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.
Saturday, 13 December 2008
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.
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