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