Last night i found myself chatting with the beautiful Zambian lady that works at the reception desk at Jollyboy's. She was drinking a Mosi at the bar after her shift. I was drinking a Castle and trying to impress her with the three or four words that I know in Bemba.
Bemba is similar to the Kaonde that I have been learning in the Northwest province, so I have a few Bemba words in my "idiom" pocket that I can take out and throw at people who I feel would appreciate it. I felt that the beautiful Zambian lady that works at the reception desk at Jollyboy's would appreciate it. I think that she was impressed, but it could have been the Castle more than my local language skills.
She was smiling and I was looking into her deep brown eyes and explaining what I am doing to save babies in Zambia when Felix laid a hand on my shoulder and said that the ping pong table was open. My love a of ping pong and my love of beautiful Zambian ladies conflicted for a moment.
Ping pong won. I don't know what that says about me.
They call it ping pong, but really the ball makes more of a pick pock sound as it is batted back and forth.
Pick... pock,pick... pock,pick... pock, pick...
That sound could be heard for hours last night in the Jollyboy's bar area. While Sam sat in the lounge area reading about how a man named Robert Langdon fashionably exposes the seedy underbelly of the papacy, Felix and I played ping pong nearly to exhaustion. I was covered in sweat. I know that ping pong doesn't seem like a sweating sport. But I am the guy who sweats playing cribbage, so ping pong really gets me worked up.
In Felix I have found the perfect ping pong partner. He is about on the same notch as me on the skill scale- not obliterating me or having to be taught- and he seems to find as much joy as I do in simply volleying the ball back and forth.
Like I said, we played for hours. We were playing pretty well, too. A group of people playing pool nearby even commented on our ping pong prowess. They were a combined group of Australians and Americans. The Americans were trying their best to impress the Australian girls with their stories of heroism in Africa.
Felix and I scoffed.
Scoff... pick... pock, pick... pock, pick...
We scoffed heartily until they said that we are good at ping pong. Then we took a brief break from scoffing in order to bathe in the warm glow of recognition.
I was bringing my A game until the beautiful Zambian lady left the bar and walked by on her way out.
Pick... pock, pick... click, click, click... sigh...
Bemba is similar to the Kaonde that I have been learning in the Northwest province, so I have a few Bemba words in my "idiom" pocket that I can take out and throw at people who I feel would appreciate it. I felt that the beautiful Zambian lady that works at the reception desk at Jollyboy's would appreciate it. I think that she was impressed, but it could have been the Castle more than my local language skills.
She was smiling and I was looking into her deep brown eyes and explaining what I am doing to save babies in Zambia when Felix laid a hand on my shoulder and said that the ping pong table was open. My love a of ping pong and my love of beautiful Zambian ladies conflicted for a moment.
Ping pong won. I don't know what that says about me.
They call it ping pong, but really the ball makes more of a pick pock sound as it is batted back and forth.
Pick... pock,pick... pock,pick... pock, pick...
That sound could be heard for hours last night in the Jollyboy's bar area. While Sam sat in the lounge area reading about how a man named Robert Langdon fashionably exposes the seedy underbelly of the papacy, Felix and I played ping pong nearly to exhaustion. I was covered in sweat. I know that ping pong doesn't seem like a sweating sport. But I am the guy who sweats playing cribbage, so ping pong really gets me worked up.
In Felix I have found the perfect ping pong partner. He is about on the same notch as me on the skill scale- not obliterating me or having to be taught- and he seems to find as much joy as I do in simply volleying the ball back and forth.
Like I said, we played for hours. We were playing pretty well, too. A group of people playing pool nearby even commented on our ping pong prowess. They were a combined group of Australians and Americans. The Americans were trying their best to impress the Australian girls with their stories of heroism in Africa.
Felix and I scoffed.
Scoff... pick... pock, pick... pock, pick...
We scoffed heartily until they said that we are good at ping pong. Then we took a brief break from scoffing in order to bathe in the warm glow of recognition.
I was bringing my A game until the beautiful Zambian lady left the bar and walked by on her way out.
Pick... pock, pick... click, click, click... sigh...
Sam is an incredible person. We decided a couple of months ago that each one of us would be in charge of a certain aspect of the vacation. Sam is in charge of logistics, Felix will drive the car that we are going to rent in Namibia and I was supposed to design the official trip T-shirt. Felix hasn't had to drive anything yet and I failed miserably at delivering any sort of shirt, but Sam had done a wonderful job at logistics. She has made the reservations in Windhoek and Swakopmund and she has bought the tickets that are taking us to Windhoek from Livingstone as we speak. (I will owe her my first born by the end of this trip). These are wonderful things because, if left to our own devices, Felix and I probably wouldn't have even gotten started on this vacation. If we had, we would surely be cold and hungry right now.
So the bus left at 1200 hrs today. This is also a wonderful thing, as the room that we slept in last night had an odd way of making all time outside of the room inconsequential. So we got up at around 830 hrs today. I had a nasty ping pong hangover and limped to the bathroom where I washed and brushed my teeth. Sam and Felix weren't up yet so went to the shop in Jollyboy's and used the computer for a while. After I finished, I decided that I needed to go remind them that time was still moving ahead full steam here on the outside.
Once we were all roused we had breakfast at the bar and started out with our bags toward the bus station.
Felix and I sat at the bus station while Sam went to get snacks for the road at Shoprite. As we sat, the first of the men selling copper bracelets came to see if we would like to buy some authentic Zambian souvenirs. Felix declined, but I wasn't so quick to dismiss the gentleman. "They will be wonderful souvenirs to bring home," I said to myself. "They will be light and the people will love them and praise me for my thoughtfulness." I bought two of the gentleman's copper bracelets for a very reasonable price. Then a second man selling copper bracelets came along and said that he would sell them for any even better price than the first man. I quickly counted on my fingers. "There are many at home who will want these bracelets." I bought four more. That's when the first man came back.
So when the bus pulled into the station for us to board, I had fourteen copper bracelets secured in my back pack. I also had the words of Sam and Felix that I wouldn't be allowed any where near another man selling copper bracelets.
The bus that we are on is a double-decker. The tickets that we have for this bus are business class (or the bus equivalent) and we are sitting in the top part of the bus. We had discussed where we should sit while we were waiting for the bus to arrive and decided (because of what other volunteers had told us about the view) that we would sit in the very front. So we had prepared ourselves so that we would be good and ready when the bus came and we would get the front seats. Obviously all three of us would be unable- as a group- to rush the bus in order to secure the seats. We needed a better plan.
"Charge, Sam!"
There was very little need for our plan. The bus is nearly empty. We all have our own row of seats and we decided that we didn't really need to sit in the front at all because the sun would probably be terrible up there while travelling west.
We stopped at the Zambian side of the border to show our passports. Sam, Felix and I were proud of our level of cultural integration as displayed by our complete refusal to stand in line. We passed the cue and went straight to the counter, where our passports were promptly stamped and we were among the first back on the bus.
The road improved immediately when we crossed the border into Namibia. You can see people improving the road from the Zambian side of the border.
Right now we are travelling on the thin stick of land called Kaprivi that reaches over from the northeast corner of Namibia to touch Zambia at the Zambezi river. The sun is getting closer and closer to the flat and increasingly more arid land that is rolling past the bus. Sam is sleeping with her headphones on and Felix and I are having a discussion about development. I will take a Benadryl at some point so that I can fall asleep on this bus (I have trouble sleeping on buses). But I think I will wait a while. We just past a large white, triangular sign that featured an exclamation point in the center above the word ELEPHANTS.
While I wait for the Elephants, I am feeling very contented. I am happy to be on vacation, and even happier to be here with my friends. When I look outside at the things that can be seen from this bus window, everything is so bright and beautiful that I wonder how I could ever have doubts. I am a very lucky person.
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