Letter to Mom

21 November 2007
Dear Mom,
First, let me start by thanking you for the wonderful support you have given me over the past few years. I know that I’ve made some decisions that other people’s parents might not have accepted with such understanding and respect. I couldn’t ask for a better mother and I want to let you know that you are appreciated.
Having said that, I want to tell you about a decision that I have made concerning my future. Remember how wonderful and supportive you are? Keep thinking about that. Keep that in mind as I tell you the next bit of very exciting news.
I’ve met someone.
Her name is Chastity Kabumba, and she’s the most incredible person I’ve ever known. She’s strong, and tolerant, and very ready to start a family. She’s wonderfully intelligent and with the grace of God she will pass her ninth grade exams this fall. I’m standing by her through this very trying time, and regardless of the outcome, I will be there for her.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering how I will he support himself and the nine or ten children that will inevitably follow this union? Well, let me set your mind at ease.
Chastity is quite the accomplished fritter-maker, and with the right amount of support and someone to supply the sugar, she could really go places. She and I have also looked into the traditional beer-making industry, and let me tell you, it is booming! But that’s not it. During my investigations into the industry, I was fortunate enough to meet a man by the name of Gift Kikondo. I knew as soon as I had met Gift that I had found a friend and a mentor. He had the pungent scent of someone in touch with the Earth and a keen- if somewhat bloodshot- eye on the future. Gift was kind enough to trade me a very sturdy hoe for my digital camera so that I could start a maize field of my very own. He also found it in his heart to exchange his bicycle for mine. While his bicycle lacks certain luxuries like brakes or pedals, it has a very powerful luggage carrier that will surely come in handy when I am hauling my maize to market or hauling Chastity to the antenatal care day at the local Rural Health Clinic.
As you may have gathered, I have changed my plans a bit for next spring. I know that I had planned on coming home next April. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve talked to the chief, and Chastity and I have been given a section of land on which to start our family. We are moulding bricks even now. We hope to have them fired and our home’s construction well under way before the rains start.
I still haven’t told you the best part, however. Chastity and I have a very powerful spiritual connection. As you know, I have been questioning my faith very seriously over the past few years. During that time, I came to find the truth in the Earth-Spirit of Gaia. The Earth is our true God and I have found no people like those of my village to be more in touch with this Spirit. I know you think that they are poor and backward here. But are they really? Ask yourself, Mom. Are they, or are we the ones that are poor?
While Chastity and her family are staunch Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I have yet to translate my views to their local language, I expect that once I do they will be very understanding. They are the true Earth-people, Mom, and my future lies with them. Together we will suckle from the nourishing teat of Gaia’s bountiful bosom. Praise Gaia! To make a long story short, I’m staying. I have my sturdy hoe, a plot of land, and a reasonably mobile bicycle. With the grace of Gaia, Chastity’s very fertile womb, and the sound- if somewhat slurred- wisdom of Gift Kikondo, I know that I can flourish here.
So let me officially inform you that I am to be wed three months from today. If you can, please come to the wedding. While here, you can stay for the birth of our first child- due three and a half months from now- whom we have already named Wireless Earth-Spear Adams.
If you can’t make it, feel free to write to: Dave Adams, c/o Nselauke Basic School, PO Box 120091, Kasempa, Zambia.
Thanks again for all of your support.


Yours in the healing light of Gaia,
Dave



P.S. It’s Gaia’s wish that I dispose of all electric or battery powered devices, so the phone’s gone. Please do write!
-D.

27 December 2007: Rags to Retail

So we didn’t go out last night. We hung around the Cardboard Box where we ordered beer and shots at the bar. We sat with the other volunteers at a table over looking the bar and pool area. There was a lot of talk about going to bed early. I watched all the time for Alile and when she passed, I made a small wave in her direction. I sat for a while longer so as to not look so desperate and then excused myself down to the bar.
Alile said something about a volleyball game that we had talked about the night before that we hadn’t played that day. She offered to by me a beer and I bought her a shot in return.
After finishing her shot, Alile went to sit at a table by the pool. There was nothing for it but for me to go there as well. I sat down and was greeted by several other people at the table. Alile’s boyfriend, Jared, was there and I shook his hand. There was also an Austrian man who spoke the kind of English that makes me ashamed of my being an All-American unilingual. His girlfriend was next to him. She is Spanish and is very happy and speaks with her hands and kisses you on the cheeks when she sees you.
I sat with the group and smoked cigarettes. At one point a small Japanese man that is also staying at the backpackers got up and started to juggle clubs about the size and shape of bowling pins. Later, one of the Namibian workers at the Cardboard Box played Bob Marley songs on an electric guitar. Everyone started to clap in time or to bang on the plates or the table or whatever was at hand. We all moved to the music and everything flowed together.
And then, all at once, I was aware of the time. I looked up and saw that the other volunteers had gone to bed. I felt suddenly like I had deserted them and I felt very out of place. I didn’t know how to excuse myself, so I didn’t. I got up casually as if I was just going to the bathroom, and went to bed.

I woke up earlier than I would have liked to this morning so that we could move from our temporary private room back into the dorms. Felix and Sam and I ate our breakfast of Namibian “pancakes” at the bar and then left to go to the mall and to look into renting a car. We stopped first at a tourist info center where we were directed to a travel agent several blocks away.
The inside of the travel agency was very clean and sterile- like a clinic for those with the travel bug. We were pointed to the first desk in a long row where we were helped by a very lovely young lady with a name tag that read “Wilhelmina.” I remember because, well, she was hot, and Wilhelmina just isn’t a name you see in Zambia.
Wilhelmina called Budget and got us a pretty good deal on a car for ten days. Our plan is to drive from Windhoek to Swakopmund and then on to the sand dunes at Sossusvlei and back to Windhoek.
While we were working out the details, Felix got nervous and had to walk away. Sam and I smiled at this, but I understood. I get nervous at these sorts of things as well. It’s a good thing Sam is here to hammer things out logistically.
After the travel agency, we went to the mall where Sam helped Felix and me pick out new clothes to replace our tattered rags for the New Years celebration in Swakopmund. I found my clothes relatively easily. I got a new shirt and a pair of real flip-flops and a new belt. Felix was a different story. He tried on several things that Sam had picked out and none of them worked. While Sam was away looking for something else, he told me that he was worried that Sam would be upset that he didn’t like anything she picked out. When he went back into the dressing room, Sam said she was worried that Felix was feeling that she wasn’t helping him enough. I enjoyed the whole thing immensely. It ended with Felix buying a shirt that Sam had dismissed earlier.
Afterward, Felix and I tried again to find a Christmas present for Sam. We looked at purses, but Felix said that they would be an empty gesture. Then we struck on an idea (both of us at exactly the same time). We would get Sam a picture of the two of us. We found a Shoprite that has a photo center and blew up two pictures from Felix’s camera- one of Felix and me and a second of the three of us. Then we walked through at least five different photo shops before we found a double frame that would hold the right size pictures. Next time, we will get the frame and then the pictures.
At a stationary shop in the mall, we bought felt pens for personalizing messages to Sam on the back of the frame. We went to a restaurant where we could sit down to write our messages. We even bought wrapping paper and wrapped the frame. I’m pretty proud of the whole thing.
When Sam met us for lunch she unwrapped the present and loved it and demanded to know whose idea it was. We told her the truth: we had thought of it, both of us, at exactly the same time.
Tonight, we wear our new shirts to a Windhoek night club.

Vaulting Us

What is the feeling when you’re driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It’s the too huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
-Jack Kerouac


Vaulting Us
Neal is tall and often has to fold himself when fitting into the small spaces offered hitch-hikers. Artie is short and fat and his bulk doesn’t fold. But these things weren’t a problem for Neal and Artie the last time they left Lusaka by car. They sat next to each other in the back of a Toyota Corolla that roared away from Lusaka- eating 140 kilometers an hour.
The two were on their way back to their provincial capitals for the last time so that they could settle things. The next time either of them left Lusaka, it would be on board a jet. They had been in this country in the middle of southern Africa for two days short of twenty-six months and both were about to rediscover the way of life that had been steadily clicking, buzzing and whistling like a modem in their absence.
America. The United States of America.
Artie hated calling it America and himself an American and usually used “The States”; always capitalized in his mind. He didn’t know how to refer to himself as anything but an American, so he simply said “I’m a Minnesotan.” Artie needed to go home, but wondered inside if that home was still there.
Neal had a fiancé waiting for him there in “The States,” and the thought of her there held his mind like a beacon- guiding him through any doubts about readjustment.

Before the Corolla, the two had taken a cab to the outskirts of town. The cab stopped at a place that didn’t seem like any sort of destination and Neal and Artie stepped out and on to the side of the road. “You have change for 50,000? Thank you, boss.”
Many cars drove by them on the side of that road. There were lorries with loads: lumber or pieces of cellular phone towers or goats or people. There were small cars and pickup trucks and many cabs that slowed and stopped to ask if a lift was needed. The cab drivers would say that they could be booked to go where ever the two were headed and were told that the two hadn’t the money to book a cab that distance. The cab driver would then advise the two to take the bus. “No, thank you- the bus is expensive and dangerous.” Neal and Artie preferred to chance their luck with the lottery of driver generosity on the road.
Once a large diesel pulling a school bus on a flat bed went by. It was a large yellow school bus with black stripes down its sides like the ones that any American child has ridden to school. The diesel together with the school bus piggy-back took up a big part of the road- and the sky above the road- and buffeted the two hitch-hikers with wind as it passed; picking up speed to get out of town.
As they stood on the side of the road, Neal and Artie joked about this life that had been theirs for two days short of twenty-six months. People filed by on their way to nearby places. Mothers with babies walked with their loads on their heads. School children walked by in their uniforms with different colors for different grades. A group of men with shovels and picks walked by and stopped briefly to ask why the two weren’t taking the bus. The men with the implements said that they were on their way to dig a grave, but were none the less jolly- they bummed a cigarette and walked on.
Neal looked down the road leading back into Lusaka during a gap in traffic and sighed. “Every time we do this, it seems like we are never going to find our way home.” As he finished the sentence, another stream of cars rolled by and Artie turned to wave his hand- palm down- in the African version of sticking out a thumb. The cars continued past. Some of the drivers waged a down-turned finger in a circle to tell the travelers that they were “just within”- not leaving town. Some of them shook their hand side to side- palm up- as if shaking a pair of invisible dice. This meant that they were full- or not allowed to pick up hikers. Most drivers drove past and simply stared. These were the ones that aggravated the two the most. “At least give us a sign.”
Digging through his wallet- mostly for something to do- Artie realized that he had quite a collection of business cards that he had never asked for. Laughing, he handed them to Neal and explained that drivers- usually those that don’t charge- have a habit of giving their card. The hope is that this random American that the driver has picked up may some day be a valuable connection across the sea. Mostly these cards were simply moldering in Artie’s wallet. Neal suggested that the future of the cards was to continue to do so.
Neal and Artie stood there on the side of the road for over an hour being alternately ignored by drivers in shiny extended cab pickup trucks and socked by the displaced wind around tractor trailers. They were at least another hour from considering giving up when the dark blue Corolla pulled to a stop just in front of them.
The driver was a man named Simon in a brightly colored plaid suit. There was a woman in the passenger seat in a more traditional dress that was never introduced. They were on their way to the funeral of Simon’s brother. Neal and Artie gave their condolences and then let the conversation go the way Simon wished. He asked about the upcoming presidential election in the United States and expressed his doubts about the American public electing someone who is of African decent. Neal and Artie wanted to and did believe that the U.S. wouldn’t let something like race effect the outcome of the elections.
Simon said that he had studied in the U.K. and asked the two hitch hikers if they had ever been there. Neither of them had. Eventually the conversation died away and there was just the rumba music on the radio and the purr of the road under the car. Neal closed his eyes and leaned his head back and went to sleep. Artie couldn’t get to sleep on transport and he looked around at the landscape and thought about girls. He thought maybe he would go out dancing when he got back to his provincial capital. Occasionally he looked at the speedometer and thought about how the driver was going a little to fast for his liking.
Artie’s mind moved briefly from girls: one hundred and forty kilometers is how many miles per hour. Fifty kilometers is thirty miles… sixty into one hundred… forty more… divide by five…multiply by three… twenty- four more. We’re going 84 miles an hour. This is too fast. Maybe not in a sound car, but who knows what’s wrong with this Corolla.
As the Corolla pulled out to pass the tractor trailer pulling the school bus and rumbled over a set of speed bumps without stopping, Artie decided that there are some things that it’s just best not to think about. He looked over at Neal sleeping open-mouthed next to him. He knew that their paths would diverge in about one hundred kilometers. Neal would go north and Artie would go west and the next time that they would meet would be in the United States; maybe at Neal’s wedding. Even though this wasn’t the end of their friendship, Artie felt the full weight of leaving for the first time. It would never again be like that moment for them again. There would be other times, but never times like the crazy Kerouac dream in which their friendship had been forged.
The car loped over another set of speed bumps and Simon apologized- saying that they had already started the viewing of the body. Artie said that it was no problem and meant it because he was fairly sure that the Corolla was a free ride. But when the bumps woke Neal, Artie looked at his friend and quietly crossed himself. The two travelers smiled. Risk had to be a joke in situations like this- or it would be too much to bear for two days short of twenty-six months.
Seeing that both of his passengers were awake, Simon disclosed that he had gone to school for law and that he was working as a Lawyer in Lusaka. He launched into a speech about the treatment of prisoners in his country. Neal realized this was a plea for support. Artie continued to nod and listen to the pitch. When Simon reached into the pocket on the inside of the brightly colored plaid jacket, the two travelers smiled. Simon handed the card to Artie and it was filed into the wallet along with the pile of others decaying there.
Neal and Artie were dropped from the Corolla at a police check point some fifty kilometers from their parting junction. They thanked the driver profusely for what was indeed a free ride and stepped out into the sun. Neal didn’t think that the police were going to be any help, so the two started to walk down the road to where they would be out of site and cars would be less afraid to stop. As they walked they talked about shotguns and slug-barrels and their conversation could have been pulled from any other point in their service. As the police post disappeared over the horizon of the road behind them, Neal and Artie were again hit by the wind of the tractor trailer with school bus as it rolled steadily by.
Shortly after the school bus, a Land Cruiser with an open bed stopped and Neal and Artie climbed in the back. They sat down on the hard, sun-heated metal of the wheel wells and held on to the walls of the bed as the truck accelerated. Artie looked through the back window of the truck and could see the console. One hundred and forty kilometers per hour. They flew past the school bus.
The Land Cruiser stopped in Kapiri- about ten kilometers short of the junction- and Neal and Artie climbed immediately into an old blue taxi cab. The cab had no shocks and it floated like a boat to the petrol station at the junction. At the station, Artie and Neal at shawarmas and drank coke and didn’t say much. With the food finished, they sat at the table full of empty greasy wrappers. The cars continued to rush by, and Artie couldn’t help noting that they were going his direction. “Well, I guess…”
“Yeah.”
As they walked from the station, an old man on crutches approached them and greeted in the local language. A group of younger men nearby said that the man was hungry and that the two Americans should buy him something. Neal reached into his wallet and pulled a couple of ragged bills and handed them to the old man. Artie gave nothing and the two of them started to walk away. The younger men called after them that they hadn’t given enough. Neal turned to explain that they were volunteers and that the money to hand out to everyone wasn’t there. There was a need to decide who to give to and who to deny. Artie never turned. Finally Neal also turned around and the young men continued to yell as the two walked away. Neal shook his head. “Assholes.”
It will never be like this again.

At the road, Neal and Artie faced each other. The moment had come. They hugged quickly and reminded each other that they would meet in “The States.” They turned and walked in opposite directions.
As he was walking away, Artie turned and looked again at his friend. Two days short of twenty-six months. They had shared some of the biggest challenges of their life. It had seemed like such a long time from the other end, and now it was coming to a close.
Artie had to wipe tears from his eyes before he could talk to the driver of the truck that stopped to take him to the next town on the road back to his village. Shaking his head, he climbed into the bed of the truck and sat down on a wheel well and his eyes were soon dried by the wind as the truck passed the school bus.
Through the window he could read the speedometer: one hundred and forty kilometers an hour.

26 December 2007: Boxing Day

After our Christmas dinner in the bar last night, Sam, Felix and I went back to the room we’ve been given to make up for the lost reservations. We drank wine and talked. We talked about Zambia and Peace Corps and being so far from home. I was happy just to sit with these two people who mean so much to me, but after awhile we decided that we were being antisocial and headed back to the party.
When we got there, the girl with the dreds was standing at the bar. I had a couple more beers to add to my mounting courage and waited for an opening. When the time was right, I rolled up to the bar and stood next to her. For once, I hoped that the bartender would take his time with my drink. I tried to say something that was smooth, unassuming and cool all at the same time. “Hey there. How are you?” Perfect.
Over the course of the evening, my table helped me out by sending me up after everyone’s drinks. I found out that the girl in the dreds has a name, and it is Alile. She was born in Malawi and moved to Belgium eight years ago. I told her my story as it is and we seemed to have some chemistry. She started to tease me about the number of drinks I was ordering. I swore that they weren’t mine, but reveled in the attention.
The night wore on and people began to either go home or become belligerent. On one of my trips to the bar, I invited Alile to come sit with our party. She said she would and after a bit sat down next to me at the table. I introduced her to Felix and Sam and Bizaro Us and some random Canadian girl that I didn’t really know. Slowly people left the table and before long, it was just the two of us.
We talked about life in Africa and life in Europe and I talked about going back to the US. Alile told me about her family in Malawi and her newer life in Belgium. She told me about her boyfriend from there- whom she was traveling with. He was the man with the moustache that I had seen earlier. His name was Jared. My heart dropped at first, but I settled into the idea and just began to enjoy the company of this wonderfully interesting woman. We talked for close to two hours.

When I left the bar, I positively floated back to the kitchen area. There was a balcony where I stood to smoke a cigarette. While I finished the Marlboro Menthol, I saw that Felix was in the kitchen making soup.
I went into the kitchen and told Felix about the conversation I had just finished. He shrugged at the part about the boyfriend. “The guy with the moustache, huh? Figures.”
We started to talk about Africa. Felix is extending for a third year. We talked about how the continent gets under your skin and I said that I don’t think that I can leave Africa forever. We talked for quite a while. While I remember what was said, I remember that the kitchen pitched and shifted and was out of focus at that point. I was excited. Nothing was holding me back. I was drunk.
Eventually, Sam came into the picture and herded us back to the room and I fell into bed. When I closed my eyes, I felt Africa all around and I could see only Alile.

I woke up this morning with a headache and the group spent the morning lounging around or in the pool. In the early afternoon, we drove to the Windhoek mall in the car that Bizarro Us had rented. We ate pizza at the mall- real-honest-to-goodness pizza with real-honest-to-goodness parmasian cheese- and then walked around. Everything is closed today because it’s Boxing day. Still, it was strange to walk around a mall. We rode up and down on the escalators and allowed ourselves to be captivated by all the displays in the store windows.
In the afternoon, we went to a movie. Sam and Felix went to some Disney movie where the characters come alive. I opted out of that and went with Frank and Jolene to “The Golden Compass.” It was just ok. At least it had Sam Elliot in it. I’ll take anything with Sam Elliot anyday over talking chimpmunks. We finished first and went back to the pizza place to wait for the other two.
There’s a place here called the “Hemingway Cocktail Lounge” that I really want to visit. It’s got big pictures of Ernest Hemingway and quotes from the book on the outside. I imagine drinks like “The Tequila Sun Also Rises” or “The Old Man and the Seagram’s,” or maybe just leather jugs of wine and big plates of raw swordfish. But I’ll have to wait. The lounge is also closed for Boxing day. Stupid British and their ridiculous holidays.

So now we’re back at the Cardboard Box relaxing and getting ready to go out. I’m waiting and hoping that Alile will come out, but there is no sign of her yet. I’m also hoping that her moustachioed boyfriend wandered away in the night. Not much chance of that.

25 December, 2007: Christmas in a Strange Land

A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road

The atmosphere at Joe’s Beerhouse in Windhoek is somewhere between that of a family restaurant found anywhere in the states and that of a dive bar that I used to frequent in Superior, Wisconsin. The walls are covered in African memorabilia and there are waitresses walking around everywhere with trays of game meat and big pitchers of German beer.
We went to the beerhouse last night with Bizarro Us. We sat down and ordered food- big plates of meat- and it came with lightning speed. I laughed at Felix’s order- a pork knuckle- because of its size. The hunk of pig was only slightly smaller than a bowling ball and fried crispy brown. It came with sour kraut and a cup of mustard for dipping.
As soon as we sat down, Jolene began talking about ordering an Irish Car Bomb. I agreed to join her in this endeavor and we ordered a glass of Guinness and a shot of Irish whiskey each. We had a little trouble at first because the shot glasses containing the whiskey were too big, but we called the waitress and were soon set up with the right equipment. Jolene and I touched glasses, said, “Merry Christmas,” and dropped the shots of Jameson in the glasses of thick, dark beer. I drank mine quickly without tasting much of it- I’m a champion guzzler- and Jolene took a little longer but emptied the glass before putting it down. Cheers rippled across the table. Jolene put down her glass, took a breath and glowed. As I tucked into the rump steak in front of me, the whiskey and beer coursed warm inside and would have struck me as Christmas cheer if anything about the situation had felt like the holidays.
I finished my steak with way-too-big bites and then finished a good chunk of the pork knuckle that Felix couldn’t cram down. Then Jolene and I ordered another Car Bomb. Feeling fine, I followed the group to the back of the bar and we ordered more beer- big bottles of German beer- and talked about the Peace Corps. While we sat and talked and smoked, we watched a European family celebrating at a table not far away from ours. In their group there was a boy that couldn’t have been more than eleven. His parents (I assumed) were buying him shots. After the third or fourth drink, the little tike was off his barstool and couldn’t get back on. Luckily, his mom was there to give him a hand. I thought then- as I had thought countless times before- that I’m definitely a stranger in a strange land.

I woke up this morning feeling hung over. Felix and I made eggs in the backpacker’s kitchen. It was a big pan of scrambled eggs with onions and ham and tomatoes and cheese. As we paced about the kitchen, chopping and frying, we chatted with a fellow from Australia named Bill. Bill is also volunteering in Africa and has been doing so- on and off- for quite a few years. He seems like an extremely nice person and I wrote down his email. You never know who you’re going to meet next when traveling in Africa from backpacker’s to backpacker’s. So far, at the Cardboard Box, I’ve met Bill from Australia, and others from Italy, Israel, Ireland, Canada, and some very nice nursing students from Norway. This place has collected quite a few people and their perspectives.
We took our breakfast and went down to the bar. On the way, we passed the front desk. The girl working there was a different girl from the day before. She was wearing a very short black skirt. She had perfect legs and a seeming animosity toward everyone and everything. I said hello and she glared at me. It must be terrible to have to work on Christmas day, I thought, and proceeded to the bar.
After the big plate of greasy eggs, I started to feel like a normal human being again. Felix and I went back to the dorm room where Sam had remained. Sam and Felix decided to have a nap, but I couldn’t sleep. I said that I would be at the bar and walked out.
In the bar I put 20 Namibian dollars in a machine and was given a pack of Marlboro menthol cigarettes in return. This was the first cigarette machine I had seen in a very long time and I had been looking at longingly ever since we had arrived at the Cardboard Box. I went to the bar and got a Windhoek Draught. Sitting down at a booth as far away from the bar as I could, I tried to put myself in the writing mode so that I could record the events of the past two days before they disappeared forever in the fog of beer and credit card debt that is slowly gathering through the course of this trip. I wrote about a half a page with workable focus and then was distracted.
I looked up briefly to gather thoughts and took a long cool drag of the menthol. I exhaled a wring of smoke and squinted. The sun glared off the swimming pool just outside the bar. I was about to go back to writing when a figure came out of the water and cut the glare. She stepped on the stone edge of the pool and stood there for a moment with beads of water drying on her brown skin and then smiled at someone or something to my left. I smiled too and then caught myself staring and tried to look back at my notebook. I couldn’t help but look up with the corners of my eyes. I had seen her the day before in the lobby, but didn’t realize it until this moment. Now I noticed her completely with orange bikini and perfect dreadlocks as she moved across the pool area to a picnic table where she stood talking with a very European-looking man with a blonde mustache. I sat there for another ten minutes or so trying to write and trying not to stare. I failed at both, so I mostly just smoked and stared and fell in love.
I was in this state when Felix walked up the table and said that Sam was coming down in a bit and that we were going to play Rook. I said that I was almost done- though I hadn’t written much at all- and that I would really like to play some cards.
When Sam came down, she brought a deck of cards specially designed for Rook and I realized that I had no idea how to play Rook. We read from a little direction card in the deck and I gradually became more and more confused by the game. Sam said that the best way to learn was to play. I nodded while looking out to see where the girl with the dreadlocks was. She was back in the pool. I sighed and looked back at Sam who shook her head and started to deal.
I picked up on the game pretty quickly, but half way through the game my phone rang and the little screen said that it was from my parents. I excused myself from the game and answered the phone. Finding a quiet spot in a hallway of the backpacker’s I sat down and talked with my mom, dad, sister and brother-in-law. I could hear my family opening gifts. I could hear them drinking hot chocolate. I could almost smell the peppermint and pine in the living room. I said less and less as the conversation went on, and when the call was finished, I went back to the card game in a melancholy mood. I watched as the girl with the dreadlocks got out of the pool again. I feel a million miles from everyone.

So now I’m going to the kitchen where we’ll make a Christmas dinner of pasta with Bizarro Us. We’ll eat it in the bar.
Merry Christmas.

Christmas Eve 2007: Bizarro Us

We saw maybe a dozen elephants. They were always close the road and lumbered or thundered away as the bus approached. For the first two, I shook Sam so she would wake up and see them. She didn’t seem to enjoy the elephants enough to justify having her freshly awake and questioning why I would do something as stupid as waking her up, so I stopped doing that. I am always impressed with elephants, so I kept awake and kept my eyes peeled as we made our way through the Kaprivi strip. I have decided that I need to research this little strip that’s been making cartographer’s lives a little more interesting since- I guess- colonial times. Why is it here?

Then Felix and I talked about pioneers. We talked about the changing definition of a pioneer. We decided that the pioneer of today is pioneering intellectually instead of actually clearing a physical path in a new land. After the conversation, I took two Benadryl. Twenty minutes later I was drooling on myself.
I fell asleep to a Bob Dylan song on my mp3 player. I only woke up when the bus pulled into an Engen petrol station. The three of us stumbled off the bus in that rumpled, matted state that comes from hours of sleeping on transport. I was starving.
We walked up to the convenience section of the store and found the doors locked. A station attendant was selling convenience items through a window. “You can buy anything you want through the window,” a man standing outside said. I looked, but could see nothing on the inside of the store from the outside. I decided that the process of discovering the stores inventory through a series of questions directed at a man behind a window would be a little more than I could handle in a strange place with two Benadryl in my system. I turned around and looked at the road that passed in front of the station. I had no idea where we were or how long the bus had been rolling along.
When I got back on the bus, I used the mildly disgusting bathroom and was glad that it was only mildly disgusting. The toilet has surely seen years of groggy bus passengers relieving themselves in a moving vehicle.
I worked my way back up to the dark upper level of the liner and fell- almost face first- into my seat. Sam had brought along a bag of trail mix that was roughly the size and weight of a bowling ball. It was at this point that it made its appearance. I took two handfuls and chewed them slowly. Thanking Sam, I put my headphones back on. The shuffle function had brought the mp3 player around to a song by Beyonce Knowles that featured a siren. I turned the player off and fell back to sleep almost immediately.

When I finally woke up, Felix was watching the sunrise over the country just outside Windhoek. The terrain had changed quite a bit while I slept. The land was now all low sand and scrub brush. It was nearly 0600 hrs and we were nearly to our destination. The sunlight was all golden fire and it lit up a strange new land and the Benadryl was wearing off, so I was beginning to feel like a human being again. We made short comments to each other about the beauty of it all and chose to keep the really profound thoughts to ourselves.
We pulled into the bus station (a parking lot) at about 0630 hrs and got off the bus. I would like- for the sake of the story- to say that we were incredibly relieved to be getting off the bus because of how long and grueling the ride had been, but I can’t really say that. The ride had actually been quite pleasant. It had been the most painless eighteen hours I had ever spent on a bus.
We had two options for the cab that would take us to the backpackers where we are staying. The local cab would take us for N$6.50 (Namibian dollars) a person and a private cab would take us for a flat fee of N$40.00. We started to walk for the local cab, but we were approached by the driver of the private cab who told us that the local cab may try to rip us off. He said that the local cab may double the price because we are foreigners. We did some quick math. Doubling the price made the fare N$13.00 per person. This multiplied by three made the fare for the local cab N$39.00. “So the local cab might rip us off,” I ventured. “But you’re definitely going to rip us off.” I was relieved to see that despite the big buildings and development around us, a little bit of logic had followed us from Zambia.
So we took the local cab to the backpackers. The place is called The Cardboard Box. When we arrived, we were told that they had never heard of people with our names or descriptions. So our reservations were gone gone. This angered Sam- our logistics officer- because she had been corresponding with someone here since November via email. So Felix and I sat in the lobby reading magazines and Sam discussed our situation with the new girl at the front desk. The boss is away because of the holiday and we needed to talk to him. Sam sat down at the computer there in the lobby so that she could retrieve the emails as proof, but the thing wasn’t working very well and she just spent a lot of time looking despondent. I walked up to her and placed my hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be o.k. Sam.” Then my brain screamed at me: WE’RE IN A STRANGE CITY IN A STRANGE COUNTRY AND WE HAVE NO PLACE TO STAY! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GOING TO DO??!
“It’s going to be alright, Sam. We’re going to get this figured out.”

So we decided that we would go sit down at the bar and have a beer while we waited for a room to open up. They said that they could put us in a dorm room for tonight and then they would have to figure something out for the next couple of nights. That is the closest to a feeling of security that we are going to get for the time being, so we decided to have a couple of beers to make that secure feeling last.
We are drinking the local beer here in Namibia, so when we went down to the bar we ordered three Windhoek Draught cans. We sat at a table in the bar area and looked at each other and ate pancakes. The pancakes in Africa tend to be more like crepes. They are rolled and you sprinkle sugar over them. I don’t know any pancakes that act that way in the USA.
I put a piece of “pancake” in my mouth and asked why Windhoek Draught was being served in a can. We decided as a group that none us know how draught beer can be sold in a can. I decided by myself that I would research draught beer.
At one point during the conversation, I got up to take care of a matter of great importance to my bladder. I don’t know how draught beer can be served in a can. I do know that two cans of it make me pee like a race horse. While I was up I passed by a table where a middle aged woman and a young Asian man sat talking. They were discussing development work with American accents and I had to quickly suppress the urge to run up to them saying, “you’re Americans?!? I’m an American too! Can we talk about current events and then be friends forever?”
I relieved myself and then walked back to the bar area. With the more pressing issues off my mind, I decided to stop to talk to the Americans. I was very glad that I did.
I found out that they are Peace Corps volunteers in Botswana and that they are spending their Christmas vacation doing almost exactly the same thing that Felix, Sam and I are doing. The middle aged woman’s name is Jolene, the young Asian man (who, as it turns out, is only half Asian) is Frank and they even have a third person in their group- a blonde girl named Susan. They are three volunteers from Botswana. We are three volunteers from Zambia. They have a blonde girl and a half Asian guy. We have a blonde girl (Sam) and a half Asian guy (Felix is half Thai). We have met Bizarro Us. Jolene is Bizarro Me. I haven’t worked out how, but she just is. Bizarro Us is a great group of people and they have almost the same itinerary, so we will be spending a lot of time with them on this vacation.

We have decided to go shopping. We are spending the afternoon walking around one of Windhoek’s malls. It seems to me that this city is made up- almost exclusively- of shopping malls. The main mode of transportation is the escalator. There is a distinct mall smell and it is universal and it permeates everything. Even now I smell like mall.
Felix and I have been walking around for almost forty-five minutes. We have been looking for a Christmas gift for Sam. Buying this gift probably should have been done some time ago, but Felix and I aren’t good at shopping. I’m only good at impulse buying and Felix is not good at spending money in general- it makes him nervous. So I’ve spent most of the afternoon pointing at random things and saying that they would be good gifts and Felix has spent most of the afternoon telling me that the things I have been pointing at are impersonal. I think we are at an impasse. We have decided mutually that the things we have seen in this mall are all empty gestures. In fact, this entire mall might be devoid of a deeper meaning.

Hundreds of people, thousands of people, millions of people are looking for something. They are searching for whatever it is that will make them feel whole. And the places that they are left with all have that mall smell. They search and eat Cinnabun and their weapon is a Visa card. The mall smell permeates them and they keep searching through this empty world full of things.

We have decided that we will have to buy Sam’s present tomorrow. We are obviously not in the right frame of mind for shopping. We will buy her Christmas present- or maybe just find her Christmas present- on Christmas day or maybe the day after. If we can manage to find something that isn’t an empty gesture, it won’t matter.
Tonight we are going to have a Christmas Eve dinner with Bizarro Us. We are going to eat game meat and drink African beer on this balmy Christmas Eve in Namibia. I will wait to record those events tomorrow.

It doesn’t feel like the holidays to me without snow, but I am happy to be with Felix and Sam. I stopped thinking of them merely as friends a while ago.
I’m happy to be with family.

Happy Christmas Eve.

23 December 2007: Charge, Sam!

Last night i found myself chatting with the beautiful Zambian lady that works at the reception desk at Jollyboy's. She was drinking a Mosi at the bar after her shift. I was drinking a Castle and trying to impress her with the three or four words that I know in Bemba.
Bemba is similar to the Kaonde that I have been learning in the Northwest province, so I have a few Bemba words in my "idiom" pocket that I can take out and throw at people who I feel would appreciate it. I felt that the beautiful Zambian lady that works at the reception desk at Jollyboy's would appreciate it. I think that she was impressed, but it could have been the Castle more than my local language skills.
She was smiling and I was looking into her deep brown eyes and explaining what I am doing to save babies in Zambia when Felix laid a hand on my shoulder and said that the ping pong table was open. My love a of ping pong and my love of beautiful Zambian ladies conflicted for a moment.
Ping pong won. I don't know what that says about me.

They call it ping pong, but really the ball makes more of a pick pock sound as it is batted back and forth.
Pick... pock,pick... pock,pick... pock, pick...
That sound could be heard for hours last night in the Jollyboy's bar area. While Sam sat in the lounge area reading about how a man named Robert Langdon fashionably exposes the seedy underbelly of the papacy, Felix and I played ping pong nearly to exhaustion. I was covered in sweat. I know that ping pong doesn't seem like a sweating sport. But I am the guy who sweats playing cribbage, so ping pong really gets me worked up.
In Felix I have found the perfect ping pong partner. He is about on the same notch as me on the skill scale- not obliterating me or having to be taught- and he seems to find as much joy as I do in simply volleying the ball back and forth.
Like I said, we played for hours. We were playing pretty well, too. A group of people playing pool nearby even commented on our ping pong prowess. They were a combined group of Australians and Americans. The Americans were trying their best to impress the Australian girls with their stories of heroism in Africa.
Felix and I scoffed.
Scoff... pick... pock, pick... pock, pick...
We scoffed heartily until they said that we are good at ping pong. Then we took a brief break from scoffing in order to bathe in the warm glow of recognition.
I was bringing my A game until the beautiful Zambian lady left the bar and walked by on her way out.
Pick... pock, pick... click, click, click... sigh...

Sam is an incredible person. We decided a couple of months ago that each one of us would be in charge of a certain aspect of the vacation. Sam is in charge of logistics, Felix will drive the car that we are going to rent in Namibia and I was supposed to design the official trip T-shirt. Felix hasn't had to drive anything yet and I failed miserably at delivering any sort of shirt, but Sam had done a wonderful job at logistics. She has made the reservations in Windhoek and Swakopmund and she has bought the tickets that are taking us to Windhoek from Livingstone as we speak. (I will owe her my first born by the end of this trip). These are wonderful things because, if left to our own devices, Felix and I probably wouldn't have even gotten started on this vacation. If we had, we would surely be cold and hungry right now.

So the bus left at 1200 hrs today. This is also a wonderful thing, as the room that we slept in last night had an odd way of making all time outside of the room inconsequential. So we got up at around 830 hrs today. I had a nasty ping pong hangover and limped to the bathroom where I washed and brushed my teeth. Sam and Felix weren't up yet so went to the shop in Jollyboy's and used the computer for a while. After I finished, I decided that I needed to go remind them that time was still moving ahead full steam here on the outside.

Once we were all roused we had breakfast at the bar and started out with our bags toward the bus station.

Felix and I sat at the bus station while Sam went to get snacks for the road at Shoprite. As we sat, the first of the men selling copper bracelets came to see if we would like to buy some authentic Zambian souvenirs. Felix declined, but I wasn't so quick to dismiss the gentleman. "They will be wonderful souvenirs to bring home," I said to myself. "They will be light and the people will love them and praise me for my thoughtfulness." I bought two of the gentleman's copper bracelets for a very reasonable price. Then a second man selling copper bracelets came along and said that he would sell them for any even better price than the first man. I quickly counted on my fingers. "There are many at home who will want these bracelets." I bought four more. That's when the first man came back.

So when the bus pulled into the station for us to board, I had fourteen copper bracelets secured in my back pack. I also had the words of Sam and Felix that I wouldn't be allowed any where near another man selling copper bracelets.

The bus that we are on is a double-decker. The tickets that we have for this bus are business class (or the bus equivalent) and we are sitting in the top part of the bus. We had discussed where we should sit while we were waiting for the bus to arrive and decided (because of what other volunteers had told us about the view) that we would sit in the very front. So we had prepared ourselves so that we would be good and ready when the bus came and we would get the front seats. Obviously all three of us would be unable- as a group- to rush the bus in order to secure the seats. We needed a better plan.

"Charge, Sam!"

There was very little need for our plan. The bus is nearly empty. We all have our own row of seats and we decided that we didn't really need to sit in the front at all because the sun would probably be terrible up there while travelling west.

We stopped at the Zambian side of the border to show our passports. Sam, Felix and I were proud of our level of cultural integration as displayed by our complete refusal to stand in line. We passed the cue and went straight to the counter, where our passports were promptly stamped and we were among the first back on the bus.

The road improved immediately when we crossed the border into Namibia. You can see people improving the road from the Zambian side of the border.

Right now we are travelling on the thin stick of land called Kaprivi that reaches over from the northeast corner of Namibia to touch Zambia at the Zambezi river. The sun is getting closer and closer to the flat and increasingly more arid land that is rolling past the bus. Sam is sleeping with her headphones on and Felix and I are having a discussion about development. I will take a Benadryl at some point so that I can fall asleep on this bus (I have trouble sleeping on buses). But I think I will wait a while. We just past a large white, triangular sign that featured an exclamation point in the center above the word ELEPHANTS.

While I wait for the Elephants, I am feeling very contented. I am happy to be on vacation, and even happier to be here with my friends. When I look outside at the things that can be seen from this bus window, everything is so bright and beautiful that I wonder how I could ever have doubts. I am a very lucky person.

22 December 2007: Zen and the Art of Pay Toilets

Last night I slept at a fellow volunteer’s house in Lusaka. I arrived late because of a trip to the police post on Kabulonga road to report the money that I was missing. I had met my friend Samantha at our volunteer headquarters just down the street from the police post and she walked with me to file the report. She’s had money stolen since coming to Zambia and we talked about what I had to do in order to make it right again- or as right as it is going to be.
We filed the report with an officer named Steve who was just cinching his belt as we walked in. I wondered why his belt had been un-cinched in the first place, but I didn’t ask. Some things you just don’t want to know. He wrote the details of my experience down in a book that was lying open on the desk. I said that a staff member from our office would be along to pick it up in a day or two and then left without a great deal of confidence that the wheels of Zambian justice would turn very quickly to solve my case.
Samantha said that she will be able to lend me money- she’s one of my travel companions on this holiday- and we started back to the office. I set my mind to holiday mode. I’m determined to make this a good vacation hell or high water. I need the vacation. Things have been stressful at site. I found out a couple of weeks ago that my cat was killed. I guess she was killing chickens at a neighbor’s house and he “offed” her (trust me, you don’t want the details) and the two kittens she had with her. I never was a cat person in the states. I can’t say that my cat in Zambia completely changed that- she was left at my house by a previous volunteer- but it was nice to have the company. She was a friend. A friend that made me sneeze, ate big ragged chunks out of any bread product left unguarded for more than five minutes, and was almost constantly pregnant, but a friend none the less.
That’s all I have to say about that.
This is going to be a good holiday simply because it is a holiday.
When we got back to the office from the police station, we met the third of our party. His name is Felix and he was in the volunteer lounge working on the computer. I opened the door and embraced him in a half-hug, half-tackle. He said something about how we were off to a great start. I laughed- I think it was mostly from sleep deprivation- and then flopped down on a couch in the lounge. We joked and caught up while Felix finished the document that he was typing: a recommendation letter for another volunteer. There was some question about Felix’s qualifications concerning the writing of recommendation letters. But we were agreed that the volunteer for whom he was writing the letter has the qualities of a leader, excellent local language skills and impeccably well-kept facial hair. I think those were the details.
After Felix had finished (or gotten darn close) the three of us walked down the street to a petrol station/convenience store/pizza joint where we could order chicken. Figure that one out. The western love of one-stop shopping has made it even to Sub Saharan Africa.
We ate greasy chicken at a small table and I tried to figure out if the feeling I had at that point was contentedness or simply exhaustion. I think it was a pleasant middle-ground. I was happy to be where I was. I was on vacation- and even a convenience store is fascinating after several months of reading books by candle light and eating boiled leaves and corn mush.
From the petrol station/convenience store/pizza joint, we wanted to take a taxi. Upon setting foot in the parking lot of the petrol station we were rushed by somewhere in the neighborhood of ten taxi cab drivers. They all quoted the same price, so we took the one with the nicest hat. We got into his little white car and guided him to the house where we would be sleeping. We used directions from a text message that Sam had managed to save. I had deleted the same text because my inbox was full and because I’m an idiot. Texts are only so descriptive and we got close enough to not be totally lost, but far enough away to disturb our friends neighbors- who directed us to the right place.
We chatted a while with our friend and I took a cold shower (there is almost constantly something wrong with the plumbing in Zambia) in order to wash away the funk of the road. Cold or not, it felt good. That night Felix slept on his foam camping pad on top of an empty bed frame. Sam slept- like an arctic explorer- in a huge sleeping bag on the floor in a corner. I had brought an air mattress that my parents had left when they came to visit and I inflated it with no small amount of pride. I set my alarm clock and we fell asleep after a small conversation about something that escapes me right now.
We woke early this morning and took the same cab (we had told him to come back when he left us last night) to the outskirts of town where we could flag a ride south to Livingstone. The cab driver had no hat on in the morning. I tried to hide my disappointment. While we drove, Sam complained that my air mattress had made a lot of noise on the tile floor- I roll around in my sleep- and that I had kept her up. I was far too refreshed to pay any attention to her complaints.
The hatless driver dropped us off on the side of the road in a place where he said we would easily be able to secure a lift. It seemed to be a good place to hitch, but a poor place to get breakfast.
My kingdom for a meat pie.
After forty-five minutes or so of waving at traffic, we were picked up by a man (in an even nicer hat than the cab driver’s) with a Land Cruiser. We sat in the bed of the truck with the man's kids, a bicycle, and a pile of unidentified- but soft for the most part- objects. We listened to The Black Eyed Peas on my mp3 player with Sam’s speakers as the rolling southern province landscape spread out behind us.
What am I going to do with all that junk inside my trunk?
We stopped in Mazabuka at a Shoprite and ate chicken and chips in the parking lot. It was at this point that Felix and I decided that we had to use the bathroom. The rest of the party had already gone at a guest house down the street. After eliciting promises that we would not be left behind, we walked down the street to the guest house.
The lady said that the bathroom was for guests only and that we would have to pay 5,000 kwacha if we wanted to use it. That’s a lot for a piss. I was upset, but Felix took it in stride. He has a way of doing that. At our first in-service training we had been presented with a session on coping with life in the village. When asked how he copes, Felix is rather known for saying- in his rumbling, Barry White-like voice- that he “just figures out what’s wrong and fixes it.”

I smoke.
While I was fuming (not smoking), Felix talked to one of the maintenance guys behind the hotel and we were allowed to piss in a field in back for free.
The driver of the Land Cruiser took us as far as Choma. He dropped us off in the center of town. We walked to the outskirts- Sam is morally opposed to paying for transport- and sat eating gigantic mangoes on the side of the road.
After an hour or so of debate over our position, we looked at the black rain clouds looming over the north of the city and decided to take a cab to a new spot. But as we were about to get in a cab, a white man in a rather nice truck stopped and said he could drive us to Livingstone. He was going there to meet his family that was coming up from Pretoria for the Christmas holiday. He is doing some sort of independent contracting having to do with mining in Zambia and he hasn’t seen his family for months. The three of us sympathized.
We were dropped off in the court yard of Jollyboy’s backpackers in Livingstone where we removed our bags from the bed of the rather nice truck and thanked our South African driver profusely. We made it from Lusaka to Livingstone without paying a kwacha.
We checked into a dorm room and then went to the bar so that we could get beer and sandwiches. That’s when I noticed that Jollyboy’s has a ping pong table.
Things are looking up.

21 December 2007: Leaving Solwezi

Last night I stayed out way too late. A volunteer that had completed his service over a year ago came back to the house and was looking to revisit the Solwezi nightlife. I was doing the dishes-and had pretty much given up on the evening- when he came in. He wanted to go to Popo’s Pool hall so that we could sit and have a few beers.
We walked up to Popo’s in the dark while I tried my best to update my old friend on the happenings of Solwezi. The best I could do was to say that Solwezi is growing- it is- but I would have liked greatly to have said something more profound.
At Popo’s, we drank large Congolese beers and discussed how both of us wanted to be writers. He had just decided to become a writer earlier in the day, but I said that I had been thinking about it for a long time. We were well matched, though, in enthusiasm. I said something about school and he said that he didn’t want to be in school anymore. I had enough beer under my belt to say that the whole reason I am talking about writing now is that I don’t really want to be involved in the education system in he U.S. anymore; or something like that. We decided finally that we would get together so that we could form community of like-minded people when we got back to the states. We would talk and write and drink like Hemingway in Paris. Then we decided we would go to a dance club.
I found a girl to dance with early in the evening and she hung on to me for most of the night. I was not allowed to buy any beer and my friend would wade through the crowd with a six pack of Castle Lager occasionally so that he could hand one to me and one to my dance partner. My old friend and I didn’t talk a whole lot after that. He spent a lot of time in what looked like an argument with another man. I tried to enter several times only to find that most of it was “all in fun.”
I came back to the house at around 3:30 in the morning. By the time I had showered and had a little something to eat, it was at least 4:30. I knew that I was supposed to get up in another hour and a half, so I decided that it would be better if I just stayed awake. I made a cup of coffee and sat down at the computer.
At around 5:30, Spencer and Thomas woke up. I heard them moving so I went into the main room to meet them. They were on their way to Zanzibar for Christmas- and our path was the same path for half the distance to Lusaka. I was going to travel with them for as far as I could. Hitch-hiking is quicker alone, but a lot more pleasant in a group, so I was thankful for the company.
At around 6:15, we walked up the hill from the house to the tarmac. We took a right- toward Lusaka- and started toward the edge of town where it would be easier because there wouldn’t be the traffic “just moving within.” I walked and talked and I felt giddy. I knew I was just tired and that I would pay for not going to bed last night, but I was on my way, and that’s a big step.
We walked for a couple of kilometers in the growing heat and finally stopped at a place that we considered to be ideal for hitching: cars had a place to pull off the road and we were sure that any cars going by that place were going out of town. We dropped our bags on the side of the road and took turns pissing in the tall grass of the ditch. While Thomas took his turn, Spencer and I talked about village life. I nodded and listened with one ear while watching the road for prospective rides. When one would come by, I would step up to the shoulder and wave my hand- palm down- as if fanning something at my side. This is the sign for hitching a ride in Zambia. Sticking out a thumb will get you no where.
After about a half an hour, a Land Rover pulled to a stop in front of us. It was a miner named Amos from South Africa working in Solwezi. He said that he could drive us all the way to Ndola- about half way. We gladly accepted. The ride was smooth and Amos was good to talk to. He talked to us about bicycling and about wildlife. He said that the mine was working to have more wildlife on their property. He talked about leopards and said that some men working on the mine property had seen one recently. We laughed and were entertained and the trip from Solwezi to Ndola passed quickly. When we got out at Shoprite to buy groceries, we made sure to exchange numbers with Amos so that we could maybe come to visit and see the animals.
We went to the bathroom and then dropped our bags at the parcel drop at Shoprite. We bought sandwiches and Doritos and Cadbury chocolate bars. After leaving the store, Spencer and Thomas hugged me and headed off for the bus station. They had decided to take a bus for the next stretch. I was going to keep on hitching so I walked up the street from Shoprite to a set of traffic lights- called “robots” in Zambia- and looked around for someone to ask about how to get to Lusaka. Spencer had said to take a left, so I started in that direction. I stopped at the first store. There was a man standing out front and I reached to shake his hand. I noticed that his right hand was shriveled and I hesitated for a moment. He didn’t hesitate at all, but reached with his left hand shook my right without it seeming awkward in the least. I asked him where the road to Lusaka was and he told me to keep walking for ten minutes or so in the direction I was already facing until I came to a T-junction. I thanked him and started again. Five minutes or so later, I asked another man at a Total station and he confirmed what the first man had said. I continued with confidence. When I reached the T, I turned left toward Lusaka.
I waved at cars all down a big hill. A man said that the cars wouldn’t be able to stop there and so I just kept walking. Another man told me I should go to the bus station. I told him that I don’t like the buses because they are dangerous. I walked down the big hill and back up again until I found a good place and I sat down. I kept waving for over a half hour, but no one stopped. Then I noticed two white people walking toward me down the same hill that I had walked down. When they got closer, I could see that it was Spencer and Thomas. We hugged again and they told me that their bus wasn’t leaving when they needed it to, so we sat down together to wave at cars.
After a short time, a bus full of young people that were obviously from the U.S. or Europe pulled over for us. They turned out to be from a Bible college working overseas for six months on their way to board the same train to Zanzibar as Spencer and Thomas. Half the people in the small van were from the U.S. and the rest were from England and Wales. Two of them were from Minnesota and despite my initial thoughts about talking to Bible scholars, we had a good conversation and the time flew by. They dropped us at the next town after Ndola- Kapiri- where they could all board the train. I hugged Spencer and Thomas again and got out of the van. I waved at the whole lot as I walked away.
The truck that stopped for me in Kapiri said that they would only charge me 20,000 kwacha to get me to Lusaka. I got in and decided that I would zone out to my headphones. This proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated.
The truck went faster and faster and the whole thing vibrated. When I leaned my head back, it rested on the back window and shook so much that I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. Then I noticed that the windshield was cracked. I looked through the spidering cracks as the driver decided to pass a tractor trailer truck on a hill. The vibration got worse and the tire nearest my left ear began to make an ominous noise. I prayed.

Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended you…

I tried time after time to fall asleep, but was unsuccessful. Finally I gave up on sleep and just concentrated on keeping my eyes closed during the frightening moments. I had my eyes closed a lot and that ride seemed to take eight hours all by itself.
Finally we got to Lusaka and the truck dropped me somewhere on the outskirts. I opened my passport pouch so that I could remove the money to pay the driver and noticed that my wad of cash was smaller than I remembered. I paid the driver and looked for a cab. The cab driver wanted 45,000 kwacha, but I think I talked him down to 30,000. Once on our way, I took out the passport pouch again. My heart launched into my throat as I looked in. I took out all the cash. There was 250,000 kwacha. That was somewhere around 650,000 kwacha short of what was in the pouch when I left Solwezi this morning.
My vacation is off to a hell of a start.

Carsick

There is a point in every vacation- usually toward the end- when a person begins to wonder if the time away was relaxing and rejuvenating or simply exhausting. In Namibia, I began to wonder about this on the road between Sossusvlei and Windhoek. I was sitting in the back seat of a small rental car. Every article of clothing I had with me was dirty, my sinuses were draining and my credit card was warm to the touch. I had moved past worrying about these things, however, and was simply exhausted. “But I’m on holiday,” I thought and smiled.
My travel companions were in the front seats. I knew they were talking, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Although the road we were on was classified a main road on the map, it was un-tarred. I was beginning to think that the washboard- which was almost constant- might eventually rattle all of the teeth from my head. As concerned as I was about my teeth, however, I was more concerned about the car that was ours for ten days. It was a small white Volkswagen that was obviously not built for off-roading. We had christened it “Schnitzel.” Schnitzel was wearing her spare and had a patched tire in the boot that we were hoping that we wouldn’t have to use.
We had entered Namibia almost two weeks before and had experienced our share of ups and downs. I had been keeping a journal the whole time because of my aspirations to become some sort of travel-writer/humorist/lower middle-class jet-setting playboy. I aspire to this- for the most part- because of the terror that grips my soul when I think of getting a nine-to-five job.
I couldn’t write in Schnitzel’s back seat for a couple of reasons: the washboard would have made the writing illegible and I get carsick. I get very carsick. I can’t read a text message without waves of nausea rolling over my stomach. This means that I have to write while I’m standing still. I’m an aspiring travel writer that can’t write while physically moving from one point to another. This means that I spent a lot of time in Namibia- sitting in a rental car, bus, or taxi- making mental notes. When I arrived, I would spend some time- in a tent or backpacker’s hostel- recording these mental notes. Later, I would sober up and revise what I had written.
So it was that- during a brief respite from the washboard- I began to doze off, and as I did so, I resolved to record my journal in blog form. The next few blogs will be excerpts from my retrospective-through-a-slightly-drunken-haze journal. I have changed the names of people in my journal to protect them and because of how interested they were to see what I would name them. The names of the places are real because I’m too lazy to create an elaborate fantasy world that has roughly the same geographical and political characteristics as Namibia. I will start from the very beginning: Leaving Solwezi

A Recipe for Rat and Other Bits

I grew up eight miles east of Bertha, Minnesota on County Road 24 and graduated from Bertha-Hewitt high school in the year 2000. I’m submitting this article from Solwezi. Solwezi is the capital of the Northwestern Province of Zambia, and Zambia is the Sub-Saharan African country that has been my home for the last twenty-two months. On a map, Zambia is the bean-shaped country between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Zimbabwe. You should feel free to Google it. I had to Google it three months before coming here.
I’m in Zambia working in the Rural Education Development (RED) program. I was placed in the RED program, I imagine, because of my degree in education. To be clear, I should say that I have a degree in music education. It didn’t take a long time for me to figure out that clarinet lessons are not in high demand here, so I’ve had to improvise a bit. I think I’ve done quite well. I haven’t saved the world yet, but I’m still here.
I’ve spent most of the last year and a half working with schools and community groups interested in education. The program’s policy is to give knowledge (mostly non-clarinet related), not money, to those in need. A main goal of the RED program is to bring education to children that may not get it otherwise. We try to focus on orphans and vulnerable children in rural areas that don’t have access to learning materials. While busy with things of that sort, I’ve been living (as much as possible) in local standard conditions. That means that I live in a mud-brick hut with a grass-thatched roof and I have a pit latrine and I bathe with a cup and a bucket. Living this way assists volunteers in fulfilling two main goals: to learn about the local culture and hopefully show that a complete understanding of American Culture can’t be gained by viewing Chuck Norris films.
Having said all that, I would like to let you know that I’m not writing this to tell you about my program. I don’t want to bore you. I don’t even like to read a detailed description of what I do here. If you really would like to know, write me a letter and I’ll be glad to respond with something long and dull. For the quickest response, send chocolate along with your letter.
What I would really like to write about today is the sensory experience that is Zambia. The country that I had to Google twenty-five months ago is now very alive for me. It’s bright, loud, sometimes quite pungent, and that’s what I would like to share with you. I don’t know if I can do this country justice in writing- especially those pungent aspects- but, doggonit, I’m going to try.
I told you that I am writing from Solwezi, but I don’t live here. I’m here for a workshop. This workshop is about the same as any workshop in the U.S. - ice-breakers, flip charts, role playing- only it’s given in three different languages and there’s a greater number of biting insects.
Four districts from the Northwestern Province are represented at this workshop. We are here to learn about HIV/AIDS prevention- a very important topic in Zambia today. Each volunteer has come with a counterpart from his or her village, and not everyone speaks English. There are nine provinces in Zambia and something like seventy-two different languages spoken. If you can’t speak the language where you are, you need simply ride you bicycle a few kilometers down the bush path and try again.
I stay in Kasempa district. Kasempa district is to the south and west of Solwezi and the language spoken there is Kiikaonde. It’s 130 km from Solwezi to my house, and that trip is generally made with the help of the terrifically interesting public-transport phenomenon known as the mini-bus.
Thanks to the British, who held Zambia as a province until 1964, flatbed trucks are known here as lorries; pickup trucks are known as vans; and vans are known as mini-buses. Also fries aren’t French here, but simply known as chips- proving that the British stuck it to the French long before we thought up the whole “freedom” thing. But forget the French for now. I want to talk about the minibus.
Mini-buses are usually light-blue in colour (the natural color of Zambian public transport) and about as big as a midsize van in America. They’re designed to hold maybe nine or ten people, but this specification is uniformly ignored by mini-bus drivers. I was on a mini-bus once with three other volunteers, nineteen Zambians (not including the driver or conductor), two fifty kilogram sacks of potatoes, and three chickens. It was very close; a sort of cultural exchange by osmosis. In addition, it’s a sort of unspoken rule that mini-buses drive as fast as they can at all times. For most of these vehicles, this still means that they could be overtaken by an oxcart. But there are the occasional mini-buses that can exceed a speed limit. This can be quite unnerving as mini-buses aren’t all necessarily endowed with brakes. Those without brakes don’t make “stops,” they make “slow downs.” When a potential customer is in sight, the bus slows down to roughly the running speed of the conductor. The conductor then throws open the sliding side door- filling the bus with the acrid smell of burning metal- and jumps out. He helps (throws) the passengers into the bus and leaps in himself so that the bus can resume cruising speed. This process doesn’t leave much time for price negotiation, so if the passenger doesn’t have enough money, the process is repeated in reverse and the passenger then has to catch the next mini-bus; or oxcart- whichever comes first.
Transport for people and transport for livestock aren’t necessarily separate services in Zambia. It’s a rare mini-bus trip that doesn’t involve a chicken or a goat. I once saw a mini-bus with at least fifteen live pigs tied to the luggage rack on top of the bus. They were making probably the most disturbing sound that I have ever heard. Goats are also sometimes strapped to the outside- depending on size or term of pregnancy- but chickens are usually considered carry-ons. Chicken poop is something that happens on these buses, and people generally deal with it with stoicism and a noted lack of giggling.
Babies occasionally poop as well. They don’t just poop on the bus of course, but it is on the bus that a baby poop is most easily shared with the general public. In Zambia, this event is taken in stride. I will be quietly sharing a day on the bus with twenty or so new friends when the bus will suddenly be filled with the distinct smell of human doody. No one’s facial expression will change in the least, and the only one to move will be the man sitting next to the only open able window. The window will be opened and stern looks will be fixed on the faces of all passengers. We will then reflect, as a group, on the fact that we have a mere three hours to go before the next “slow down.”
Similar to the unspoken rule that mini-buses need go as fast as they can at all times is the unspoken rule concerning radios here. Radios need be played at their maximum volume at all times. An un-blown speaker is an uncommon thing in Zambia. This gives Zambian music an interesting flavor: the mid-tones are a sort of hiss; the bass-tones are a nerve fraying rattle; and the treble is something like a malicious garden gnome tittering maniacally and hitting you on the head repeatedly with a ball-peen hammer. Of course, that last impression might just be mine.
I’ve also found that Zambians have interesting and diverse tastes in music. This is especially true when it comes to American music. For example, every third person has a 50 Cent shirt, but I have never heard his music played here. It’s more common in fact for a Zambian to pop in a Don Williams or Jim Reeves tape- even if they are wearing a shirt that says, “Get Rich or Die Trying.”
A neighbor of mine once put in a Kenny Rodgers tape as we sat drinking local beer. The Gambler came on and, naturally, I started singing along. He asked me what the song meant. I stopped singing and looked at my friend. Then I looked at the ground. I had never thought about a Kenny Rodgers song that deeply. It turns out that The Gambler has a pretty profound message.
I said it was about poker- a card game- but it was also about so much more than games. “The Gambler is about life,” I said, “The old man is talking about life. ‘You have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. You have to know when to walk away,’ says Kenny, ‘and know when to run.’ And in the end the Gambler breaks even. The Gambler dies,” I said, “because he’s finished the game.”
We both settled back in our chairs to think about this complex work of art. The next song on the tape was Daytime Friends and Nighttime Lovers. To my great relief, my neighbor didn’t ask about that one.
The local beer here is something that deserves to be the dedicated subject of volumes, but I will try, in brief to give you an idea of its importance. There are three different types of local beer in my area: mbote, monkoyo and lutuku.
Mbote is made from honey and I’m not sure what else. I know that I’ve seen buckets of it that seemed to be boiling of their own accord. Mbote is generally golden in color, quasi-honey flavored, and-despite the bits of honey comb and dead bees floating in it- the closest of the three local beers to something you would actually want to ingest.
Monkoyo is made from water, a grain (like maize, sorghum, or millet) and the monkoyo root from which it gets its name. Unlike the other two local beers, monkoyo comes in comes in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties. The alcohol content is dependent on how long the mixture of ingredients has been sitting in the calabash. A calabash is the big, dried husk of a gourd. Monkoyo of relatively short-term calabash residence (one to three days) is called sweet monkoyo. This can be misleading as there is nothing inherently sweet about it. You can add sugar, but it’s not required. Sweet monkoyo tastes good but fails utterly at giving the drinker a “buzz.” More aged monkoyo (oh a week or three in the calabash) is deemed hard monkoyo and is quite potent. Try to imagine extremely watered-down Cream of Wheat that has been in a jar next to the heater in the garage for a week. I’ve heard it compared to a rough oatmeal stout. I’ve also heard it compared to vomit. The problem, of course, with hard monkoyo (other than that it tastes like vomit) is that it’s like drinking Cream of Wheat. You have to be a very determined drinker in order to feel any alcoholic effects before you are so full you have to unbutton your jeans.
That’s where lutuku has the advantage.
Lutuku is something like Grandpa’s moonshine. The term “beer” is a bit of a misnomer when applied to lutuku. It’s closer to rubbing alcohol. It’s distilled in pipes with a heat source (I think), maize (of course), and water (I would imagine). I always envision something out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory- only with a more distinct possibility of explosion and fewer musical numbers. Once finished, lutuku is light, less-filling and quite powerful. The only down side is that drinking it may make you blind.
If you are going to indulge in any of these local beers, it’s best to do so with a solid base of food under your belt. You’re fortunate in this respect, because as a “solid base” is the only way they do food here. The center of any meal in Zambia is nshima. Nshima is like a very thick porridge (something along the lines of Play Dough) made, like monkoyo, from maize, sorghum or millet that has been ground. It can also be made from dried and pounded cassava root. Cassava root nshima is closer to Silly Putty than Play Dough, but some people prefer it.
Nshima is spiced with nothing. It has no flavor, and yet having a meal in Zambia without nshima is unimaginable. When eating Zambian, you don’t use forks or spoons. You form the nshima into a little ball with your right hand and use the ball either to pick up whatever else you are eating or as a tiny edible bowl in which to transport gravy (called supu here) to your mouth.
There are a number of things to be eaten with nshima. The hardest for me to get used to was the fish. There aren’t many options for preserving fish here, so it is usually dried. A favorite dish is called kapenta. Kapenta are little tiny dried fish that you fry in oil with onions and tomatoes. Their a lot like those crappie minnows that got dropped out of the minnow bucket into the bottom of the boat last spring and won’t be found now until next spring. Now, I know that doesn’t sound so appetizing and I admit I didn’t like them at first, but now I’ve gotten used to them. If they are prepared right, they really are quite nice; especially the supu.

Now I know you want to hear about the weird stuff I’ve eaten, so here it goes:
caterpillars and flying termites- they kind of tasted like a movie theatre snack with legs; hippo- tasted a little like beef, only somehow more aquatic; monkey and bush baby- kind of like squirrel I guess; puff adder- Zambians won’t go near it, but I had to try it and it tastes nothing like chicken; songbirds that the kids kill in the sorghum fields- their good, but you have to eat twelve- like chicken nuggets; goat offal’s- the stomach lining and other various bits and pieces from the inside of the goat that are now my favorite Zambian dish; and pork that still had the hair on it- no getting around it, that tested my ability to suppress the ol’ gag reflex.
My most memorable culinary experience in Zambia, by far, has been eating rat. It wasn’t the eating of the rat that was memorable. After all, I’ve eaten squirrel and I would guess that they’re pretty close to rats in the chain. It was the method of preparation that stuck with me the most:

Step 1: Take whole dead rat in right hand.
Step 2: Throw whole dead rat on bed of hot coals.
Step 3: Once thoroughly charred, fish dead rat from coals.
Step 4: Take hold of front and hind quarters of dead rat with right and left hands, respectively.
Step 5: Twist front and hind quarters of dead rat in conflicting directions.
Step 6: Hand half of dead rat to your friend.
When someone hands you half a charred dead rat, you either politely decline or remember the adage “when in Rome…” Then you pop the rat in your mouth and get a little closer to understanding why Rome fell.

Well, as I’ve been writing this, the workshop has run it’s course and it’s time for me to head back to the village. Don’t let my kidding fool you into thinking that I dislike it here. Zambia is a beautiful country. There are times when the sunset illuminates the clouds and the whole horizon is like a frozen, silent explosion of blues, violets, pinks and you can do nothing but stand and stare. I think that that’s the beautiful part- you can stand and stare. There are times when the pace of things here can be frustrating for an American- but you can’t argue with the fact that, once you get used to it, the pace here gives you time to really enjoy being alive. Zambia has taught me many things, but that’s the most important lesson. There’s time to breath and see and taste and, yes, smell and that that time has value too. I may never cook a rat again, but I hope that this appreciation for just living is something that sticks with me when I return to the hurry-up of the U.S.
So with that, I sign off so that I can go back to my hut for the next few months. I’ll pack my things, make sure I have correct change and head out to the road to wait for the mini-bus to “slow down.” I won’t let poop- chicken or baby- bother me. I’ll just open that one window, take a deep breath and enjoy being alive.

The Brothers Kayuma

The rain had come late on Saturday and stayed all through the night. The grass on the side of the path was making my trousers wet and I thought that it was good that I had put on the old pair and not my church trousers.

Ahead of me on the path, Boniface was walking with his hoe over one shoulder. The hoe had a long wooden handle that was worn smooth from daily use. It hung from Boniface's shoulder by a large rough-metal blade that was wedged through a hole in the fore end of the handle where the wood had been left with a greater girth. There was no wind in the trees and the humidity was oppressive, but Boniface walked casually and didn't appear to mind the morning sun that was already making the sweat bead on my forehead and trickle down my face at the temples. I tried to take a deep breath and didn't feel that I could pull the air as far down as I needed.

As we walked, we went deeper and deeper into the bush and there were no longer any houses along the path- only dense forest. The path we followed was only wide enough for walking and barely wide enough for that in some places. The dirt on the path was tightly packed and only became slick on the surface after the rain.

After some time, we came to a place where the trees had been cleared in a large circle. The massive hardwood logs had been piled in the center of the clearing. Boniface walked to the pile and let the hoe drop from his shoulder. "Before church, we cover three sides," said Boniface. "I will work hard and if I can cover the pile before night, we will set in fire. Charcoal will be very available, Nkambo." Grasping it with both hands, Boniface raised the hoe over his head and then drove the blade into the ground in front of his feet. Pulling back, he loosened a piece of sod about as big around as a basketball. He repeated this again and again and the slowly the firm ground around the pile of logs became a field of sod blocks that could easily be lifted. He swung the hoe with such a fluid motion, and with so little sweat, that it looked very simple. But I knew that when the hoe is in my hand, the motion is anything but fluid.

I stood there watching Boniface work and thought about how he had said that he would have to work hard to cover the logs that day. People were depending on his ability to swing the hoe with a fluid motion. I knew that he would work hard. His work ethic was something that I respected.

The house that Boniface lives in is thirty meters to the west of my house. It is made of mud bricks that were formed in a mold and then dried in the sun. The roof of the house is made of grass that was gathered during the dry season. I have never been inside of Boniface's house, but if you were to walk in and look up, I know what you would see. You would see dark hardwood poles running from the tops of the brick walls to the ridge on the roof with bamboo shoots that have been split in half and laid perpendicular to the poles. Grass is then layered over all. The roof leaks in the rain, and empty cement bags- from the Belgian road-construction camp near my house- have been strategically placed where the leaks are the worst.

Under his leaky roof, Boniface has a family of five children of his own and his wife's daughter from a previous relationship. This daughter is HIV positive and she has a new baby of her own. The father of that baby has contributed nothing to the family. The nine of them live in this mud brick house about the size of a big living room in the states. Another thirty-or-so meters to the west of Boniface's house is the house of his grandmother. Though she is in her eighties and strong for her age, things are becoming difficult for her. Now you must go right up to her kinzanza to greet her and those greetings must be said loudly. Boniface helps her to find nshima and relish so that she can eat every day.

Boniface finished through the ninth grade- a respectable education in the village- but has had very few opportunities since then.

Fifty meters to the north of my house is the house of Godfrey Kayuma. Godfrey is the older brother to Boniface and the eldest male in the village. The brothers are separated by about ten years, but I don't know exactly how old Godfrey is. When I ask him when he was born, he tells me 24 October 1964. It doesn't seem like an unreasonable date except that it is the exact date that Zambia gained independence from Britain. It's a date that's given by many people here when you ask when they were born. Many people have no idea when they were born in Zambia.

Godfrey was the first of the brothers to call me Nkambo- meaning grandson- and it has defined my family relationship with the whole village. For the past two years, I have been eating at least two meals a day with Godfrey's family. If there is something I need, I go to Godfrey. He makes sure my house is in good condition and makes sure I understand what's happening around me if I'm confused. The relationship designation is not given lightly. I am a part of their family and I am treated as such.

Because I am the grandson of Godfrey, I am also the grandson of Boniface and I have an appropriate relationship name with everyone else in the village. The last volunteer was Mwisho- meaning niece- and because of this, she couldn't walk freely into the Kayuma's houses. I'm Nkambo, so I can go anywhere if I want. I have been told that the relationship difference is because I'm man and the last volunteer was a woman. For a while I tried to argue that I saw no difference- that the gender's were equal in my culture- but started to feel that I was arguing against something that I couldn't understand from the outside and stopped.

When a large patch of ground around the pile of logs had been broken into liftable sod blocks, Boniface laid his hoe on the ground. He started piling the sod around the logs. The sod piled higher and higher and Boniface placed the blocks expertly so that no opening could be detected in the growing wall. "No air should reach the logs, Nkambo," he instructed. "If there is air, the logs will go to ash and you will lose the charcoal." I nodded and started to hand Boniface the sod blocks that were to far from the pile for him to reach without moving.

I know that Godfrey and Boniface aren't friends. They are not cruel to each other outright, but there is a tension that exists and they don't seem to enjoy each other's company. I think that most of it comes from the fact that Godfrey is the older. This means that Boniface shows respect to Godfrey and submits to his elder brother's wishes. Boniface calls Godfrey "The Big Man," and I have also taken to referring to Godfrey in this way when talking to Boniface.

As Boniface piled the sod he talked about "The Big Man" and problems that are happening in his house. Godfrey has nine children and they live in a house that's maybe twice as big as the house of Boniface. The house is made from baked bricks and has an iron roof. This means that Godfrey has the nicest house in the area. He works as a security guard at an electric transformer about five kilometers away. The transformer was put there by Zesco- the electric company in Zambia- about ten months ago. They are bringing electricity to my area, but it's coming very slowly and so far the transformer has just been a skeleton. Because of the job, Godfrey is often gone- sometimes all night- and his wife has suspicions. I also hear stories, but I do my best not to let these stories effect the way I view "The Big Man." His relationship means too much to me, and I could never fully understand what's going on in his family. It would be unfair to judge by my culture.

I continued handing Boniface sod blocks while I listened to his story. There had been a shouting match between Boniface and Godfrey's wife the day before. Boniface had punished Godfrey's son for breaking Boniface's axe and Godfrey's wife felt that he wasn't showing her or the son enough respect because Boniface is the younger brother. I listened and nodded. "Bankambo," I ventured, "can I ask you a question?"
"Please, Nkambo."
"I consider you and The Big Man my family, and I have seen that you work very hard and you are responsible for your family and others and..." I hesitated, not knowing how to say what I thought, "...and you don't seem to get very much respect."
Boniface looked down and I continued. "Why do you stay?"
Boniface didn't hesitate. "Because people- the old ones and the young ones- need me there."

As we walked back to the village to change for church, I thought about what Boniface had said. I thought about what life would be like for me when became too old to hear when people greet me. I wondered what it would be like for my parents. As I put on my church trousers, I couldn't help being greatful that I've had a chance to be a Kayuma.