I remember quite clearly sitting on a very small carved wooden stool. The stool was small in the Zambian sense, so it was about the size of a coffee can. I was sitting in the house of an elder from the Catholic church. There was a circle of Zambian men and one muzungu around a large plastic pail filled with local beer that smelled of corn and rough alcohol. It was there that I decided I loved her.
The man in charge of pouring the beer filled each of our glasses in turn. The other men talked about church functions and finding ways to get enough money to buy a flatbed. I thought about the girl at the clinic. Her name was Lwendo. Her father was from the Taonga tribe in the Southern Province and he had given her the name which meant Journey in his tribe's language. She spoke Bemba and English on top of that. I had been spending nearly every evening at her house for almost a month. She cooked me dinner and made me tea and I liked her a lot.
My glass was filled again and I drank the thick, gritty corn beer down as quickly as possible. The alcohol created by the passionate dance between the corn meal and the monkoyo root was coursing through my veins. It all seemed so clear to me then: Lwendo meant a lot to me, and there was no reason that I should wait any longer to say something.
I waited for my cup to be filled one more time. I drank the beer down very quickly and had a brief battle with my gag reflex. Winning the battle, I politely said goodbye to the other men in the circle and got up. The world spun around me, but I managed to make my way to the door and out of the small mud brick house.
I picked up my bicycle and aimed its front tire in the direction of the clinic.
On the tarmac, I realized just how inebriated I really was. I tried to pedal in a straight line, but found that this was far more difficult than it had been before the meeting around the bucket of monkoyo. I pushed off and soon my front tire decided to leave the road. Finding a rut, the front tire soon decided to stop entirely. As I landed crotch-first on the bar between the handlebars and the seat, I sobered up briefly. I looked around to see who had witnessed the muzungu being too drunk to drive his bicycle in a straight line. No one was there.
I found a route to the clinic that took me past as few houses as possible. My headphone's pumped Neil Young directly to my brain.
Oh, this old world
keeps spinning 'round.
It's a wonder
tall trees ain't layin' down...
Walking up the stairs to Lwendo's door, I marvelled at the reality of my actions. I had spent a lot of time convincing myself that starting a relationship with a Zambian girl was a terrible idea. But I didn't care at that moment. I was willing, after that, to deal with any of the bullshit that could follow. We would make it work.
I watched my hand as it made a fist and knocked at the door. The door swung in and a man stood in front of me. "Hello," I said. My balance was gone in several ways.
"Hello."
"I... um, is Lwendo home?"
"No," the man answered with no expression. "She has gone to the clinic."
"You are a friend of her's?"
"I am visiting my lady."
There was an electrical feeling behind my eyes and I lost focus for a moment. I recognized the feeling as a side effect. How I looked at the situation had changed very abruptly; like being in an emotional fender-bender.
"I'm... I'm a friend of Lwendo's," I managed to get out. The man in the door accnowledged what I said silently and just as silently gave me a que to leave as soon as possible.
"Well..." I wanted to leave her a message but could think of none that I wanted the man in the doorway to relay. "I'll see you around."
I backed down the stairs and found my bicycle. As I walked the bike out of the yard, I could feel the man's eyes on my back. The back of the muzungu usurper.
I found Elvis Costello on the MP3 player.
Welcome to the working week.
I know it don't thrill you,
I hope it don't kill you,
Welcome to the working week.
Lwendo faded back into the crowd of faces of girls that don't feel the same way about me. I pumped my legs, kept my eyes on the front tire and allowed the jangling guitars and driving drum beats of "My Aim is True" to feed my self-pity.
When I looked up from the tire, I was at the gate of Belga, the headquarters for a Belgian road construction company. A Zambian guard greeted me by name and led me to the dining area where I was welcomed by three red-faced Serbian men sitting around a large wooden table. They asked me how things were going. "Horseshit." I don't think they understood this word, but they got the idea. Soon I had a glass of Johnnie Walker Red and a Zambian cigarette.
The men were watching tennis and doing very little talking. I felt the liquor run through me and watched the smoke rise from my mouth like exhaust.
Soon it was dark and it was time to go back to my hut. I thought about how I would be there by myself in the evenings for the time being.
Blame it on Cain.
Don't blame it on me.
Oh, oh, it's nobody's fault,
but we need somebody to burn.
In the deep-cave dark of my hut, I found a single candle and gave the place a little light. I plugged my portable speakers into the MP3 player because the place was as quiet as it was dark.
With my headlamp I found my disposable razor that should have been disposed many weeks before. Then I opened my first aid kit. Moving aside small packets of pills and packages of gauze, I found the small scissors included to cut through bandages. I then aimed the beam of light from my headlamp at the wall next to my door. It bounced off my small camp mirror and back to my face. I stood up and grabbed the mirror.
Sitting on my own coffee-can sized stool in front of a basin of water, I squinted at the camp mirror to see the dull bandage scissors and to guide them. My hair fell in small clumps to the reed mat covering my dirt floor.
Why don't you tell me
'bout the mystery dance.
I want to know about the mystery dance.
Why don't you show me...
The dull razor scraped over my scalp; over and over, I drew the blade from front to back.
...'cause I've tried and I've tried,
and I'm still mystified.
When I had finished I walked out of my door and stood in my yard. I looked up at the rest of the Milky Way. Without America's light polution, it was all visible. A cool breeze blew accross the newly revealed skin on my head. In the house, the song changed.
I'm not angry anymore.
I smiled and exhaled, allowing my breath to drift out there with all the rest.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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.
-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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
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.
-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.
Monday, April 21, 2008
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.
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.
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