Phil opened his eyes and winced. His right tonsil felt as big and firm as a tennis ball. He could almost feel the seams. He had smoked Peter Stuyvesant Reds the night before and had smoked way too many of them. Debris was scattered about the room in which he had slept. I have to work on my unpacking method, he thought. A frantic search (as frantic as Phil could manage) ensued- under clothes, through limp, gutted baggage- for a bottle of ibuprofen that he was sure he had packed as he left his hut two weeks before. Phil furrowed his brow. Had it really been two weeks? Darkness and guilt settled and he knew that he had to go home soon.
Painfully, Phil opened his throat for a drink of water and shuffled into the small shower room across the hall. Finding no soap, he cleaned himself with a small bag of blue laundry detergent paste that smelled only marginally better than his armpits. As he dried himself with a used towel from behind the door, Phil swallowed hard, reflected, and mentally ran over the events in his life that had brought him to his current position.
A cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal with milk- that belonged to someone else- in the upper house were hard to get down, but made Phil feel a little better. He could start the packing process. He made his way back downstairs and started picking up debris.
With an over-stuffed bag on his back and the distinct feeling that he was leaving something behind, Phil dropped an obscene amount of Zambian Kwacha in the house fees box and walked out the door.
The rainy season was just starting and the road to town was damp but still firm. Phil said goodbye to the guard and took a right at the gate. He walked some five-hundred meters and took a left, went up, right, left, up, right, left, and up to the tarmac that runs through Solwezi.
Looking left down the tarmac in front of Shoprite, Solwezi- with its tall storefronts and dusty streets- had the look of a movie set from a 1960’s cowboy film.
Doo ee oo ee ooo… wa waa wa…
Of course it would have to be a very loud, brightly-coloured African cowboy movie.
Banamulume wa Bang’ombe.
Looking left, Phil could almost see his bank and he set off to see if his ATM would yield anything.
The ATM yielded nothing.
Walking back from the bank, Phil’s left hand was in an empty pocket because of an empty bank account. His right hand was in an empty pocket because of a hole that he was perpetually forgetting to fix. Occasionally his fingers would slip through and brush his thigh and he would think about repairing the trousers. Later, he would take them off and immediately forget again. This had been happening for three months. He had already lost two house-keys through the hole.
Back at the corner in front of Shoprite, Phil stopped at a stand under a dark-green umbrella that was selling cigarettes. He bought a pack of menthols- on account of his throat- and turned again to the tarmac. With a twinge- a very small twinge- of guilt, he put the cigarettes in his left trouser pocket and looked across the street. In front of one of the little cowboy-movie-set storefronts there stood a large, orange dump truck. An emblem on the door of the truck let Phil know that they were going in the same direction. So Phil froggered his way across the busy tarmac. Walking up to the truck, he greeted the driver who spoke a broken, halting English.
-No room in the cab… you ride back there?
-Yes, that would be fine.
-Wait.
-O.K.
In the ten minutes or so, the truck was ready enough for Phil to climb into the dump section. He sat on a tarp over unidentified bulk items and struck a conversation with a worker who was also in the dump section. The conversation wound this way and that- in English and out of it- and eventually settled on the subject of beer. Phil was told that a carton of local beer could be purchased for 2,000 Zambian Kwacha. That’s a hell of a deal, thought Phil, and he gave his new friend a K5,000 note.
-One for each of us.
A brief, but heated conversation started between Phil’s new friend and another man in the dump section. This conversation was in a language that Phil couldn’t understand, but he gathered that they were arguing over whether or not there was enough time to buy beer. It would take more than that to stop Phil’s friend, however, and over the side of the dump he went. He returned after a short time. The truck was still there and he clambered into the dump. He was carrying two cartons and no change. He had guessed wrong- beer is K2,500 in Solwezi.
Phil smoked a cigarette (he had forgotten his tonsil with the help of the beer) with his arms on the edge of the dump and a carton of beer in his hand. He looked out on Solwezi. His new friend talked very close to his ear, but Phil couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. He was too distracted by the little bits of corn stuck to the man’s lips and forming a tight mustache over his mouth. So Phil just looked down at the people passing on the tarmac. He noticed especially the girls passing in their jeans and tight-braided hair. Phil realized he knew one of the girls. They had a mutual friend. He called out to her.
-Have you called Spencer?
It was a very tenuous link that they shared, but Phil was determined to make the most of it.
-Not yet.
-Well, you should.
The girl shrugged and continued walking. Phil realized that he didn’t even know her name. He inhaled the cool smoke of the menthol cigarette very deeply and allowed himself to be lonely for several seconds. Then it was back to the beer and his new friend’s corn mustache and feeling happy that they would soon be on their way.
When the truck started, it went a ways on the tarmac and turned left down a hill- stopping to pick up four bags of cement. The bags were lifted with some effort over the rim of the dump and dropped onto the bed, sending up a great white cloud. Then it was back up the hill and a right on the tarmac. The next stop was to pick up a living-room set. The furniture was loaded and Phil was moved into a corner of the dump section to sit on bulk items again. Then the truck went back in the direction from which they had come and they began to load people.
Every time someone crawled into the dump, the space for sitting on the tarp would get smaller and the corn- mustache friend would smile and give a thumbs-up.
-No problem, bwana.
Phil lit another cigarette.
After what seemed like hours of people stepping on Phil, he realized that he had smoked nearly half his pack and was making himself sick. He plucked a half-consumed cigarette from his lips and stuffed it into the carton of beer in his lap.
A little girl was sitting on the floor of the dump and Phil leaned down to adjust his bag so that she could sit on it. As he did this, a dribble of beer spilled on to his bag and left a small white trail of corn pieces. A woman- the girl’s mother, Phil thought- made a sound and Phil righted that carton. The girl avoided the spilled beer, but sat down and looked up sweetly in thanks. Phil threw his half-full carton over the side of the dump.
As the fully loaded truck rumbled out of town, Phil was slowly pushed from his seat on the tarp by an elderly woman sitting above him. Soon he was squatting on a small edge of tarp and after some time Phil was forced to stand on a small patch of exposed dump-section bed. The truck rumbled on- stopping occasionally for more passengers. As the space began to dwindle, Phil was soon standing on one foot- leaning with his outstretched arms on the rim of the dump.
It began to rain.
Phil remembered his tonsil and again felt the tennis ball in his throat. The corn-mustache man still occasionally gave him a thumbs up, but Phil tried not to look at him. Instead, he set his face in a scowl and looked out at the passing trees. Cold rain water ran down Phil’s cheeks and a Beach Boys song ran trough his head. Phil hated the Beach Boys, but couldn’t keep the lyrics out of his head at times like this.
…Oh captain and sure, let me go home… let me go home…I want to go home.
A lady at Phil’s side began to elbow him in the thigh. Looking down he could see that she had a comparably roomy place to sit. Phil’s development-worker cool began to leave him.
-I’m standing here! Look… one foot! What do you want me to do?!
-Baji problem.
Phil began to mentally calculate the number of days left in his contract. He contemplated getting off the truck early. The possibility that it was a free ride was the only thing keeping him onboard. Even so, it was tempting to abandon ship. But the truck rumbled on and Phil tried not to think about his aching leg.
…Oh won’t you let me go home… yeah, yeah…
Mentally, Phil left the truck. He floated over the trees- watching Zambia get smaller and smaller…
Then there was ocean stretching on and on and then more forest. Soon he let down naturally in a deer stand in central Minnesota. A light snow was falling and all was perfect quiet in the trees…
A yell jerked him back to Zambia. It was the corn-mustache man.
-No problem!
… This is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.
Phil looked at the ridiculous, corn- spattered, smiling man and very slowly his scowl melted. He laughed in spite of the rain and ache in his leg. No problem, he thought and nodded to his new friend.
Gradually, the dump section emptied and soon Phil had a place to sit. He was once again next to the corn-mustache man. He turned to Phil and spoke through bits of corn that flew from his upper lip.
-Everything’s O.K. That’s my wife.
He pointed to the woman that had elbowed Phil.
Baji problem.
Phil let out a short laugh and his development-worker cool returned.
-Hello. How are you?
-Fine, and how are you?
The truck stopped in front of Phil’s village and Phil climbed down the rough ladder and dropped to the shoulder of the tarmac.
-Thank you.
He handed the driver a K5,000 note for a drink (or two) and the dump truck rumbled on.
Phil swallowed hard and turned toward his village. A group of babbling children met him to help carry his bags to the hut. Once inside, Phil took some ibuprofen from the bottle on the nightstand where he had left it two weeks before and laid down on his bed for a nap.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
Jesus Film
September in Zambia isn’t technically the cold season. People plant crops in the morning and the afternoons begin to get hot. I try to stay inside during the afternoons. The grass-thatched roof of my hut insulates the interior from the heat as well as anything else available and I am- for a change- thankful to live there.
The nights are still chilly, however, and it was quite cold the night the Jesus Film came to Nselauke. I was given a seat of honor next to the reel-to-reel projector that night- a wooden bench. Although elevated, the bench somehow managed to be less comfortable than the ground. Even so, I sat still and tried my best to look content. I knew that if I were to lower myself to the ground I would have to answer to the guardians of my perceived comfort, so I smiled and focused on maintaining the circulation in my legs. The hardest part was looking non-chalant.
The film was to begin at around 1900 hours, as the projector needed the sun to go down before it could work its magic. The standard operating procedure in Zambia is for a meeting of this nature to start at least an hour late- two hours late if at all possible- but the Bearer of the Jesus Film wasn’t a Zambian. She was a small, stern-looking Canadian woman with white hair and spectacles. She looked on with authority as a group from the Evangelical Church of Zambia erected a large white screen in the middle of the football pitch that was our theater. The screen was composed in a way that allowed the image to be projected on one side and still visible- as a mirror image- on the opposite side.
A compromise was reached between the Standard Zambian Operating Procedure and the Bearer of the Jesus Film and the projector whirred to life at exactly 1930. A string of lights that had been strung near the screen to help with setup was extinguished. Familiar faces from the village began to appear all around. Smiles were lit by the glow from the projector as they played on happy expectant faces. I could see people talking excitedly in the local language and I forgot for a second that my legs were numb. I just listened to the crowd noise and allowed myself to be excited about the idea of the Jesus Film.
Between the projector and the screen there was a cone of white light shining on swirling dust and nighttime bugs. Through the dust and bugs, I saw a man stand up. The command was given for prayer and the crowed quieted and bowed their heads. After the “Amen,” the general noise of the crowd returned until the cone of light changed from white to a series of moving colors and the Jesus Film began.
The film showed the story of Jesus’ life from birth to resurrection. It was basically a film version of the book of Luke. I had seen the film before, although I couldn’t really say where or when. It must have been shown in a catechism class, but I don’t remember for sure. First communion, youth group, confirmation- all seemed to melt together and I couldn’t really remember what I had learned where.
The credits finished and the film opened on a countryside that looked biblical, but was probably in California somewhere. Still, I couldn’t help the feeling that I was back in the basement of St. Joe’s in Bertha, Minnesota, trying my best to get a handle on this subject that seemed to mean so much to everyone else and feeling like maybe I had missed something. When the characters spoke, it threw me. I knew that the film was overdubbed in kiikaonde, but it was still a bit of a shock the first time Jesus said, “muji byepi” (How are you?). The crowd around and on both sides of the screen loved it, though. They cheered when Jesus, after being found alone in the temple, said that obviously He was in His father’s house. When Jesus encountered the devil (a snake in the film) in the wilderness, a wave of boos and hisses rippled over the crowd, and there was clapping at every miracle.
My mind remained in the basement of St. Joe’s. I thought about those days of prayer memorization and Bible verses. I remembered the nuns that came to teach us in the summer and suddenly remembered how every one of them thought that I would make a good priest. I didn’t think so. I wanted things that I knew a priest couldn’t have. How to get those things was a mystery to me, but less of a mystery than the idea of being “called” to the faith, so I forgot that notion. It was never really mine anyway. The thing was- I was sure that I wasn’t good enough to be a priest.
My mind came back to the Jesus Film. I could see the Bearer of the Jesus Film behind the projector. She looked very contented and I knew that she was satisfied with the way the film was being received. I had talked to her earlier in the day and listened as she told me that the film would be shown at 1900 hours unless the devil did something to interfere. When she mentioned the devil, an image of a man in a red suit with a pitchfork fiddling with the reel-to-reel projector appeared in my mind. It was the same way that Santa Claus in a bathrobe appeared every time God was mentioned during catechism.
I didn’t laugh when the Bearer of the Jesus Film mentioned the devil as if he were some shady character in the neighborhood. I didn’t even smirk. I looked her in the eye and nodded like it was the most normal conversation topic there could be. A pang of guilt went off inside me. I didn’t feel guilty because I didn’t really believe in the devil. I had come to terms with that a long time ago. I felt guilty because I was lying about what I believed. Here was the Bearer of the Jesus Film- someone who had come to Zambia to give people spiritual guidance- and I was giving her a false impression of my spirituality. I felt very guilty.
As I looked at the Bearer of the Jesus Film in the light of the projector, I began to realize that lying about my spirituality had been the problem all along. That’s why the nuns had thought that I would be a good priest. I had allowed them that impression. I had thought differently from the very beginning, but I had never shared my thoughts with them. I sat on a bench in Sub-Saharan Africa and wondered why the film didn’t really mean anything to me, but I didn’t tell anyone that it meant nothing to me. I remembered sitting in the basement of St. Joe’s thinking that everyone else was privy to information that I didn’t have. Maybe the others didn’t have the information either.
How could the priest or anyone else help us to believe if we never showed our doubts? We were a flock of sheep too afraid to let on to the shepherd that we were bleeding to death.
Three reel changes later, the Jesus Film ended. There was much clapping and then a prayer. After the prayer, everyone just sort of stood around looking cold and didn’t seem to know what to do next. The local pastors moved through the crowd filling out forms recording any spiritual awakening that might have happened during the film. I talked with the Bearer of the Jesus Film. I told her that I had enjoyed the film very much. She told me about where she had been with the film and some of the difficulties she had faced. I looked her in the eye and nodded. She gave me a booklet on interpreting Bible verse, and I smiled and accepted it. I walked the three kilometers home to my hut in the dark and put the booklet on my nightstand.
The nights are still chilly, however, and it was quite cold the night the Jesus Film came to Nselauke. I was given a seat of honor next to the reel-to-reel projector that night- a wooden bench. Although elevated, the bench somehow managed to be less comfortable than the ground. Even so, I sat still and tried my best to look content. I knew that if I were to lower myself to the ground I would have to answer to the guardians of my perceived comfort, so I smiled and focused on maintaining the circulation in my legs. The hardest part was looking non-chalant.
The film was to begin at around 1900 hours, as the projector needed the sun to go down before it could work its magic. The standard operating procedure in Zambia is for a meeting of this nature to start at least an hour late- two hours late if at all possible- but the Bearer of the Jesus Film wasn’t a Zambian. She was a small, stern-looking Canadian woman with white hair and spectacles. She looked on with authority as a group from the Evangelical Church of Zambia erected a large white screen in the middle of the football pitch that was our theater. The screen was composed in a way that allowed the image to be projected on one side and still visible- as a mirror image- on the opposite side.
A compromise was reached between the Standard Zambian Operating Procedure and the Bearer of the Jesus Film and the projector whirred to life at exactly 1930. A string of lights that had been strung near the screen to help with setup was extinguished. Familiar faces from the village began to appear all around. Smiles were lit by the glow from the projector as they played on happy expectant faces. I could see people talking excitedly in the local language and I forgot for a second that my legs were numb. I just listened to the crowd noise and allowed myself to be excited about the idea of the Jesus Film.
Between the projector and the screen there was a cone of white light shining on swirling dust and nighttime bugs. Through the dust and bugs, I saw a man stand up. The command was given for prayer and the crowed quieted and bowed their heads. After the “Amen,” the general noise of the crowd returned until the cone of light changed from white to a series of moving colors and the Jesus Film began.
The film showed the story of Jesus’ life from birth to resurrection. It was basically a film version of the book of Luke. I had seen the film before, although I couldn’t really say where or when. It must have been shown in a catechism class, but I don’t remember for sure. First communion, youth group, confirmation- all seemed to melt together and I couldn’t really remember what I had learned where.
The credits finished and the film opened on a countryside that looked biblical, but was probably in California somewhere. Still, I couldn’t help the feeling that I was back in the basement of St. Joe’s in Bertha, Minnesota, trying my best to get a handle on this subject that seemed to mean so much to everyone else and feeling like maybe I had missed something. When the characters spoke, it threw me. I knew that the film was overdubbed in kiikaonde, but it was still a bit of a shock the first time Jesus said, “muji byepi” (How are you?). The crowd around and on both sides of the screen loved it, though. They cheered when Jesus, after being found alone in the temple, said that obviously He was in His father’s house. When Jesus encountered the devil (a snake in the film) in the wilderness, a wave of boos and hisses rippled over the crowd, and there was clapping at every miracle.
My mind remained in the basement of St. Joe’s. I thought about those days of prayer memorization and Bible verses. I remembered the nuns that came to teach us in the summer and suddenly remembered how every one of them thought that I would make a good priest. I didn’t think so. I wanted things that I knew a priest couldn’t have. How to get those things was a mystery to me, but less of a mystery than the idea of being “called” to the faith, so I forgot that notion. It was never really mine anyway. The thing was- I was sure that I wasn’t good enough to be a priest.
My mind came back to the Jesus Film. I could see the Bearer of the Jesus Film behind the projector. She looked very contented and I knew that she was satisfied with the way the film was being received. I had talked to her earlier in the day and listened as she told me that the film would be shown at 1900 hours unless the devil did something to interfere. When she mentioned the devil, an image of a man in a red suit with a pitchfork fiddling with the reel-to-reel projector appeared in my mind. It was the same way that Santa Claus in a bathrobe appeared every time God was mentioned during catechism.
I didn’t laugh when the Bearer of the Jesus Film mentioned the devil as if he were some shady character in the neighborhood. I didn’t even smirk. I looked her in the eye and nodded like it was the most normal conversation topic there could be. A pang of guilt went off inside me. I didn’t feel guilty because I didn’t really believe in the devil. I had come to terms with that a long time ago. I felt guilty because I was lying about what I believed. Here was the Bearer of the Jesus Film- someone who had come to Zambia to give people spiritual guidance- and I was giving her a false impression of my spirituality. I felt very guilty.
As I looked at the Bearer of the Jesus Film in the light of the projector, I began to realize that lying about my spirituality had been the problem all along. That’s why the nuns had thought that I would be a good priest. I had allowed them that impression. I had thought differently from the very beginning, but I had never shared my thoughts with them. I sat on a bench in Sub-Saharan Africa and wondered why the film didn’t really mean anything to me, but I didn’t tell anyone that it meant nothing to me. I remembered sitting in the basement of St. Joe’s thinking that everyone else was privy to information that I didn’t have. Maybe the others didn’t have the information either.
How could the priest or anyone else help us to believe if we never showed our doubts? We were a flock of sheep too afraid to let on to the shepherd that we were bleeding to death.
Three reel changes later, the Jesus Film ended. There was much clapping and then a prayer. After the prayer, everyone just sort of stood around looking cold and didn’t seem to know what to do next. The local pastors moved through the crowd filling out forms recording any spiritual awakening that might have happened during the film. I talked with the Bearer of the Jesus Film. I told her that I had enjoyed the film very much. She told me about where she had been with the film and some of the difficulties she had faced. I looked her in the eye and nodded. She gave me a booklet on interpreting Bible verse, and I smiled and accepted it. I walked the three kilometers home to my hut in the dark and put the booklet on my nightstand.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Static
One night in July, I found myself sitting at a long, wood-topped table with two solemn-faced, chain smoking Serbian men. Smoke curled from the Serbians' noses and mouths and filled the space between us as the two men said nothing and stared at dainty white cups of thick, Turkish coffee. I slowly sipped my weak "English" brew and tried to wade into the blue haze that seemed to leave no room for conversation. "So... you guys are pretty busy these days, huh?" I was suddenly very self-conscious of my goofy Midwestern accent.
"Ah... verk... you know."
I had been sent by my neighbor to ask if there were any jobs available in Belga, the Belgian road construction company with a camp near my village. The company is Belgian, the management is Serbian, most of the labor is Zambian and I'm a pudgy twenty-something music teacher from Minnesota. God only knows why I was sent to ask for work. I guess because I'm white. In my neighbor's eyes, that gives me some sort of "in" or "pull." I couldn't argue with the "in" part. I was, after all having coffee with the management. But I have absolutely no "pull." I don't mind my visits to the camp- they give me coffee and beer- but I don't exactly enjoy them either. They don't speak much English, and all of my knowledge of Eastern-European tongues comes from watching The Hunt for Red October (with length and content edited for television). Needless to say, the conversation is slow and painfully extracted.
So we stared at each other for quite some time and I finally said, "I, uh, hear that you guys might be hiring?"
"Ah... no." A look was thrown across the table where the other fellow shook his head in agreement. No jobs here. I swallowed and launched into a bumbling ramble meant to assure these men that I was merely trying to do a favor for my neighbor and that I try by all means to avoid confrontation where ever I find it. If I had my way I would just hide under my bed and play Sudoku by headlamp light for two years. When finished, I lowered my eyes apologetically and tucked back into my coffee.
"You vant beer?"
"Absolutely." I drank one beer and then I drank another and just when I was entering the perfect frame of mind to enquire about job opportunities, I politely shook hands and walked into the moonlit Zambian night.
Out on the tarmac I rode my bike very quickly and perhaps a bit recklessly. The wind felt good on my face. There weren't any jobs at this time and that is what I would tell my neighbor in the morning. I had done what I was asked to do. I could always feel guilty about it later. That night I felt good. I sang loudly and threw greetings at the human shapes I flew past in the dark.
I've got a feeling...
Hello, how are you? Fine and how are you?
...a feeling deep inside, oh yeah...
Muji byepi? Bulongotu... sankyo, mwane, sankyo.
OH YEAH!
I found my hut, entered in the dark and knocked a stack of magazines on the floor looking for a box of matches. After finding the matches, I struck one and tried to light four candles before the match burned down to my fingers. I made it to three and had to strike another match. With light slowly filling the room, I sat down at my drawing table. I picked up my small shortwave radio and started to crank to charge the batteries. I always count to 120 while doing this and I stared at the open journal on the table while counting. One... two... three... the cat jumped in through the window, knocked my alarm clock off the night stand and meowed at me... one eleven, one twelve, one thirteen... close enough. I switched the power on and swiveled the dial looking desperately for something in English.
Dutch, fizzzzz, German, crackle, whistle,Arabic....
Finally I found a station broadcasting cricket scores using the voice of a man with a light Australian accent. I learned which bowler had the most wickets in the last world cup and then immediately forgot that information. I looked again at the journal on the desk. The last entry was in March and it was only one line. Before that there were two entries in February and nothing in January. I dated the blank page and began to write. I finished one sentence and got halfway through a second. I set the pen down and, sitting back in the chair, scolded myself. This is probably the most exciting time of my life. Two lines- that's all I can muster.
The Australian man was gone. There was only a man speaking in French and a woman singing in what I supposed was Cantonese and the both of them were under a thick layer of static. I stared at the candle in front of me for five more minutes before blowing it out and crawled under my mosquito net.
"Ah... verk... you know."
I had been sent by my neighbor to ask if there were any jobs available in Belga, the Belgian road construction company with a camp near my village. The company is Belgian, the management is Serbian, most of the labor is Zambian and I'm a pudgy twenty-something music teacher from Minnesota. God only knows why I was sent to ask for work. I guess because I'm white. In my neighbor's eyes, that gives me some sort of "in" or "pull." I couldn't argue with the "in" part. I was, after all having coffee with the management. But I have absolutely no "pull." I don't mind my visits to the camp- they give me coffee and beer- but I don't exactly enjoy them either. They don't speak much English, and all of my knowledge of Eastern-European tongues comes from watching The Hunt for Red October (with length and content edited for television). Needless to say, the conversation is slow and painfully extracted.
So we stared at each other for quite some time and I finally said, "I, uh, hear that you guys might be hiring?"
"Ah... no." A look was thrown across the table where the other fellow shook his head in agreement. No jobs here. I swallowed and launched into a bumbling ramble meant to assure these men that I was merely trying to do a favor for my neighbor and that I try by all means to avoid confrontation where ever I find it. If I had my way I would just hide under my bed and play Sudoku by headlamp light for two years. When finished, I lowered my eyes apologetically and tucked back into my coffee.
"You vant beer?"
"Absolutely." I drank one beer and then I drank another and just when I was entering the perfect frame of mind to enquire about job opportunities, I politely shook hands and walked into the moonlit Zambian night.
Out on the tarmac I rode my bike very quickly and perhaps a bit recklessly. The wind felt good on my face. There weren't any jobs at this time and that is what I would tell my neighbor in the morning. I had done what I was asked to do. I could always feel guilty about it later. That night I felt good. I sang loudly and threw greetings at the human shapes I flew past in the dark.
I've got a feeling...
Hello, how are you? Fine and how are you?
...a feeling deep inside, oh yeah...
Muji byepi? Bulongotu... sankyo, mwane, sankyo.
OH YEAH!
I found my hut, entered in the dark and knocked a stack of magazines on the floor looking for a box of matches. After finding the matches, I struck one and tried to light four candles before the match burned down to my fingers. I made it to three and had to strike another match. With light slowly filling the room, I sat down at my drawing table. I picked up my small shortwave radio and started to crank to charge the batteries. I always count to 120 while doing this and I stared at the open journal on the table while counting. One... two... three... the cat jumped in through the window, knocked my alarm clock off the night stand and meowed at me... one eleven, one twelve, one thirteen... close enough. I switched the power on and swiveled the dial looking desperately for something in English.
Dutch, fizzzzz, German, crackle, whistle,Arabic....
Finally I found a station broadcasting cricket scores using the voice of a man with a light Australian accent. I learned which bowler had the most wickets in the last world cup and then immediately forgot that information. I looked again at the journal on the desk. The last entry was in March and it was only one line. Before that there were two entries in February and nothing in January. I dated the blank page and began to write. I finished one sentence and got halfway through a second. I set the pen down and, sitting back in the chair, scolded myself. This is probably the most exciting time of my life. Two lines- that's all I can muster.
The Australian man was gone. There was only a man speaking in French and a woman singing in what I supposed was Cantonese and the both of them were under a thick layer of static. I stared at the candle in front of me for five more minutes before blowing it out and crawled under my mosquito net.
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