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.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
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.
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