 1980, and was shocked to see they still recommend the same pubs and bars as they did when I was born; proves what I thought- these guides never get updated, or if they do, it's always by some twat from middle of nowhere America or Australia, who's only been to the place for a week and gets a kick out of being an authority on it. I flicked to the description of London, only to get more irritated- "A dirty, expensive and crowded place, albeit with a few sights." I shoved it back in it's place, noticing that one of the authors had a Finnish surname. Bloody Anglophobes, I thought, and felt a small but particular bang of homesickness.
People finally arrived, we watched some more dancing, a comedy show and I had one last drink for the road. This was the first wine I'd had since leaving London, and it tasted fantastic. The dinner was quite grand (or maybe not so grand, but I've been in Zambia for three months, and anything that is not maize or a maize by-product tastes pretty wonderful to me). I felt tempted to photograph the buffet table for Marianne, but resisted. The table was full of meat, mainly pork; bacon, ham salad, pork chops and sausages of all sort. I giggled to myself, the crazy girl in the huge dress. There was something so Danish about the food that just by looking at it, it would've been possible to determine the nationality of the organisers. When the last ambassadors started winding down their dancing around 10pm, we called a taxi to take us back to our respective compounds; it seems that even hard-core party animals such as the Danes find Lusaka less than inspiring.
Monday 1 December 2008
Conversations with Cultural Differences
"Do you have a boyfriend?” The very young man sitting across from my desk asked. It was silent, except for the rain pouring down; a very damp, grey Tuesday afternoon, and it reminded me of autumn back home. Our yard had started to flood, I noticed. I kept typing, and thought for a moment. Usually my standard lie would’ve been along the lines of “yes, I do, he’s back home in England/Finland, and when I get home, we’ll get married”, but for some reason, I wanted to see where this was going. The question seemed reasonable; not flirty, as he was almost young enough to be my son, but genuinely interested. I snapped the lid of the laptop shut and looked at him."No, I don’t”
"Really?”
"Really."
"I think you should."
"I think I should too."
"Well, why not?"
"Really?”
"Really."
"I think you should."
"I think I should too."
"Well, why not?"
I I I thought about this for a while. “There’re not really that many decent single men in London. Really. I’m just the age where most guys are either already married, or have girlfriends. Or if they are single, there’s something wrong with them.”
He 'He thought for a moment. "But you seem like a nice girl, and there's nothing wrong with you!"
"A ""Actually, I’m a bit of a bitch, totally neurotic and argumentative. And I’m not a girl- I’m a woman pushing thirty”
He He laughed. Maybe he thought I was joking.
“A ""And do you have children?”
“N ""No I don’t”, I said. He looked astonished.
“N' ""No one’s wanted to have children with you?”
I l I laughed. In Zambia, everyone wants children, all men, and all women. Preferably many, as anything less than three is just pitiful; a person over the age of twenty-five being childless is just unheard of. Many families have children from previous relationships, and even single women all have at least one child, after a “certain age”. I tried to explain.
“S ""See, a lot of men don’t particularly want children. We live in a city where there’s just too much to do; they don’t want to come straight home from work and start changing nappies. They want to down pints with their mates in the pub. Or if they do wants kids, then they put it off so long that their girlfriends, who are around the same age group as they, leave them for someone who does want children with them, and then the men hit forty, realise that they do need to start thinking about having kids, panic, and have them with a twenty-five year-old who is never going to get them.”
He He looked confused. Poor boy, he was probably sixteen, seventeen at most, he’d never left Lusaka, and although he was a bright kid, my rant had just confused him even more. He digested the information for a bit, and spoke.
“S ""Here in Zambia, if a girl and a boy like each other, they get married and have children. This is what we do. So it is not like that?”
“ " ""No, it’s not”
“ " ""But why not? What else do you need?”
Wh What else indeed? I had no idea; I was the worst person to ask. All I had were a few broken relationships, and most of them years ago, from another era when I was still a bit more optimistic about life.
“ " ""You need a lot of things. You need to want the same things. Like, if the other person wants a family of six and a house in Watford with a vegetable garden, and the other a flat filled with flat-screen TV’s and wine racks in Mayfair, then really, it’s not going to work.”
A AAnd then I felt bad. Most of these kids can’t really decide where they’re going to live, or what job they’re going to take, let alone choose between vegetable gardens or wine racks. Most of them had no options; I felt like an idiot. I forgot who I was talking to; I could’ve quite as well been in All Bar One with Marianne or Kate and preach to them.
But But he looked at me, beaming.
“W ""Well, I know who I want to marry. In a few years, that is. I want children, but not too many. Maybe three, or four, if my wife wants four.”
I s I I smiled. “I hope it works out for you”
“Y ""Yes. I just want to finish this course, and get a good job, maybe at one of the hotels.” He stared out of the window and into the rain. “Maybe as a waiter. Maybe someday I could be the head waiter. But anyway,” he shook himself and got up, “I hope you don’t have to deal with so many choices in the future.”
It IIt was a peculiar thing to say, but after he left, and I watched him get soaked as he trudged across our school compound, it made sense. I thought about all my friends, and their jobs and boyfriends and husbands and their kids; their problems in finding a place to live, or indeed, choosing where to live, and all the problems that went with having a life in England. I knew it wouldn’t last very long, but for a while I felt envious of this young boy with a straightforward future ahead of him. I watched him disappear around the corner.
I fl " I flicked my laptop back on. I had some work to do, so I could finally leave Lusaka one day, go back to my wine bars and to the people who looked straight past you on the street and to the conversations with Kate and Marianne. I smiled to myself and drew up the curtains. And just like that, I got over it.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Where There's a Will, There's a Pub
Two weeks ago, Hanna and I got very very fed up with Lusaka. So fed up, in fact, that we had to get away. To anywhere. I was tired of getting home in the evenings after fighting my way through the pollution, the harassment and the insane traffic, and having the water run brown when I washed my hair, if, in deed, we were lucky enough to have water that night. So we had an emergency meeting on a Wednesday afternoon in our local soda bar (there’re no coffee shops or pubs in central Lusaka) and assessed the length of the weekend and our meagre funds, and decided to take a bus some hour outside of Lusaka to Kafue river, where a glossy brochure offered “river cruises with stunning views”. So, on Sunday, we set off early, reserving a good few hours for getting there, fully expecting to sit in a half-empty minibus on the side of the road for at least an hour while it filled up.
Instead, we sat on the boat for two hours, watching the fishermen sell their catch and waiting for departure time, feeling a bit idiotic. An insane Zimbabwean man on the boat bought the largest fish, only to decide that he didn’t want to eat it after all. He offered it to us (I think I’ve already mastered the please-give-me-something-for-free-I’m-just-a-poor-backpacker –look) and the staff kindly grilled it for us. About thirty seconds before the boat took off, a very large 4x4 pulled up and poured out a rowdy, smiling bunch of South Africans, with food and crates and crates of beer.
I naturally gravitate towards large groups of people with beer. Not just because of the beer, but considering it was a fairly muggy day, and the boat was moored underneath a motorway bridge, they still looked incredibly exited and happy to be there- just like us. As soon as the bus had left the city limits, both Hanna and I felt instantly better, watching the big nothingness, dotted with occasional bush and vegetable vendor, whiz past. In no time, we were invited to join in, and most of us forgot the scenery- it was just so comforting to be on an empty, silent river on a Sunday afternoon, with a beer in hand and nothing much to do. The group consisted of about four older men, all hilarious, two younger guys, and a lovely girl, who seemed, by far, the boss of the group. As the boat pulled up, another invitation was made; would we perhaps like to come and spend a weekend at Mazabuka where they work and live? I thought this to be a joke, and so I said, Sure, why not next weekend, then? Brilliant, said Theo, one of the older blokes, We’ll pick you up from Lusaka then, on Saturday morning.
Hanna and I got a ride back to Kafue, and jumped on a bus back to Lusaka in the red afternoon glow, smiling.
I called Beata.
“I’ve found you a husband”, I said.
“Oh yeah? Cool. So when can I meet him?”
“Saturday. Meet me and Hanna at Manda Hill around noon, and bring an overnight bag.” She hesitated, and then laughed.
“OK. Great. So where are we going?”
I thought about this. “I’m not entirely sure. Somewhere in the bush. Towards Livingstone. The name of the place sounds a bit like my name”.
“Fine. And who are we meeting?”
“Look, I’m not entirely sure of that either. But they are South Africans, and they’re picking us up around noon”. Although on the phone, I could literally hear Beata shrug her shoulders.
“That’s good enough for me”.
So, the following Saturday we sat in Kilimanjaro, our favourite coffee shop where no one stares at us, drinking over-priced specialty coffees, wondering if it was all a joke, an elaborate hoax.
“What if they sell us to white slavery” I said, “you know, to a Saudi prince on a boat off the coast of Yemen or something, and we’re never heard from again”
Hanna and Beata stared at me, solemnly. “Maaret, have you looked at yourself?”
I looked at my tangled hair with blond roots, and chipped toenails and clothes that I never managed to get quite clean enough
“Do you really think they would pick us, if that’s what they had in mind?”
Point taken.
Needless to say (I think) that we did get picked up, and had a great weekend. They categorically refused anything we wanted to bring, food or drinks, and we had to struggle to smuggle in a bottle of vodka. We stayed at Theo’s house, and everyone came over, plus some people we hadn’t even met on the river cruise. The house stood on top of a slight sloping hill, with nothing but empty savannah stretching in front of us, completed with buzzing insects and a glorious sunset we watched whilst eating tons of barbeque, drinking ciders (me) and beers (everyone else). It was fantastic to meet new people, and to enjoy such luxuries as air conditioning, hot showers and salads. They’d mentioned a nightclub, and as you have it, the nightlife in Mazabuka, a tiny town, seems to be thriving, especially compared to Lusaka, which seems old, tired and not bothered in comparison. We spent the night dancing away until four am- something I don’t think I’ve done in years.
Shaun and Sisi insisted they’d drive us back on Sunday, and we, as poor guests, slept through most of the way. We had lunch together in Arcades and popped paracetamols with cups and cups of coffee until we felt human. We’ve invited them to come and experience the nightlife here in the capital -or rather, in my experience, the lack of it. For the first time, I felt like this was the Africa I’d come to see. People were friendly and yet respectful towards things that people in Lusaka are not- such as personal space, touching someone (which I hate) and probing questions. We’ll see. Maybe I will start enjoying this Africa experience, after all.
Instead, we sat on the boat for two hours, watching the fishermen sell their catch and waiting for departure time, feeling a bit idiotic. An insane Zimbabwean man on the boat bought the largest fish, only to decide that he didn’t want to eat it after all. He offered it to us (I think I’ve already mastered the please-give-me-something-for-free-I’m-just-a-poor-backpacker –look) and the staff kindly grilled it for us. About thirty seconds before the boat took off, a very large 4x4 pulled up and poured out a rowdy, smiling bunch of South Africans, with food and crates and crates of beer.
I naturally gravitate towards large groups of people with beer. Not just because of the beer, but considering it was a fairly muggy day, and the boat was moored underneath a motorway bridge, they still looked incredibly exited and happy to be there- just like us. As soon as the bus had left the city limits, both Hanna and I felt instantly better, watching the big nothingness, dotted with occasional bush and vegetable vendor, whiz past. In no time, we were invited to join in, and most of us forgot the scenery- it was just so comforting to be on an empty, silent river on a Sunday afternoon, with a beer in hand and nothing much to do. The group consisted of about four older men, all hilarious, two younger guys, and a lovely girl, who seemed, by far, the boss of the group. As the boat pulled up, another invitation was made; would we perhaps like to come and spend a weekend at Mazabuka where they work and live? I thought this to be a joke, and so I said, Sure, why not next weekend, then? Brilliant, said Theo, one of the older blokes, We’ll pick you up from Lusaka then, on Saturday morning.
Hanna and I got a ride back to Kafue, and jumped on a bus back to Lusaka in the red afternoon glow, smiling.
I called Beata.
“I’ve found you a husband”, I said.
“Oh yeah? Cool. So when can I meet him?”
“Saturday. Meet me and Hanna at Manda Hill around noon, and bring an overnight bag.” She hesitated, and then laughed.
“OK. Great. So where are we going?”
I thought about this. “I’m not entirely sure. Somewhere in the bush. Towards Livingstone. The name of the place sounds a bit like my name”.
“Fine. And who are we meeting?”
“Look, I’m not entirely sure of that either. But they are South Africans, and they’re picking us up around noon”. Although on the phone, I could literally hear Beata shrug her shoulders.
“That’s good enough for me”.
So, the following Saturday we sat in Kilimanjaro, our favourite coffee shop where no one stares at us, drinking over-priced specialty coffees, wondering if it was all a joke, an elaborate hoax.
“What if they sell us to white slavery” I said, “you know, to a Saudi prince on a boat off the coast of Yemen or something, and we’re never heard from again”
Hanna and Beata stared at me, solemnly. “Maaret, have you looked at yourself?”
I looked at my tangled hair with blond roots, and chipped toenails and clothes that I never managed to get quite clean enough
“Do you really think they would pick us, if that’s what they had in mind?”
Point taken.
Needless to say (I think) that we did get picked up, and had a great weekend. They categorically refused anything we wanted to bring, food or drinks, and we had to struggle to smuggle in a bottle of vodka. We stayed at Theo’s house, and everyone came over, plus some people we hadn’t even met on the river cruise. The house stood on top of a slight sloping hill, with nothing but empty savannah stretching in front of us, completed with buzzing insects and a glorious sunset we watched whilst eating tons of barbeque, drinking ciders (me) and beers (everyone else). It was fantastic to meet new people, and to enjoy such luxuries as air conditioning, hot showers and salads. They’d mentioned a nightclub, and as you have it, the nightlife in Mazabuka, a tiny town, seems to be thriving, especially compared to Lusaka, which seems old, tired and not bothered in comparison. We spent the night dancing away until four am- something I don’t think I’ve done in years.
Shaun and Sisi insisted they’d drive us back on Sunday, and we, as poor guests, slept through most of the way. We had lunch together in Arcades and popped paracetamols with cups and cups of coffee until we felt human. We’ve invited them to come and experience the nightlife here in the capital -or rather, in my experience, the lack of it. For the first time, I felt like this was the Africa I’d come to see. People were friendly and yet respectful towards things that people in Lusaka are not- such as personal space, touching someone (which I hate) and probing questions. We’ll see. Maybe I will start enjoying this Africa experience, after all.
The Very Very Accident Prone Maaret...
I got so many nice emails, Facebook messages and text when I had to go to the hospital- although I was, really, just for a day :) So now I'm still typing with one hand, the left one which still works, somehow, and so if my blog posts are poorly typed, unimaginative and silly for the next few weeks, you can blame the little kid who poured boiling oil on my good hand :) So thank you everyone.
Luckily, my fab colleagues have lent me their flashdrive, which means I can slowly type the entries at work, and simply just transfer them there at the internet cafe quickly.
Luckily, my fab colleagues have lent me their flashdrive, which means I can slowly type the entries at work, and simply just transfer them there at the internet cafe quickly.
Wednesday 12 November 2008
(Funny?) Tales From the City
I spend half my life in Zambia waiting. I wait for buses, for people, for something to happen. It's hot, mid afternoon, and I'm trying to gather up my colleagues, trying to usher them together in the middle of the yard like a flock of birds; I always lose a few. The car is waiting; the driver's asleep, we're late and I cannot find anybody. So I sit down on the steps, with the two puppies of the school, Barack and Obama, falling asleep at my feet. I wait. Eventually I get up to use the bathroom, and when I come back, they're all sitting in the car, dozing. "Get in", shouts Andrew, "We've been waiting for you!" Grr.
We drop the others at various points around Cairo Road, the main thoroughfare, and head towards the posh area of Long Acres, and the Zambian Examinations Board. When we arrive, the office is closed. Andrew's not too bothered, despite the huge mounds of work piling up at the school, and so instead we walk to a near-by cafe and have a sugary soft drink after another, and wait.
When we get back, Andrew pays the fees at the gate, and we're ushered into the sprawling main building, where a bored-looking official glances at our papers and waves indifferently towards the endless corridors and hallways ahead. The building looks like it should immediately be torn down; in fact, it begs to be torn down. The concrete walls are cracked, the floor boards loose, the people and the cockroaches hide between boxes and boxes full of files, papers, complaints, requests, other people's lives from years back. We climb to the top floor past the stairways filled with sickly yellow light- few people stare at me, but politely look away when I notice. We find office b26-1 and boldly step in. The man greets us, elaborately, our papers get examined, we miss a stamp. Andrew hands me the papers and I move to go back to the reception, because, this is, in fact, my moment. This is the reason I've come along today. I can play the White Person card.
Usually, I pay White Person Extra. It's not very much; usually a few hundred kwatcha more than everyone else, in public transport, in the markets, but on a bad day, enough to really irritate me. But it does, actually, come with perks too. Because sometimes white people get preferential treatment, without asking. Often, I find myself being pushed to the front of the queue; I get to use the staff-only clean loos; I get given the best cuts of meat at dinner. And now I'm deliberately going for it, only to find an abandoned reception downstairs- the guy has simply decided to finish the day at 2pm. I go back up, past the tiny cubicles and chipped paint, and hand the form back to the guy, smiling away. He takes it, sighs, and looks at me. I smile. Andrew positively grins. He promises to take it without the stamp. We thank him and say goodbye in fancy words. As we step out into the baking sun, Andrew is purring. I have fulfilled my role.
Leaving the government offices, we drive past the Intercontinental hotel. I stare at it, longingly, because I have, I confess, a fantasy involving the hotel. See, I went there once, and was taken aback by the beautiful setting, the quietness and the cleanliness. I would love to go and spend a night or two there, have continental breakfast with a knife and a fork, whilst people call me "madam". No one would stare at me, and I could lounge around the tropical pool, in the air conditioned bar, drinking cocktails without judgment. This is a stupid, pointless fantasy, and as we speed past, in a car with air so hot I can't breathe, I watch a smartly-dressed young couple come out and step into a cab, laughing, and I feel slightly cheated out of a life I never even had.
Instead, the taxi drops me off at Chachacha Road, and I emerge into the relentless sun, exhaustion fumes and dirt that manages to move in the windless air. I am standing by a very tall building, a place which I saw on my first day in Lusaka, and which has continued to intrigue me ever since. Mainly because it is completely derelict, empty and simply standing in the middle of modern buildings with nothing but just a frame. At first, I thought it must have been gutted by a fire, but on a closer look, it seems fine. Finally, Hanna solved the problem. Apparently, the land where the building stands, was owned privately by an individual. Somehow, the government forgot this slight detail, and sold the building to a property developer, who rapidly erected a tower block on the premises. One day, the owner of the plot walked past, saw the building, and thought, what the hell, there's a huge apartment complex on my empty plot! A very slow and uninteresting lawsuit followed, but eventually one or both parties ran out of money and therefore, the building could neither be demolished nor completed, and there it still stands, half-finished. This happened sometime in the mid-eighties. You have to love a country like that.
We drop the others at various points around Cairo Road, the main thoroughfare, and head towards the posh area of Long Acres, and the Zambian Examinations Board. When we arrive, the office is closed. Andrew's not too bothered, despite the huge mounds of work piling up at the school, and so instead we walk to a near-by cafe and have a sugary soft drink after another, and wait.
When we get back, Andrew pays the fees at the gate, and we're ushered into the sprawling main building, where a bored-looking official glances at our papers and waves indifferently towards the endless corridors and hallways ahead. The building looks like it should immediately be torn down; in fact, it begs to be torn down. The concrete walls are cracked, the floor boards loose, the people and the cockroaches hide between boxes and boxes full of files, papers, complaints, requests, other people's lives from years back. We climb to the top floor past the stairways filled with sickly yellow light- few people stare at me, but politely look away when I notice. We find office b26-1 and boldly step in. The man greets us, elaborately, our papers get examined, we miss a stamp. Andrew hands me the papers and I move to go back to the reception, because, this is, in fact, my moment. This is the reason I've come along today. I can play the White Person card.
Usually, I pay White Person Extra. It's not very much; usually a few hundred kwatcha more than everyone else, in public transport, in the markets, but on a bad day, enough to really irritate me. But it does, actually, come with perks too. Because sometimes white people get preferential treatment, without asking. Often, I find myself being pushed to the front of the queue; I get to use the staff-only clean loos; I get given the best cuts of meat at dinner. And now I'm deliberately going for it, only to find an abandoned reception downstairs- the guy has simply decided to finish the day at 2pm. I go back up, past the tiny cubicles and chipped paint, and hand the form back to the guy, smiling away. He takes it, sighs, and looks at me. I smile. Andrew positively grins. He promises to take it without the stamp. We thank him and say goodbye in fancy words. As we step out into the baking sun, Andrew is purring. I have fulfilled my role.
Leaving the government offices, we drive past the Intercontinental hotel. I stare at it, longingly, because I have, I confess, a fantasy involving the hotel. See, I went there once, and was taken aback by the beautiful setting, the quietness and the cleanliness. I would love to go and spend a night or two there, have continental breakfast with a knife and a fork, whilst people call me "madam". No one would stare at me, and I could lounge around the tropical pool, in the air conditioned bar, drinking cocktails without judgment. This is a stupid, pointless fantasy, and as we speed past, in a car with air so hot I can't breathe, I watch a smartly-dressed young couple come out and step into a cab, laughing, and I feel slightly cheated out of a life I never even had.
Instead, the taxi drops me off at Chachacha Road, and I emerge into the relentless sun, exhaustion fumes and dirt that manages to move in the windless air. I am standing by a very tall building, a place which I saw on my first day in Lusaka, and which has continued to intrigue me ever since. Mainly because it is completely derelict, empty and simply standing in the middle of modern buildings with nothing but just a frame. At first, I thought it must have been gutted by a fire, but on a closer look, it seems fine. Finally, Hanna solved the problem. Apparently, the land where the building stands, was owned privately by an individual. Somehow, the government forgot this slight detail, and sold the building to a property developer, who rapidly erected a tower block on the premises. One day, the owner of the plot walked past, saw the building, and thought, what the hell, there's a huge apartment complex on my empty plot! A very slow and uninteresting lawsuit followed, but eventually one or both parties ran out of money and therefore, the building could neither be demolished nor completed, and there it still stands, half-finished. This happened sometime in the mid-eighties. You have to love a country like that.
Thursday 6 November 2008
A Hippo Under the Tent
Last month, when I first met the Polish Mafia, we had a great idea. We decided to do a road trip to South Luangwa National Park in the Eastern Province. Naturally, I took charge of the plan, picked a weekend (just before the election day) organised days off, borrowed tents, haggled with the bus companies, going back and forth between each little stall at the bus station, getting lower and lower offers until they told me, quite curtly, that I could get lost. Hmph. But even still, the day before departure, Beata and I were sitting on my door step, drinking beer and getting excited about our trip. Oh, how I love that comfortable pre-travel talk, the way people get excited about trips they might never even go on. Well, we were going, we were determined. I had three crumpled tickets, a reservation at a backpacker-friendly campsite, and a rucksack full of pasta, tinned beans and canned cheap beer. It was going to be a great weekend.
We got to the bus early, around 5.30am for our 6am departure. Usually, the first bus in Zambia is a timed bus, which means it leaves on time, or at least around the right time. Other buses leave when they are full, or when the drunk driver finally sobers up enough to take the bus on the road. We waited. We waited until 8am. Until 8.30am. I was getting angry enough to smash the bus window. Beata threatened the driver with the police "Ha", he said "yes, little lady, you go get the police". They all burst out laughing. No one involves the police in anything in Zambia. Beata looked indignant. "I will", she retorted, and strutted off. The men laughed again, evil, evil laugh. Asia and I glared at them from the bus window.
And then a miracle happened. The police came, they were nice and polite and put us in a bus that left immediately, and forced the evil, evil driver of our bus to pay for it. After three hours of travelling but not-travelling, we were on our way.
The road to Chipata, the closest city, is paved and therefore comfortable. Beata and I ate two packets of biscuits and nine bananas and felt great. In Chipata, we realised we'd missed the last minibus to Mfuwe, the town at the entrance of South Luangwa. Hostel owners and taxi drivers cornered us, and we shook them off, trying to get our bearings and trying to decide on the next move. I wasn't going to pay for a taxi, and neither was I spending a night in this dusty city. So I dragged two very tired polish girls, a tent, a grocery bag and half the sand of Zambia in my shoes to the largest crossing in town. Beata put down her bag and sat down. "What's the plan then? Why are we sitting at the intersection?" She dusted off her trousers and looked at me pleadingly. "We're going to Mfuwe", I said, and started hailing down every passing vehicle, including a few bicycles.
Just before it got dark, we got lucky. We met a guy who was driving up to Mfuwe to take supplies to the local shops. I eyed him suspiciously. He seemed to only have a few crates of Castle lager waiting with him. I figured, OK, at least we'll have entertainment on board. We jumped at the back of the truck.
Unfortunately, we only went around the corner. The guy had neglected to tell me they had a whole lot of more stuff to take with them. We got off; they loaded on maize, bread, toilet roll, crisps. We got on; we drove around the block and the driver decided the stack of beers was too high to be safe, so we drove to his house, where he unloaded some of it for safekeeping (yeah, right). We jumped on; the driver decided that now that the beer was off, there was indeed a bit of room for something else, but what? We drove to his friend's house; we jumped off; we watched sacks of rice being loaded up. We got back on; we stopped, the cover wasn't strapped on properly and it needed to be tightened. We'd hailed the ride at 6.15pm; it was now 8.30, and I was showing so much patience I nearly burst. Just before nine o'clock the stuff was loaded, we were at the back, the driver was still sober and we left Chipata behind. Asia, Beata and I nearly cheered.
Twenty minutes outside the city, the truck broke down.
We got to the campsite around 2am, tired and with achy bums, and didn't bother with the cooking or showering. We were allocated a platform up on the tree, which cheered us up momentarily. I pitched up the tent on the platform, only to realise that it was, actually, way too small for three people. I looked at the two very tired girls, and took my sleeping bag outside and twisted and turned forever in my sleeping bag on the wooden floor, thinking, what the fuck, this is by far the worst 24-hours of my life. Then I heard a deep, grunting sound somewhere below. I peaked out carefully. I was the biggest hippo I'd ever seen, calmly munching away right underneath my sleeping bag. At that moment, the whole trip was suddenly worth something.
I spent two days going on game drives, drinking beer and cooking soggy pasta. The Poles only stayed two nights, but luckily I picked up a lovely Swede, Niku, who kept me company. I saw a heard of 16 lions, sleeping in a tight pile, oblivious to the three carloads of people staring at them. Elephants came right up to us, a family as big as thirty, walking past so close that if I'd held out my hand I could have touched them. There's something about seeing these animals; South Luangwa is the fourth such national park I've visited, and I never get tired of seeing these animals, the colourful birds and funny-looking giraffes in the wild. I even went on a walking safari, albeit with an armed guide, and came up close to warthogs, antilopes, hippoes and giraffes. I loved it. I could have easily stayed in South Luangwa for a week, sitting by the pool, reading and watching the day waste away in between game drives. But I had to come back. Luckily, I could bring Niku with me.
The road back was far less dramatic- we only ran out of petrol once, and only had one fight with a cheating bus conductor. Niku and I stuffed ourselves with unhealthy, deep-fried doughnuts and soft drinks, and slept most of the way to Lusaka. I couldn't bare to end a nice weekend just yet, so I arranged Niku to stay with my family in Chawama. They loved the idea; Handsen (the father of my family) took Niku around Lusaka, seeing all the sights (which doesn't take long, I tell you!), but most of the time we met up with my friends, went to see movies, ate pizza and did all sorts of silly western things, like shopping. It was fantastic having a friend stay, and I almost cried when we finally, over a week later, said good bye at the same bus station we'd arrived at.
(Jerryspringer-like afterthought) It is amazing how quickly friendships form whenever you are travelling. It always gets me; at home you spend months, years, getting to know someone, and here, in a place where you discuss your bowel movements before you find out each others' names, friendships are instant. Whole little dramas emerge and evolve almost without noticing.
We got to the bus early, around 5.30am for our 6am departure. Usually, the first bus in Zambia is a timed bus, which means it leaves on time, or at least around the right time. Other buses leave when they are full, or when the drunk driver finally sobers up enough to take the bus on the road. We waited. We waited until 8am. Until 8.30am. I was getting angry enough to smash the bus window. Beata threatened the driver with the police "Ha", he said "yes, little lady, you go get the police". They all burst out laughing. No one involves the police in anything in Zambia. Beata looked indignant. "I will", she retorted, and strutted off. The men laughed again, evil, evil laugh. Asia and I glared at them from the bus window.
And then a miracle happened. The police came, they were nice and polite and put us in a bus that left immediately, and forced the evil, evil driver of our bus to pay for it. After three hours of travelling but not-travelling, we were on our way.
The road to Chipata, the closest city, is paved and therefore comfortable. Beata and I ate two packets of biscuits and nine bananas and felt great. In Chipata, we realised we'd missed the last minibus to Mfuwe, the town at the entrance of South Luangwa. Hostel owners and taxi drivers cornered us, and we shook them off, trying to get our bearings and trying to decide on the next move. I wasn't going to pay for a taxi, and neither was I spending a night in this dusty city. So I dragged two very tired polish girls, a tent, a grocery bag and half the sand of Zambia in my shoes to the largest crossing in town. Beata put down her bag and sat down. "What's the plan then? Why are we sitting at the intersection?" She dusted off her trousers and looked at me pleadingly. "We're going to Mfuwe", I said, and started hailing down every passing vehicle, including a few bicycles.
Just before it got dark, we got lucky. We met a guy who was driving up to Mfuwe to take supplies to the local shops. I eyed him suspiciously. He seemed to only have a few crates of Castle lager waiting with him. I figured, OK, at least we'll have entertainment on board. We jumped at the back of the truck.
Unfortunately, we only went around the corner. The guy had neglected to tell me they had a whole lot of more stuff to take with them. We got off; they loaded on maize, bread, toilet roll, crisps. We got on; we drove around the block and the driver decided the stack of beers was too high to be safe, so we drove to his house, where he unloaded some of it for safekeeping (yeah, right). We jumped on; the driver decided that now that the beer was off, there was indeed a bit of room for something else, but what? We drove to his friend's house; we jumped off; we watched sacks of rice being loaded up. We got back on; we stopped, the cover wasn't strapped on properly and it needed to be tightened. We'd hailed the ride at 6.15pm; it was now 8.30, and I was showing so much patience I nearly burst. Just before nine o'clock the stuff was loaded, we were at the back, the driver was still sober and we left Chipata behind. Asia, Beata and I nearly cheered.
Twenty minutes outside the city, the truck broke down.
We got to the campsite around 2am, tired and with achy bums, and didn't bother with the cooking or showering. We were allocated a platform up on the tree, which cheered us up momentarily. I pitched up the tent on the platform, only to realise that it was, actually, way too small for three people. I looked at the two very tired girls, and took my sleeping bag outside and twisted and turned forever in my sleeping bag on the wooden floor, thinking, what the fuck, this is by far the worst 24-hours of my life. Then I heard a deep, grunting sound somewhere below. I peaked out carefully. I was the biggest hippo I'd ever seen, calmly munching away right underneath my sleeping bag. At that moment, the whole trip was suddenly worth something.
I spent two days going on game drives, drinking beer and cooking soggy pasta. The Poles only stayed two nights, but luckily I picked up a lovely Swede, Niku, who kept me company. I saw a heard of 16 lions, sleeping in a tight pile, oblivious to the three carloads of people staring at them. Elephants came right up to us, a family as big as thirty, walking past so close that if I'd held out my hand I could have touched them. There's something about seeing these animals; South Luangwa is the fourth such national park I've visited, and I never get tired of seeing these animals, the colourful birds and funny-looking giraffes in the wild. I even went on a walking safari, albeit with an armed guide, and came up close to warthogs, antilopes, hippoes and giraffes. I loved it. I could have easily stayed in South Luangwa for a week, sitting by the pool, reading and watching the day waste away in between game drives. But I had to come back. Luckily, I could bring Niku with me.
The road back was far less dramatic- we only ran out of petrol once, and only had one fight with a cheating bus conductor. Niku and I stuffed ourselves with unhealthy, deep-fried doughnuts and soft drinks, and slept most of the way to Lusaka. I couldn't bare to end a nice weekend just yet, so I arranged Niku to stay with my family in Chawama. They loved the idea; Handsen (the father of my family) took Niku around Lusaka, seeing all the sights (which doesn't take long, I tell you!), but most of the time we met up with my friends, went to see movies, ate pizza and did all sorts of silly western things, like shopping. It was fantastic having a friend stay, and I almost cried when we finally, over a week later, said good bye at the same bus station we'd arrived at.
(Jerryspringer-like afterthought) It is amazing how quickly friendships form whenever you are travelling. It always gets me; at home you spend months, years, getting to know someone, and here, in a place where you discuss your bowel movements before you find out each others' names, friendships are instant. Whole little dramas emerge and evolve almost without noticing.
Wednesday 29 October 2008
On the Verge of New Zambia?
The tension on the high street's growing by the hour. People are more animated and vocal, and the population of Lusaka has seemingly tripled. I am at an internet cafe on the 11th floor in a city-centre high riser, and I can hear hooting, cheering and general commotion from below. Tomorrow, the Zambians go to vote for a new leader in the presidential and parliamentary by-elections.
Naturally, tomorrow is a day off. I mean, who can expect a person to vote and work on the same day? Jeez. Way too much hassle. Well done on the government for choosing a day in the middle of the week as well. Saturday simply would have not given an excuse for a day off. Most people, as the tradition goes, are not in on Friday either. What's the point? The weekend's only a day away.
I've been watching the election hassle go on for the last month, with a mixture of amusement and shock horror. Where are those democracy defenders when we need them? Only the people who registered in the 2006 elections are eligible to vote. Therefore, anyone who has since turned 18 (the voting age) is not allowed to the polls. Even more ridiculously, people must vote from the polling stations they voted from 2 years ago, which might mean a trek to the other end of a large country with expensive and disorganised transport. In a country where an average person earns 1 USD a day, that's pretty unreasonable.
What does amuse me is the media, or more precise, the lack of it. We were watching one of the candidates, Hakainde Hichilema, being interviewed, and as soon as he'd said, "it's a pleasure to be here today", the power in Chawama, one of the biggest compounds in Lusaka, went off. It came back on as the credits were rolling. Shame, we never found out what he plans to do about the energy deficit.
Quite a few traditional media channels are totally obsolete in a poor country anyway. As a lot of people do not have a TV, or cannot afford a paper on daily basis, people use other medias; a popular way to show your support is to wear a chitenge, a wrap-around dress, with a picture of your favourite candidate, complete with the slogans. This morning, I saw a bicycle adorned with dozens of pictures of the opposition leader Michael Sata, and even more funny (and scary) a bus window so full of posters that the driver had to peer out to see ahead.
Zambian media, even normally, is quite a hoot. Completely void of any international news, (albeit the coverage of the school shooting in Finland which just earned me odd looks at work) it does stories such as "minor increase on boiler production in Ndola expected". I have the internet and BBC world news, thankfully. I think I'd go crazy otherwise. The US presidential elections have had hardly any airtime, apart from the two would-be skinhead assassins who apparently plotted to kill Barack Obama, and even that I'm sure was news worthy only because it seemed so dramatic (Zambians have a taste for drama and romance). I find this surprising; with the kwacha closely linked to the dollar, what happens in the world economy probably has more impact on Zambia than the choice of president, especially since each of them seem to love all sorts of political jargon even more than their European counterparts.
We are expecting a few clashes, especially if the ruling party stays in power. A few weeks ago, an extra box of ballot papers was discovered, and it is still argued whether or not these slips were pre-marked or not. People are restless, and will continue to be restless until all the ballot papers have been received back from the distant provinces, and a new leader can be announced. This should happen by Saturday or so. Until then, I'm laying low.
Naturally, tomorrow is a day off. I mean, who can expect a person to vote and work on the same day? Jeez. Way too much hassle. Well done on the government for choosing a day in the middle of the week as well. Saturday simply would have not given an excuse for a day off. Most people, as the tradition goes, are not in on Friday either. What's the point? The weekend's only a day away.
I've been watching the election hassle go on for the last month, with a mixture of amusement and shock horror. Where are those democracy defenders when we need them? Only the people who registered in the 2006 elections are eligible to vote. Therefore, anyone who has since turned 18 (the voting age) is not allowed to the polls. Even more ridiculously, people must vote from the polling stations they voted from 2 years ago, which might mean a trek to the other end of a large country with expensive and disorganised transport. In a country where an average person earns 1 USD a day, that's pretty unreasonable.
What does amuse me is the media, or more precise, the lack of it. We were watching one of the candidates, Hakainde Hichilema, being interviewed, and as soon as he'd said, "it's a pleasure to be here today", the power in Chawama, one of the biggest compounds in Lusaka, went off. It came back on as the credits were rolling. Shame, we never found out what he plans to do about the energy deficit.
Quite a few traditional media channels are totally obsolete in a poor country anyway. As a lot of people do not have a TV, or cannot afford a paper on daily basis, people use other medias; a popular way to show your support is to wear a chitenge, a wrap-around dress, with a picture of your favourite candidate, complete with the slogans. This morning, I saw a bicycle adorned with dozens of pictures of the opposition leader Michael Sata, and even more funny (and scary) a bus window so full of posters that the driver had to peer out to see ahead.
Zambian media, even normally, is quite a hoot. Completely void of any international news, (albeit the coverage of the school shooting in Finland which just earned me odd looks at work) it does stories such as "minor increase on boiler production in Ndola expected". I have the internet and BBC world news, thankfully. I think I'd go crazy otherwise. The US presidential elections have had hardly any airtime, apart from the two would-be skinhead assassins who apparently plotted to kill Barack Obama, and even that I'm sure was news worthy only because it seemed so dramatic (Zambians have a taste for drama and romance). I find this surprising; with the kwacha closely linked to the dollar, what happens in the world economy probably has more impact on Zambia than the choice of president, especially since each of them seem to love all sorts of political jargon even more than their European counterparts.
We are expecting a few clashes, especially if the ruling party stays in power. A few weeks ago, an extra box of ballot papers was discovered, and it is still argued whether or not these slips were pre-marked or not. People are restless, and will continue to be restless until all the ballot papers have been received back from the distant provinces, and a new leader can be announced. This should happen by Saturday or so. Until then, I'm laying low.
Tuesday 21 October 2008
The Lusaka Mornings
It is hardly past seven a.m., but every living creature is already seeking shade and breeze. I pause quickly by the front gate, before venturing out into the world; I feel like a lion about to leave the zoo cage and parade in front of the popcorn-munching audience, awaiting for me to perform a foreign trick or two.
The dusty dirt road to Chawama centre is not too trying. People here know me already; in fact, they know everything about me. They know I'm a teacher; they know I don't go to church, but sit on the porch and drink beer; that the lights in my bedroom go off early, and that I do my laundry on Saturday mornings. They know, and yet I know nothing of most of them. A crackly old radio plays a current pop hit, and a little boy of about two plays in the dirty gutter, dancing, unashamed, to the tune. He sees me, and waves, tentatively. I smile and wave back; his face beams and he waves back, frantically.
I'm the third person on the bus, and patiently take my seat and wait for the bus to fill up. The commotion of the entire village seems to have centered around my bus. A woman chooses chickens from a tiny wired cage. She sucks her thumb and points at the three fattest ones. The vendor picks up each, non-plussed, breaking their wings and making their nervous cooing cease as they accept their destiny. I zone out during the ride in, and gaze out of the dirty, greasy window. Chawama Business Communications Centre, a sign declares, and underneath, almost as an afterthought, a small scribble: Also relish sold here. The bus pulls up to the hectic Soweto market, and I fiddle with my mp3 player, swapping the calm morning music to something angrier, louder. I pick Beck, I pick PJ Harvey, I pick Franz Ferdinand. I step out, over a pile of rubbish and accidentally kick a plastic bottle. It rolls underneath the next bus entering the station, and pops loudly. I negotiate my way to the main street; the place is buzzing. Anyone in not constant movement on the market road to Kanyama is annihilated. A huge human domino rolls on; a few cab drivers, same guys each morning, shout something at me, but the music drowns it out, and I disappear further into the swarming mass of noise, sweat and dust.
A man with a wheelbarrow filled with wilted green vegetable, rebs, is pushing past the pedestrians, cutting them like weeds; a woman with a basket on her head and a regal posture steps past me. Every last of my senses is assaulted, the screeching breaks, the smelly dried kapenta fish, the colourful market stands. I pause down for a second, letting a car pass, uncomfortably close, a woman steps in front of me, look my sister, what a beautiful chitenge, I make you a good price. I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. Another wheelbarrow, with planks of wood sticking to each direction; a second-hand underwear stall; a scrawny child staring at me, under his brow. I try to walk quicker, I can feel the sun on my neck. Another minibus, the driver literally hanging outside, chanting the destination's name. A man with gumboots for sale, so close to the roadside that cars nearly run over them; I step into the stalls, then almost to the middle of the road to let another wheelbarrow past, negotiating my way in this complicated dance only I know steps to.
And suddenly I'm there, I take a steep turn to the left, gather my skirts and hop over a gutter and I'm there, inside the relative early morning calmness of our centre. I open the door to my tiny little concrete office and switch off angry PJ, until I need her again that afternoon.
The dusty dirt road to Chawama centre is not too trying. People here know me already; in fact, they know everything about me. They know I'm a teacher; they know I don't go to church, but sit on the porch and drink beer; that the lights in my bedroom go off early, and that I do my laundry on Saturday mornings. They know, and yet I know nothing of most of them. A crackly old radio plays a current pop hit, and a little boy of about two plays in the dirty gutter, dancing, unashamed, to the tune. He sees me, and waves, tentatively. I smile and wave back; his face beams and he waves back, frantically.
I'm the third person on the bus, and patiently take my seat and wait for the bus to fill up. The commotion of the entire village seems to have centered around my bus. A woman chooses chickens from a tiny wired cage. She sucks her thumb and points at the three fattest ones. The vendor picks up each, non-plussed, breaking their wings and making their nervous cooing cease as they accept their destiny. I zone out during the ride in, and gaze out of the dirty, greasy window. Chawama Business Communications Centre, a sign declares, and underneath, almost as an afterthought, a small scribble: Also relish sold here. The bus pulls up to the hectic Soweto market, and I fiddle with my mp3 player, swapping the calm morning music to something angrier, louder. I pick Beck, I pick PJ Harvey, I pick Franz Ferdinand. I step out, over a pile of rubbish and accidentally kick a plastic bottle. It rolls underneath the next bus entering the station, and pops loudly. I negotiate my way to the main street; the place is buzzing. Anyone in not constant movement on the market road to Kanyama is annihilated. A huge human domino rolls on; a few cab drivers, same guys each morning, shout something at me, but the music drowns it out, and I disappear further into the swarming mass of noise, sweat and dust.
A man with a wheelbarrow filled with wilted green vegetable, rebs, is pushing past the pedestrians, cutting them like weeds; a woman with a basket on her head and a regal posture steps past me. Every last of my senses is assaulted, the screeching breaks, the smelly dried kapenta fish, the colourful market stands. I pause down for a second, letting a car pass, uncomfortably close, a woman steps in front of me, look my sister, what a beautiful chitenge, I make you a good price. I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. Another wheelbarrow, with planks of wood sticking to each direction; a second-hand underwear stall; a scrawny child staring at me, under his brow. I try to walk quicker, I can feel the sun on my neck. Another minibus, the driver literally hanging outside, chanting the destination's name. A man with gumboots for sale, so close to the roadside that cars nearly run over them; I step into the stalls, then almost to the middle of the road to let another wheelbarrow past, negotiating my way in this complicated dance only I know steps to.
And suddenly I'm there, I take a steep turn to the left, gather my skirts and hop over a gutter and I'm there, inside the relative early morning calmness of our centre. I open the door to my tiny little concrete office and switch off angry PJ, until I need her again that afternoon.
Monday 13 October 2008
The Great Visa Chase, Chapter 2
The guy with the rifle slung across his chest taps me on the shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but just looks at me vacantly and gesticulates. I'm standing in the shade, and obviously a little too close to the ATM he is guarding. I move across and tie my scarf again, a little tighter around my exposed scalp. I'm loitering, waiting for the immigration office to open again. This is my third visit, and I'm well aware of the complicated procedure that is required just to access the building.
The air conditioning has broken down, and the guy at the wooden desk is sweating profusely. He uses a brown dishtowel to wipe his forehead, and he leaves greasy fingerprints all across my certificates, letters of recommendations and everything else. I have printed out an equivalent of a small forest in paperwork, and yet I'm no closer to a work permit I was a month ago. I smile. I am like a small, smiling buddha, seated patiently, silently, in front of this guy who has trouble spelling my name and who is in charge of either sending me home, or stamping my passport. He has reached a verdict, and clears his throat. "You're missing your police clearance. We cannot do anything without it." I reach across the pile of paper spread on his desk; my entire life in neat, white A4 sheets. Suddenly, the pile seems small and almost pathetic. "Here you go. This is it". I point out to the CRB check done in UK earlier this year.
The man's brows knit together as he examines the paper.
"This is done in Britain. But you are Finnish. We need one from Finland". I am, absolutely, determined to be patient, but cannot help a small note of stress in my voice. It rings across the office, clear as a bell.
"I was told last time this is ok. I live in the UK. I have lived there for ten years. And anyway, it's done through Interpol anyway." I have no idea if this is true. But I have noticed that people's main priority in Zambia is to get rid of you. So I insist, but gently, almost flirtingly.
The mans scratches his ear, and looks at the papers again. The air conditioning starts, then stops again. The place is full of all possible nationals, and the heat is oppressing.
We go back and forth, back and forth. I read out my qualifications. I point to the references from the UK. I give him two passport photos of me, looking both red and pale at the same time. Finally, we have an agreement. I obtain a Finnish police clearance, but they will extend my visa for free in the meanwhile, and my application will be logged onto the system. This is huge. My papers are finally in.
I then queue to the cashier, who takes the Barclays cheque from me, and stamps my papers. I then queue back to the same guy, who now has a group of loud Americans to deal with. One of them complains. The man huffs, and pulls me past the queue. The Americans eye me, the evil queue-hopper, and the guy at the desk looks smug- look, if you argue with me, I'll deal with the quiet Finnish girl first. I leave my papers. I queue to get my passport stamped, and when I reach the desk, they tell me I need desk eight, not nine. I join the queue at desk eight. There are six people in front of me. I wait.
I stumble out of the immigration, and am blinking at the strong sunlight in the posh area of Kabulonga; I've been at the immigration for four hours. I sincerely wish I can post my Finnish police check when it comes through.
The air conditioning has broken down, and the guy at the wooden desk is sweating profusely. He uses a brown dishtowel to wipe his forehead, and he leaves greasy fingerprints all across my certificates, letters of recommendations and everything else. I have printed out an equivalent of a small forest in paperwork, and yet I'm no closer to a work permit I was a month ago. I smile. I am like a small, smiling buddha, seated patiently, silently, in front of this guy who has trouble spelling my name and who is in charge of either sending me home, or stamping my passport. He has reached a verdict, and clears his throat. "You're missing your police clearance. We cannot do anything without it." I reach across the pile of paper spread on his desk; my entire life in neat, white A4 sheets. Suddenly, the pile seems small and almost pathetic. "Here you go. This is it". I point out to the CRB check done in UK earlier this year.
The man's brows knit together as he examines the paper.
"This is done in Britain. But you are Finnish. We need one from Finland". I am, absolutely, determined to be patient, but cannot help a small note of stress in my voice. It rings across the office, clear as a bell.
"I was told last time this is ok. I live in the UK. I have lived there for ten years. And anyway, it's done through Interpol anyway." I have no idea if this is true. But I have noticed that people's main priority in Zambia is to get rid of you. So I insist, but gently, almost flirtingly.
The mans scratches his ear, and looks at the papers again. The air conditioning starts, then stops again. The place is full of all possible nationals, and the heat is oppressing.
We go back and forth, back and forth. I read out my qualifications. I point to the references from the UK. I give him two passport photos of me, looking both red and pale at the same time. Finally, we have an agreement. I obtain a Finnish police clearance, but they will extend my visa for free in the meanwhile, and my application will be logged onto the system. This is huge. My papers are finally in.
I then queue to the cashier, who takes the Barclays cheque from me, and stamps my papers. I then queue back to the same guy, who now has a group of loud Americans to deal with. One of them complains. The man huffs, and pulls me past the queue. The Americans eye me, the evil queue-hopper, and the guy at the desk looks smug- look, if you argue with me, I'll deal with the quiet Finnish girl first. I leave my papers. I queue to get my passport stamped, and when I reach the desk, they tell me I need desk eight, not nine. I join the queue at desk eight. There are six people in front of me. I wait.
I stumble out of the immigration, and am blinking at the strong sunlight in the posh area of Kabulonga; I've been at the immigration for four hours. I sincerely wish I can post my Finnish police check when it comes through.
Friday 10 October 2008
It's not negativity, but just the way it is
I was finishing my last class today, in our baking oven -style classroom, where the computers churn and add even extra heat to the already impossible work environment. I'd sent the girls home- my favourite class, the tailoring section girls, most of them who've never even seen a computer before, and who are now getting excited after discovering the thrill of copying and pasting their name fifteen times in a row.
I looked out. The sky had gone dark. "Andrew," I said, poking my head out the window, "I think it's going to rain."
He didn't look up. "No. The rains only come at the end of the month, you silly white girl". He turned the page in the paper and dismissed me with a hand wave. I looked out again, this time actually stepping outside.
"Andrew," I shouted, "I might just be a silly mzungu girl, but unless someone is spitting from the roof, it's started raining."
The sky simply opened up, and the big fat raindrops made the dry dust momentarily fly everywhere. Soon, the whole yard was drenched. I had planned on leaving and coming to the internet, which now looked impossible. I frowned.
"So", I said, "what do we do when it rains?" I had already listed all the possible cab numbers on my phone. Andrew looked up from the paper, indifferent to my internet problems, and said, "We wait. If it rains, it'll eventually stop."
Welcome to the world of zambian thinking. If the car is not here, the car must be somewhere else. If the computer is broken, we can't use it. Wrong. My thinking is: If the car is not here, find out where it is, and get it here. If the computer is broken, we need to fix it.
It seems that I do, sometimes (or actually, most of the time) live in a sphere completely different to the zambians. When I got to the internet today, one of the computers was free, but no one was sitting there, despite the queue of people. "Is that one broken?" I asked. People clucked their tongues in a way that says Noooooo........but I don't really know. Someone pointed out, helpfully, that the computer was locked by the administrator. I turned around to the woman attending to the library. "Can you unlock this one for us, please?" She looked surprised. "Sure" she said, "here you go."
Although it is easy to get frustrated, as I often do in my normal life in the UK, you know, when trains are delayed for five minutes, or the shop has the skirt I want in my size but not in the colour I want, I think I'm much better here. I have accepted certain truths. If the bus can break down, it will break down. Unless you are early, in which case the bus will speed through, knocking out a few unsuspecting pedestrians at the end of the food chain, and you'll be there ridiculously early, waiting for a zambian who'll stroll in at least an hour late. It like the universal law of bus windows, which came to me one very cold night riding from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem a few years ago; if it's hot, the windows won't open. If it's freezing, the windows will be stuck and won't shut. I dare any backpacker to dispute this.
But, as it is, I am running late of my dinner of maize porridge (nshima) and vegetables (probably impwa today, as it's my favourite) and I bet the bus will hang around the bus stop forever, just waiting for it to fill up. It's not negativity, it's just the way things are.
I looked out. The sky had gone dark. "Andrew," I said, poking my head out the window, "I think it's going to rain."
He didn't look up. "No. The rains only come at the end of the month, you silly white girl". He turned the page in the paper and dismissed me with a hand wave. I looked out again, this time actually stepping outside.
"Andrew," I shouted, "I might just be a silly mzungu girl, but unless someone is spitting from the roof, it's started raining."
The sky simply opened up, and the big fat raindrops made the dry dust momentarily fly everywhere. Soon, the whole yard was drenched. I had planned on leaving and coming to the internet, which now looked impossible. I frowned.
"So", I said, "what do we do when it rains?" I had already listed all the possible cab numbers on my phone. Andrew looked up from the paper, indifferent to my internet problems, and said, "We wait. If it rains, it'll eventually stop."
Welcome to the world of zambian thinking. If the car is not here, the car must be somewhere else. If the computer is broken, we can't use it. Wrong. My thinking is: If the car is not here, find out where it is, and get it here. If the computer is broken, we need to fix it.
It seems that I do, sometimes (or actually, most of the time) live in a sphere completely different to the zambians. When I got to the internet today, one of the computers was free, but no one was sitting there, despite the queue of people. "Is that one broken?" I asked. People clucked their tongues in a way that says Noooooo........but I don't really know. Someone pointed out, helpfully, that the computer was locked by the administrator. I turned around to the woman attending to the library. "Can you unlock this one for us, please?" She looked surprised. "Sure" she said, "here you go."
Although it is easy to get frustrated, as I often do in my normal life in the UK, you know, when trains are delayed for five minutes, or the shop has the skirt I want in my size but not in the colour I want, I think I'm much better here. I have accepted certain truths. If the bus can break down, it will break down. Unless you are early, in which case the bus will speed through, knocking out a few unsuspecting pedestrians at the end of the food chain, and you'll be there ridiculously early, waiting for a zambian who'll stroll in at least an hour late. It like the universal law of bus windows, which came to me one very cold night riding from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem a few years ago; if it's hot, the windows won't open. If it's freezing, the windows will be stuck and won't shut. I dare any backpacker to dispute this.
But, as it is, I am running late of my dinner of maize porridge (nshima) and vegetables (probably impwa today, as it's my favourite) and I bet the bus will hang around the bus stop forever, just waiting for it to fill up. It's not negativity, it's just the way things are.
Thursday 2 October 2008
Future Husband Meets Polish Mafia
It's getting ridiculously hot. I know I've been a bit smug about the nice weather here, but the last few weeks, it's gone past my comfort threshold. In the evenings, I sit outside on the porch of the electricity-less house, and listen to the pop music from the bar next door blair out in bemba, a language which I don't understand. It does mix nicely with the chittering of the cicadas, and I drink beer, stare at the stars and wait for the rains. Any week now, they'll come.
I feel funny here. I have seriously had to slow down. Everything happens so much slower- It takes me ages to wash my clothes, and I sit with Purity on our doorstep, with a big soapy bucket of water, chatting and scrubbing, wearing a chitenge, a traditional long wrap-around cloth in bright colours, which I love. Handsen, the father of the family often remarks that we look like a stereotype of two African women going on about our daily things. I find that comforting. Their family has been so welcoming to me, and I feel incredibly relaxed living with them. I never thought I'd be quite so happy in a family accommodation. The odd thing is that it took me about four days to realise that the house does not have a mirror anywhere. I left my little hand mirror in London, thinking it was an unnecessary vanity, and now, every time I step into a lift or go to a slightly nicer store and come across one, I get a slight shock. Each time, I am browner (skin) and lighter (hair).
One thing I seriously hate though is Kanyama, the not-so-nice area of Lusaka where I happen to work. Lusaka is an ugly city, built by Dr Seuss, where nothing works and no logic is put into anything. The city sprawls to every possible direction from the few main roads, creating a shack-like buildings right next to the high risers. The road to Kanyama is full of vendors of everything imaginable, and as the road is dangerously narrow, pedestrians often get hit by cars, wheelbarrows or bicycles. People call out to me all the time. I feel like putting a sign on my neck that says "yes, I am white, and yes, I am still the same white woman you saw yesterday. And last week. And no, I will still not give you my phone number".
A strange man keeps coming into my office. I swapped offices now, and sit with Oscar, our accountant, who is hilarious, and who lets me play my mp3 player on the company laptop. This little man, who's name I cannot make out, comes in, sits down, and occasionally chats. Usually, he just stares at me. Eventually, a few days ago, he asked me if I was "engaged". I almost slipped a sarky remark, before I remembered that people here really do not get sarcasm. They are just too nice, almost in a naive, in a slightly child-like way. I used to get some very odd looks about my sense of humour. Now I just do it to entertain myself.
"No", I told him, "I'm not"
"Ooh." This seemed to delight him. "So, if you are not with anyone, you can go out with me. I"m sure I can show you some new stuff"
I bit my tongue, and hurriedly said "Oh, you meant a boyfriend. Yes, yes, sorry, I do have one"
He seemed a bit down. Then he looked at me up and down, and said "Really? What's his name?"
I panicked. I couldn't, for the life of me, think of a single male name, except my brother's and father's, and let's face it, that's just weird. But he was staring at me, expectantly.
"Vernon", blurted, and immediately mentally kicked myself. Who, I ask you, is called Vernon? Who, under the age of ninety?
"Vernon", he said. "What does he do?"
Vernon bloody kicks your arse, I thought darkly, but said, slightly pompously, "he is a doctor".
"Really? How great. What kind of a doctor"
"A paediatrician" Lets face it, children's doctor is by far sexier than, say, Ear, Nose and Throat consultant, right?
I got a little carried away, and explained that Vernon was setting up a new practice and therefore incredibly busy. But when I went back, we would get married. I think I stressed this point a few times, and now there seems to be a rumour at work that I am, indeed, engaged.
Not that it matters. I am quite happy being almost-married to a handsome, witty paediatrician. And, the great thing about Vernon is that whenever I want to, I can simply file him away somewhere in the back of my consciousness and not worry about toilet seats being not put down.
Friday night, I went to the Spar supermarket in Chawama to buy presents for the kids, beer (not for the kids, but me, of course) and liquorice allsorts, and had a shock of my life. There were, not one, but two white girls looking at me over the frozen chicken tub. TWO WHITE GIRLS! How strange. Chawama is a lower-class suburb where people have outside toilets. It's no place for a tourist. Apparently, the two girls were polish, absolutely lovely, and working as volunteers in an orphanage. They'd planned a trip the next day to Munda Wanga Environmental Park, and invited me along. So we swapped phone numbers over the rice sacks, like it was the most natural thing. I've picked up a girl in the supermarket. How many guys can claim the same? :)
We had a wonderful day. We had 35 children with us, and as soon as we let them loose in the park, we didn't see them till the evening. The gardens are stunning, and after the hustle and dust and orange dirt everywhere that makes up Lusaka, it was paradise. The kids swam in the two massive pools, and we all had a tour of the zoo. The polish chicks were joined by a bunch of others, all Polish, all volunteers. They were loud and happy and totally took over the whole park I called them the Polish mafia, as the normal Zambian families seemed a little frightened by us all. On the Sunday, one of them introduced me to a free internet at the local church office, and we got stuck inside, after everyone left and forgot about us. We opened the electronic gate from the inside, then pressed it shut, and ran across the yard to get out before the gate closed in again, and fell into a fit of giggles when we made it out. Ok, it did make us feel a bit like we were in mission impossible or similar. See, I did say there were very few evening entertainment possibilities here.
I feel funny here. I have seriously had to slow down. Everything happens so much slower- It takes me ages to wash my clothes, and I sit with Purity on our doorstep, with a big soapy bucket of water, chatting and scrubbing, wearing a chitenge, a traditional long wrap-around cloth in bright colours, which I love. Handsen, the father of the family often remarks that we look like a stereotype of two African women going on about our daily things. I find that comforting. Their family has been so welcoming to me, and I feel incredibly relaxed living with them. I never thought I'd be quite so happy in a family accommodation. The odd thing is that it took me about four days to realise that the house does not have a mirror anywhere. I left my little hand mirror in London, thinking it was an unnecessary vanity, and now, every time I step into a lift or go to a slightly nicer store and come across one, I get a slight shock. Each time, I am browner (skin) and lighter (hair).
One thing I seriously hate though is Kanyama, the not-so-nice area of Lusaka where I happen to work. Lusaka is an ugly city, built by Dr Seuss, where nothing works and no logic is put into anything. The city sprawls to every possible direction from the few main roads, creating a shack-like buildings right next to the high risers. The road to Kanyama is full of vendors of everything imaginable, and as the road is dangerously narrow, pedestrians often get hit by cars, wheelbarrows or bicycles. People call out to me all the time. I feel like putting a sign on my neck that says "yes, I am white, and yes, I am still the same white woman you saw yesterday. And last week. And no, I will still not give you my phone number".
A strange man keeps coming into my office. I swapped offices now, and sit with Oscar, our accountant, who is hilarious, and who lets me play my mp3 player on the company laptop. This little man, who's name I cannot make out, comes in, sits down, and occasionally chats. Usually, he just stares at me. Eventually, a few days ago, he asked me if I was "engaged". I almost slipped a sarky remark, before I remembered that people here really do not get sarcasm. They are just too nice, almost in a naive, in a slightly child-like way. I used to get some very odd looks about my sense of humour. Now I just do it to entertain myself.
"No", I told him, "I'm not"
"Ooh." This seemed to delight him. "So, if you are not with anyone, you can go out with me. I"m sure I can show you some new stuff"
I bit my tongue, and hurriedly said "Oh, you meant a boyfriend. Yes, yes, sorry, I do have one"
He seemed a bit down. Then he looked at me up and down, and said "Really? What's his name?"
I panicked. I couldn't, for the life of me, think of a single male name, except my brother's and father's, and let's face it, that's just weird. But he was staring at me, expectantly.
"Vernon", blurted, and immediately mentally kicked myself. Who, I ask you, is called Vernon? Who, under the age of ninety?
"Vernon", he said. "What does he do?"
Vernon bloody kicks your arse, I thought darkly, but said, slightly pompously, "he is a doctor".
"Really? How great. What kind of a doctor"
"A paediatrician" Lets face it, children's doctor is by far sexier than, say, Ear, Nose and Throat consultant, right?
I got a little carried away, and explained that Vernon was setting up a new practice and therefore incredibly busy. But when I went back, we would get married. I think I stressed this point a few times, and now there seems to be a rumour at work that I am, indeed, engaged.
Not that it matters. I am quite happy being almost-married to a handsome, witty paediatrician. And, the great thing about Vernon is that whenever I want to, I can simply file him away somewhere in the back of my consciousness and not worry about toilet seats being not put down.
Friday night, I went to the Spar supermarket in Chawama to buy presents for the kids, beer (not for the kids, but me, of course) and liquorice allsorts, and had a shock of my life. There were, not one, but two white girls looking at me over the frozen chicken tub. TWO WHITE GIRLS! How strange. Chawama is a lower-class suburb where people have outside toilets. It's no place for a tourist. Apparently, the two girls were polish, absolutely lovely, and working as volunteers in an orphanage. They'd planned a trip the next day to Munda Wanga Environmental Park, and invited me along. So we swapped phone numbers over the rice sacks, like it was the most natural thing. I've picked up a girl in the supermarket. How many guys can claim the same? :)
We had a wonderful day. We had 35 children with us, and as soon as we let them loose in the park, we didn't see them till the evening. The gardens are stunning, and after the hustle and dust and orange dirt everywhere that makes up Lusaka, it was paradise. The kids swam in the two massive pools, and we all had a tour of the zoo. The polish chicks were joined by a bunch of others, all Polish, all volunteers. They were loud and happy and totally took over the whole park I called them the Polish mafia, as the normal Zambian families seemed a little frightened by us all. On the Sunday, one of them introduced me to a free internet at the local church office, and we got stuck inside, after everyone left and forgot about us. We opened the electronic gate from the inside, then pressed it shut, and ran across the yard to get out before the gate closed in again, and fell into a fit of giggles when we made it out. Ok, it did make us feel a bit like we were in mission impossible or similar. See, I did say there were very few evening entertainment possibilities here.
Tuesday 23 September 2008
The real-life cliches
This is the serious stuff, the stuff I hardly ever write anymore, since I've changed my philosophical approach to a more-favoured, sarcastic one. Maybe it has something to do with a certain ago, too; as a teenager I used to spend hours just thinking, gazing out of my window into a world I knew nothing about.
So stop reading now, and come back next week if you are looking for irony, sarcasm, and wittiness. It's not here today.
I've heard so many cliches about life, the world and everything in between, that I've become quite jaded and sceptical, and like any fairly educated adult, cringe at the thought of a well-worn cliche. Sure, they sound cheesy, but they might have just originated from a hint of something true. And, after taking in the African way of life, some are starting to surface.
Cliche number one: We have so much in the Western world, and yet we do not seem to enjoy it. I have only been here a few short weeks, but I feel cared for, and needed. When I walk back to the house each evening after work, I'm greeted by everyone I meet. Purity (the mother of the family I am staying with, and a wonderful person) sees me and she exclaims "I missed you today!". It makes me feel warm and happy, like I really do want the world to be a good, happy place. I cannot ever remember being told that in England, or in Finland, for that matter. People here make you feel like you are automatically a part of their community: you don't need to win anyone over, or impress them. Everyone has their own part in the society, however small. We have, in Europe, pretty much everything we can ask for- people to clean our clothes and tidy our houses, transport to take us to where we want, opportunities to train into almost any imaginable profession, and the cash to pay for it all. Yet, when we get home from work, have our nice dinner, and sit in our comfy sofa, flicking through the dozens of channels which are there just to entertain us, we feel this sudden sadness, a certain hollow feeling, which says: Is this it? Don't tell me you've never felt it; we all feel it occasionally. It's almost like we've concentrated so hard on making our lives just the way we like it, that we've forgot to enjoy it.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not going through some sort of an "amazing Africa crisis" where I want to run off and live in a mud hut. That's not the point. I miss London, almost everyday, and the solace of the familiar, but I am starting to understand why I've always been so restless. Things seem clearer here, when all the crap is erased- it almost feels like your life needs to be stripped down to basics to see what really matters. Do you really care about finding the optimal parking space or your favourite loaf of bread in the supermarket? We hear cheering each night on our compound, when electricity gets switched on, after hours of darkness, putting your children to sleep in candlelight and cooking on a coal stove. Here, people are grateful. There, people would riot.
Cliche number 2. It's not what you have, but what you make out of it.
Remember when you occasionally see photos of kids in various sub-Saharan African countries? They have torn t-shirts and muddy feet, but they are always smiling. You know why? Because they've just built a football out of plastic bags, and they are happy. We live in a fast-food society, where everything is quick, easy and available. Everything is replaceable. Torn your favourite cardigan? Just nip to the shops and buy a new one. Don't enjoy your job? Quit, and find something else. Had a massive argument with your boyfriend? Easier to break up. There is no commitment or consistency left; we're almost afraid of actually applying ourselves.
Few days ago, I heard a nice story (my cynical London friends, look away now and keep the sardonic comments to yourselves. Or at least send them to me privately). There was a man who was desperately in love with a girl down the street. The girl had a boyfriend, but the man thought that he'd wait, just in case, because he never found anyone quite like this girl. He never spoke to the girl, but used to leave his house everyday just to pass her on the street and to get a glimpse of her- and this was enough. Can you imagine a poignant story like that taking place where you live? We have no catherines or heathcliffs left; we shrug our shoulders, let go and move on. We persist with nothing, and yet keep asking ourselves what this is all about, what our roles are, forgetting that we do, indeed, occupy a significant space, however small, and it is usually in the hearts of the people who really care about us.
In the light of the horrible news today from the Finnish (and international) websites, that I know have shocked everyone, please call someone you love and tell them you missed them, even if you only saw them ten minutes ago. And don't just do it today- trust me, you'll feel amazing; there is never quite the kind of comfort that exists in someone knowing you well.
So stop reading now, and come back next week if you are looking for irony, sarcasm, and wittiness. It's not here today.
I've heard so many cliches about life, the world and everything in between, that I've become quite jaded and sceptical, and like any fairly educated adult, cringe at the thought of a well-worn cliche. Sure, they sound cheesy, but they might have just originated from a hint of something true. And, after taking in the African way of life, some are starting to surface.
Cliche number one: We have so much in the Western world, and yet we do not seem to enjoy it. I have only been here a few short weeks, but I feel cared for, and needed. When I walk back to the house each evening after work, I'm greeted by everyone I meet. Purity (the mother of the family I am staying with, and a wonderful person) sees me and she exclaims "I missed you today!". It makes me feel warm and happy, like I really do want the world to be a good, happy place. I cannot ever remember being told that in England, or in Finland, for that matter. People here make you feel like you are automatically a part of their community: you don't need to win anyone over, or impress them. Everyone has their own part in the society, however small. We have, in Europe, pretty much everything we can ask for- people to clean our clothes and tidy our houses, transport to take us to where we want, opportunities to train into almost any imaginable profession, and the cash to pay for it all. Yet, when we get home from work, have our nice dinner, and sit in our comfy sofa, flicking through the dozens of channels which are there just to entertain us, we feel this sudden sadness, a certain hollow feeling, which says: Is this it? Don't tell me you've never felt it; we all feel it occasionally. It's almost like we've concentrated so hard on making our lives just the way we like it, that we've forgot to enjoy it.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not going through some sort of an "amazing Africa crisis" where I want to run off and live in a mud hut. That's not the point. I miss London, almost everyday, and the solace of the familiar, but I am starting to understand why I've always been so restless. Things seem clearer here, when all the crap is erased- it almost feels like your life needs to be stripped down to basics to see what really matters. Do you really care about finding the optimal parking space or your favourite loaf of bread in the supermarket? We hear cheering each night on our compound, when electricity gets switched on, after hours of darkness, putting your children to sleep in candlelight and cooking on a coal stove. Here, people are grateful. There, people would riot.
Cliche number 2. It's not what you have, but what you make out of it.
Remember when you occasionally see photos of kids in various sub-Saharan African countries? They have torn t-shirts and muddy feet, but they are always smiling. You know why? Because they've just built a football out of plastic bags, and they are happy. We live in a fast-food society, where everything is quick, easy and available. Everything is replaceable. Torn your favourite cardigan? Just nip to the shops and buy a new one. Don't enjoy your job? Quit, and find something else. Had a massive argument with your boyfriend? Easier to break up. There is no commitment or consistency left; we're almost afraid of actually applying ourselves.
Few days ago, I heard a nice story (my cynical London friends, look away now and keep the sardonic comments to yourselves. Or at least send them to me privately). There was a man who was desperately in love with a girl down the street. The girl had a boyfriend, but the man thought that he'd wait, just in case, because he never found anyone quite like this girl. He never spoke to the girl, but used to leave his house everyday just to pass her on the street and to get a glimpse of her- and this was enough. Can you imagine a poignant story like that taking place where you live? We have no catherines or heathcliffs left; we shrug our shoulders, let go and move on. We persist with nothing, and yet keep asking ourselves what this is all about, what our roles are, forgetting that we do, indeed, occupy a significant space, however small, and it is usually in the hearts of the people who really care about us.
In the light of the horrible news today from the Finnish (and international) websites, that I know have shocked everyone, please call someone you love and tell them you missed them, even if you only saw them ten minutes ago. And don't just do it today- trust me, you'll feel amazing; there is never quite the kind of comfort that exists in someone knowing you well.
Tuesday 16 September 2008
Kitchen Parties and the Agony of Love
"oh my god, you are stressing yourself out", my boss said today when I came into my office holding a pile of paper I just copied. We had electricity for two hours today, which is good, and I managed to copy some mock exams for the IT students. I slammed the pile on my little desk. I had printed them off the internet, seeing that I am teaching IT and know virtually nothing about it. "Well, Andrew, it's not like I'm not used to it", I said, thinking back to the ridiculously hectic days in recruitment. I had copied 20 pages and taught one class since 8am. It was now one o'clock in the afternoon. The day stretched on, it seemed, and 5pm would never come. Luckily my mum called, which was nice. Having a local number has made me feel so much more settled. Except that I frequently get asked for it. Especially by cabdrivers, security guards and pretty much any male zambians. But still. It was nice talking to my mum. I told her I had to teach two computer classes tomorrow and was therefore a Busy and Important Person. She sounded doubtful. "But...you don't know anything about computers!". Hmph. Why do people keep fixating on that?
On Saturday, I was invited to a Kitchen Party by Mrs. Banda, who teaches our tailoring class. Like most invitations in Zambia, it was done spontaneously and without consulting the person who's party it was. Not that it mattered, though, as everyone is welcome everywhere here. I said yes, without having the faintest as to what a kitchen party is. Never mind. If there is one thing I know, it's parties. I told my colleague, Oscar. He looked amused and worried at the same time. "it's like a hen night" he said, "but it is strictly only women and done at a rented function room". Ok, I thought. That sounds fine. Oscar still looked gloomy. "Just whatever you do, don't close your eyes. At any time". Right....
I arrived late for the party on Saturday, because I was caught up with my Finnish friend Hanna at Manda Hill. Manda Hill is the only place in Lusaka I have seen other white people in. It is a shopping centre, not especially glam, but the sort of place you find in Leicester town centre or Plymouth high street. But it has coffee shops that sell real filtered coffee, and no one stares at Hanna and me. To me, it's an oasis. The supermarket there stocks Crunchie bars, diet coke, tampons and face cream, which to me sounds like the promised land. I had bought a nice present for the bride, and rushed in, an hour late. Being an hour late in Zambia is a norm, so how was I supposed to know that Kitchen parties are one of the only things that run on schedule? The place was pumping with traditional drum music, and before I could even look inside, a woman grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me along "Where have you been, my dear? You are very very late! We have expected you!" I had never seen this woman in my life. She dragged me through a space as big as a football pitch, filled with roaring women, and up onto a stage where the bride was sitting and the ceremony master was dancing, wiggling her hips. People were screaming, clapping and singing. Someone took my bag and wrapped a traditional scarf around my hips. And I knew what was coming. I panicked. My eyes furiously scanned the crowd for Mrs. Banda. Surely she would save me? Jesus. They wanted me to dance. In front of all these 200 women. And not just dance, but to do that hip-wiggle that I sometime practice in the privacy of my bedroom when I know no one is watching.
As a mzungu, though, I get away with most things. So I just hopped around like a paralysed frog for a bit, before leaving the stage. Someone passed me a beer. It was a 14-year-old girl, whom I loved more at that moment than anyone in the world. They made me dance with everyone. I got photographed with every woman in the house. I felt bad for sealing the thunder from the bride, but she didn't seem to mind. I just wished I had brushed my hair beforehand. Then, it all ended as abruptly as it had begun- by 7pm, the place had been cleared and I was staggering back to the hostel, ears still pumping.
The evenings are a little quiet here, as Lusaka is hardly the most happening of cities. Sometimes I meet Hanna, or Miriam for a coffee, but generally I'm in the house by 7pm. And I have learned to love the TV here. Until the novelty wears off, of course. And seeing the only themes are fanatic TV preachers, bad swahili pop videos and nigerian soaps, that might be quite soon.
One day I was flicking through the channels and found the worst programme in the world. I was captivated. It was called "The Agony of Love", and it is basically filmed by a guy standing in the corner of a room, using a shaky handcam. When the dialogue starts, the music suddenly stops, as the two cannot be edited together. The background noise is often so bad that you can't hear the actors anyway, which is probably why they feel the need to repeat each line at least three times, in the manner of "I am so confused! Its so confusing! I do not think I have ever been this confused!". Or, that is, when they remember their lines. But not to worry, no need to cut out the parts where lines are forgotten. Just keep the camera rolling, the script will come to them in a moment. Oh, and in case you missed it- it is one of the soaps. There is a guy cheating on his girlfriend and another guy cheating on his girlfriend with the same girl. I wish they could at least throw in an amnesia or suchlike, in the grand tradition of bad telly. If an aspiring writer needs a job, there is a whole world of soap operas to be developed in Africa!
Milla is coming to visit me soon, and Lynn hopefully in December. Am hoping for more visitors, so people, start using those credit cards! I'm off to the Northern Province this weekend, and am starting to realise what a great country this is for travelling....
On Saturday, I was invited to a Kitchen Party by Mrs. Banda, who teaches our tailoring class. Like most invitations in Zambia, it was done spontaneously and without consulting the person who's party it was. Not that it mattered, though, as everyone is welcome everywhere here. I said yes, without having the faintest as to what a kitchen party is. Never mind. If there is one thing I know, it's parties. I told my colleague, Oscar. He looked amused and worried at the same time. "it's like a hen night" he said, "but it is strictly only women and done at a rented function room". Ok, I thought. That sounds fine. Oscar still looked gloomy. "Just whatever you do, don't close your eyes. At any time". Right....
I arrived late for the party on Saturday, because I was caught up with my Finnish friend Hanna at Manda Hill. Manda Hill is the only place in Lusaka I have seen other white people in. It is a shopping centre, not especially glam, but the sort of place you find in Leicester town centre or Plymouth high street. But it has coffee shops that sell real filtered coffee, and no one stares at Hanna and me. To me, it's an oasis. The supermarket there stocks Crunchie bars, diet coke, tampons and face cream, which to me sounds like the promised land. I had bought a nice present for the bride, and rushed in, an hour late. Being an hour late in Zambia is a norm, so how was I supposed to know that Kitchen parties are one of the only things that run on schedule? The place was pumping with traditional drum music, and before I could even look inside, a woman grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me along "Where have you been, my dear? You are very very late! We have expected you!" I had never seen this woman in my life. She dragged me through a space as big as a football pitch, filled with roaring women, and up onto a stage where the bride was sitting and the ceremony master was dancing, wiggling her hips. People were screaming, clapping and singing. Someone took my bag and wrapped a traditional scarf around my hips. And I knew what was coming. I panicked. My eyes furiously scanned the crowd for Mrs. Banda. Surely she would save me? Jesus. They wanted me to dance. In front of all these 200 women. And not just dance, but to do that hip-wiggle that I sometime practice in the privacy of my bedroom when I know no one is watching.
As a mzungu, though, I get away with most things. So I just hopped around like a paralysed frog for a bit, before leaving the stage. Someone passed me a beer. It was a 14-year-old girl, whom I loved more at that moment than anyone in the world. They made me dance with everyone. I got photographed with every woman in the house. I felt bad for sealing the thunder from the bride, but she didn't seem to mind. I just wished I had brushed my hair beforehand. Then, it all ended as abruptly as it had begun- by 7pm, the place had been cleared and I was staggering back to the hostel, ears still pumping.
The evenings are a little quiet here, as Lusaka is hardly the most happening of cities. Sometimes I meet Hanna, or Miriam for a coffee, but generally I'm in the house by 7pm. And I have learned to love the TV here. Until the novelty wears off, of course. And seeing the only themes are fanatic TV preachers, bad swahili pop videos and nigerian soaps, that might be quite soon.
One day I was flicking through the channels and found the worst programme in the world. I was captivated. It was called "The Agony of Love", and it is basically filmed by a guy standing in the corner of a room, using a shaky handcam. When the dialogue starts, the music suddenly stops, as the two cannot be edited together. The background noise is often so bad that you can't hear the actors anyway, which is probably why they feel the need to repeat each line at least three times, in the manner of "I am so confused! Its so confusing! I do not think I have ever been this confused!". Or, that is, when they remember their lines. But not to worry, no need to cut out the parts where lines are forgotten. Just keep the camera rolling, the script will come to them in a moment. Oh, and in case you missed it- it is one of the soaps. There is a guy cheating on his girlfriend and another guy cheating on his girlfriend with the same girl. I wish they could at least throw in an amnesia or suchlike, in the grand tradition of bad telly. If an aspiring writer needs a job, there is a whole world of soap operas to be developed in Africa!
Milla is coming to visit me soon, and Lynn hopefully in December. Am hoping for more visitors, so people, start using those credit cards! I'm off to the Northern Province this weekend, and am starting to realise what a great country this is for travelling....
Wednesday 10 September 2008
The First Day of School
Ever had one of those middle-of-the-night sudden awakenings when you can't remember where you are? I have them often, sort of an occupational hazard, I think. I couldn't think who I was or, indeed, place myself for the life of me, except I knew I was somewhere far, far, far- I could hear insects buzzing away instead of London sirens blearing. I reached for my alarm, realising that 4.49am was too early for an existentialist crisis. And then I remembered- after a mind-numbingly boring, painful flight, I was in Lusaka. And I wasn't quite sure what I was doing there.
The next morning, I stood by the dusty roadside of my hostel, in a pretty yellow morning light, flagging down every single minibus that came up the road, still not sure why I was there. They all look the same, blue, battered, and there seems to be no logic in routes, fares or suchlike. Yet the zambians negotiate these with such grace and knowledge, leaving me flapping my arms at every passing car. I like the mornings here. They are fairly tranquil compared to the normal hassle of the day, and they are cool. I like watching women coming out of huts in their colourful dresses, placing chairs in the shade before commencing their day of gossip and shelling beans.
Lusaka itself is hardly gorgeous. In fact, it is ugly. Very, very ugly. It is full of concrete buildings, manic traffic and littered roadsides. Sigh. I miss my pub by the Thames waterside in Hammersmith, and all that green stuff. Grass? Yes, grass. But the people are wonderful. Truly wonderful. They are the most helpful, smiley people on the planet. Last night, as I was watching a crackly Zambian government TV programme and having dinner in a little place next to the hostel, the waitress asked me kindly how long I'd been in Lusaka. When she discovered not too long ( she could tell by the way I was struggling eating Nshima, the national maize dish, by using my hands and looking like a two-year-old who'd just been given a spoon for the first time) and I suppose she felt sorry for me, she invited me to her brother's wedding on Sunday. Which is the perfect way to desribe people here. A country where life expectancy is 33, and most families have lost at least one or two young people to AIDS, you need to look after everyone around you. No one should ever be by themselves, which is so heartwarming.
I have been at my job for two days now, and have acquired many new skills. The most important ones being sitting perfectly still, and staring into the distance. I have completed one task so far, which was drafting a curriculum for the computer and communications lessons, and that took about an hour and a half. Unfortunately, as Zambia's president died 3 weeks ago, there's been a national mourning, and the students have been on leave until today. However, they are not yet in today. But see, who would start school in the middle of the week? Silly me.
The next morning, I stood by the dusty roadside of my hostel, in a pretty yellow morning light, flagging down every single minibus that came up the road, still not sure why I was there. They all look the same, blue, battered, and there seems to be no logic in routes, fares or suchlike. Yet the zambians negotiate these with such grace and knowledge, leaving me flapping my arms at every passing car. I like the mornings here. They are fairly tranquil compared to the normal hassle of the day, and they are cool. I like watching women coming out of huts in their colourful dresses, placing chairs in the shade before commencing their day of gossip and shelling beans.
Lusaka itself is hardly gorgeous. In fact, it is ugly. Very, very ugly. It is full of concrete buildings, manic traffic and littered roadsides. Sigh. I miss my pub by the Thames waterside in Hammersmith, and all that green stuff. Grass? Yes, grass. But the people are wonderful. Truly wonderful. They are the most helpful, smiley people on the planet. Last night, as I was watching a crackly Zambian government TV programme and having dinner in a little place next to the hostel, the waitress asked me kindly how long I'd been in Lusaka. When she discovered not too long ( she could tell by the way I was struggling eating Nshima, the national maize dish, by using my hands and looking like a two-year-old who'd just been given a spoon for the first time) and I suppose she felt sorry for me, she invited me to her brother's wedding on Sunday. Which is the perfect way to desribe people here. A country where life expectancy is 33, and most families have lost at least one or two young people to AIDS, you need to look after everyone around you. No one should ever be by themselves, which is so heartwarming.
I have been at my job for two days now, and have acquired many new skills. The most important ones being sitting perfectly still, and staring into the distance. I have completed one task so far, which was drafting a curriculum for the computer and communications lessons, and that took about an hour and a half. Unfortunately, as Zambia's president died 3 weeks ago, there's been a national mourning, and the students have been on leave until today. However, they are not yet in today. But see, who would start school in the middle of the week? Silly me.
Sunday 31 August 2008
An Exceptionally Bad Start
I'm going to Zambia to do voluntary work. I have been aware of the fact for the last year or so, but it has only just struck me, really. Sometimes, it seems, people are so busy planning things that they forget to enjoy them. Usually preparing for a long trip is almost more exciting than going on it- lying in your bed, late at night, you're never really bothered by the realities of things- such as mosquitoes, street vendors or, in my case, lost/ stolen/ don't-know-where-i-put-it credit cards. Planning stage is beautiful- that's when everything is still perfect.
I got my passport back from the zambian embassy in Sweden ten hours before my flight to London, and flew back to see my favourite city in the world yesterday. I was bursting with energy (very inappropriate for 6.20am on a Saturday) when I heard my flight was delayed by two hours. I was adament that this would not annoy me. Instead, I collected a food voucher from the harrassed-looking BA attendant, and had an expensive breakfast whilst being eyeballed by business men, who always seem to think backpackers steal the food from the counter when no-one's looking. The flight was delayed another two hours, and as I chatted to the attendant, he told me it would most likely be cancelled altogether. So, I decided to be shrewd and left the departure hall to be the first one in the queue for another flight later on in the day, and found another BA spokesperson, looking equally miffed.
Me: "oh, hi, I'm on this flight to London....but I think it's cancelled. Any chance you could put me on the 11.45am one instead?
BA Lady, looking smug: "sorry, we can't do that until the flight's officially cancelled."
Me: "Right. But it has been four hours" (and I have been unusually patient so far)
BA: "Sorry (she doesn't look sorry), but we can't do anything until we have confirmation." Smirk. Uncalled for.
Me: "OK, then..."
At which stage the phone rings and the lady picks up the phone.
BA lady: "Hello....alright....cancelled? And it's ok to re-route people now? Any preference on who goes first, such as families? (glares at me) No...? Thanks."
Me, smirking, feeling like, yeah, in your face, book me in!: "So.....I'd like the 11.45 flight please"
This might not seem like a big deal, but I have hang-ups about airline personnel ever since a Ryanair stewardess shouted at me, so it felt like a small victory for little passanger people.
London, four hours later. I am the last person at the baggage reclaim and the only bag going around in lonely circles is a blue Mickey Mouse holdall. I'm fairly sure it's not mine. I felt this was coming- I'd downgraded myself and flown with Blue1, a budget airline, Sweden's answer to Ryanair. Luckily I had gone to each of BA's 3 service points and collected more food vouchers from each, so I was laden with sandwiches, chocolate and had had 2 ciders at the airport. I miserably trod to the SAS counter, and after a lenghty explanation of what my bag looks like (it's a big black one, and only so little can be said of it) I left and got on the underground.
I love and hate the London underground. It is a fantastic piece of the urban landscape, so to speak, to the point where tourists (including my mum) buy umbrellas with the tube map on it. I hate it, because I have been stuck in it for probably half my life, but I love it because I would have hated being stuck on the bus instead for all that time. The day was hot and I was wearing jumpers, woollen socks and heavy shoes. At an interchange station, I finally changed into a baggy, shapeless white T-shirt the airline people had given me along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and something dodgy labelled as "feminine overnight kit", which I've been too scared to open as yet. At the little interchange station in Chalfont, where you get a "shuttle" to my friend Marianne's house (this is where me and my shoes currently stay at) in Chesham, I was the only person at the whole station. Luckily I found a lovely old chap, the station master, and asked when the next shuttle was.
Station master: "Oh love, you just missed one!" ( I hate when people say that. Do you think it makes me feel better to know I just missed a train? It's almost like saying, I nearly got you a present but decided not to after all.)
Me: "Right. So do you know when the next one might be?"
"In 28 minutes. Takes you straight up."
"Great. I see the gate's open. Anything there to do in Chalfont for 28 minutes?"
"Well. You could have a look at the shops. You know, we have a Tesco's now."
"Captivating stuff"
I did go to Tesco's, which was just like any other supermarket, except everyone was white, drove a car that was shiny and bought the expensive stuff instead of baked beans. I bought a can of Strongbow, and just to be rebellious, drank it on the way to Chesham, in the shuttle, in the time of banned alcoholic drinks. That's how cool I am.
I got my passport back from the zambian embassy in Sweden ten hours before my flight to London, and flew back to see my favourite city in the world yesterday. I was bursting with energy (very inappropriate for 6.20am on a Saturday) when I heard my flight was delayed by two hours. I was adament that this would not annoy me. Instead, I collected a food voucher from the harrassed-looking BA attendant, and had an expensive breakfast whilst being eyeballed by business men, who always seem to think backpackers steal the food from the counter when no-one's looking. The flight was delayed another two hours, and as I chatted to the attendant, he told me it would most likely be cancelled altogether. So, I decided to be shrewd and left the departure hall to be the first one in the queue for another flight later on in the day, and found another BA spokesperson, looking equally miffed.
Me: "oh, hi, I'm on this flight to London....but I think it's cancelled. Any chance you could put me on the 11.45am one instead?
BA Lady, looking smug: "sorry, we can't do that until the flight's officially cancelled."
Me: "Right. But it has been four hours" (and I have been unusually patient so far)
BA: "Sorry (she doesn't look sorry), but we can't do anything until we have confirmation." Smirk. Uncalled for.
Me: "OK, then..."
At which stage the phone rings and the lady picks up the phone.
BA lady: "Hello....alright....cancelled? And it's ok to re-route people now? Any preference on who goes first, such as families? (glares at me) No...? Thanks."
Me, smirking, feeling like, yeah, in your face, book me in!: "So.....I'd like the 11.45 flight please"
This might not seem like a big deal, but I have hang-ups about airline personnel ever since a Ryanair stewardess shouted at me, so it felt like a small victory for little passanger people.
London, four hours later. I am the last person at the baggage reclaim and the only bag going around in lonely circles is a blue Mickey Mouse holdall. I'm fairly sure it's not mine. I felt this was coming- I'd downgraded myself and flown with Blue1, a budget airline, Sweden's answer to Ryanair. Luckily I had gone to each of BA's 3 service points and collected more food vouchers from each, so I was laden with sandwiches, chocolate and had had 2 ciders at the airport. I miserably trod to the SAS counter, and after a lenghty explanation of what my bag looks like (it's a big black one, and only so little can be said of it) I left and got on the underground.
I love and hate the London underground. It is a fantastic piece of the urban landscape, so to speak, to the point where tourists (including my mum) buy umbrellas with the tube map on it. I hate it, because I have been stuck in it for probably half my life, but I love it because I would have hated being stuck on the bus instead for all that time. The day was hot and I was wearing jumpers, woollen socks and heavy shoes. At an interchange station, I finally changed into a baggy, shapeless white T-shirt the airline people had given me along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and something dodgy labelled as "feminine overnight kit", which I've been too scared to open as yet. At the little interchange station in Chalfont, where you get a "shuttle" to my friend Marianne's house (this is where me and my shoes currently stay at) in Chesham, I was the only person at the whole station. Luckily I found a lovely old chap, the station master, and asked when the next shuttle was.
Station master: "Oh love, you just missed one!" ( I hate when people say that. Do you think it makes me feel better to know I just missed a train? It's almost like saying, I nearly got you a present but decided not to after all.)
Me: "Right. So do you know when the next one might be?"
"In 28 minutes. Takes you straight up."
"Great. I see the gate's open. Anything there to do in Chalfont for 28 minutes?"
"Well. You could have a look at the shops. You know, we have a Tesco's now."
"Captivating stuff"
I did go to Tesco's, which was just like any other supermarket, except everyone was white, drove a car that was shiny and bought the expensive stuff instead of baked beans. I bought a can of Strongbow, and just to be rebellious, drank it on the way to Chesham, in the shuttle, in the time of banned alcoholic drinks. That's how cool I am.
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