There is a point in every vacation- usually toward the end- when a person begins to wonder if the time away was relaxing and rejuvenating or simply exhausting. In Namibia, I began to wonder about this on the road between Sossusvlei and Windhoek. I was sitting in the back seat of a small rental car. Every article of clothing I had with me was dirty, my sinuses were draining and my credit card was warm to the touch. I had moved past worrying about these things, however, and was simply exhausted. “But I’m on holiday,” I thought and smiled.
My travel companions were in the front seats. I knew they were talking, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Although the road we were on was classified a main road on the map, it was un-tarred. I was beginning to think that the washboard- which was almost constant- might eventually rattle all of the teeth from my head. As concerned as I was about my teeth, however, I was more concerned about the car that was ours for ten days. It was a small white Volkswagen that was obviously not built for off-roading. We had christened it “Schnitzel.” Schnitzel was wearing her spare and had a patched tire in the boot that we were hoping that we wouldn’t have to use.
We had entered Namibia almost two weeks before and had experienced our share of ups and downs. I had been keeping a journal the whole time because of my aspirations to become some sort of travel-writer/humorist/lower middle-class jet-setting playboy. I aspire to this- for the most part- because of the terror that grips my soul when I think of getting a nine-to-five job.
I couldn’t write in Schnitzel’s back seat for a couple of reasons: the washboard would have made the writing illegible and I get carsick. I get very carsick. I can’t read a text message without waves of nausea rolling over my stomach. This means that I have to write while I’m standing still. I’m an aspiring travel writer that can’t write while physically moving from one point to another. This means that I spent a lot of time in Namibia- sitting in a rental car, bus, or taxi- making mental notes. When I arrived, I would spend some time- in a tent or backpacker’s hostel- recording these mental notes. Later, I would sober up and revise what I had written.
So it was that- during a brief respite from the washboard- I began to doze off, and as I did so, I resolved to record my journal in blog form. The next few blogs will be excerpts from my retrospective-through-a-slightly-drunken-haze journal. I have changed the names of people in my journal to protect them and because of how interested they were to see what I would name them. The names of the places are real because I’m too lazy to create an elaborate fantasy world that has roughly the same geographical and political characteristics as Namibia. I will start from the very beginning: Leaving Solwezi
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
A Recipe for Rat and Other Bits
I grew up eight miles east of Bertha, Minnesota on County Road 24 and graduated from Bertha-Hewitt high school in the year 2000. I’m submitting this article from Solwezi. Solwezi is the capital of the Northwestern Province of Zambia, and Zambia is the Sub-Saharan African country that has been my home for the last twenty-two months. On a map, Zambia is the bean-shaped country between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Zimbabwe. You should feel free to Google it. I had to Google it three months before coming here.
I’m in Zambia working in the Rural Education Development (RED) program. I was placed in the RED program, I imagine, because of my degree in education. To be clear, I should say that I have a degree in music education. It didn’t take a long time for me to figure out that clarinet lessons are not in high demand here, so I’ve had to improvise a bit. I think I’ve done quite well. I haven’t saved the world yet, but I’m still here.
I’ve spent most of the last year and a half working with schools and community groups interested in education. The program’s policy is to give knowledge (mostly non-clarinet related), not money, to those in need. A main goal of the RED program is to bring education to children that may not get it otherwise. We try to focus on orphans and vulnerable children in rural areas that don’t have access to learning materials. While busy with things of that sort, I’ve been living (as much as possible) in local standard conditions. That means that I live in a mud-brick hut with a grass-thatched roof and I have a pit latrine and I bathe with a cup and a bucket. Living this way assists volunteers in fulfilling two main goals: to learn about the local culture and hopefully show that a complete understanding of American Culture can’t be gained by viewing Chuck Norris films.
Having said all that, I would like to let you know that I’m not writing this to tell you about my program. I don’t want to bore you. I don’t even like to read a detailed description of what I do here. If you really would like to know, write me a letter and I’ll be glad to respond with something long and dull. For the quickest response, send chocolate along with your letter.
What I would really like to write about today is the sensory experience that is Zambia. The country that I had to Google twenty-five months ago is now very alive for me. It’s bright, loud, sometimes quite pungent, and that’s what I would like to share with you. I don’t know if I can do this country justice in writing- especially those pungent aspects- but, doggonit, I’m going to try.
I told you that I am writing from Solwezi, but I don’t live here. I’m here for a workshop. This workshop is about the same as any workshop in the U.S. - ice-breakers, flip charts, role playing- only it’s given in three different languages and there’s a greater number of biting insects.
Four districts from the Northwestern Province are represented at this workshop. We are here to learn about HIV/AIDS prevention- a very important topic in Zambia today. Each volunteer has come with a counterpart from his or her village, and not everyone speaks English. There are nine provinces in Zambia and something like seventy-two different languages spoken. If you can’t speak the language where you are, you need simply ride you bicycle a few kilometers down the bush path and try again.
I stay in Kasempa district. Kasempa district is to the south and west of Solwezi and the language spoken there is Kiikaonde. It’s 130 km from Solwezi to my house, and that trip is generally made with the help of the terrifically interesting public-transport phenomenon known as the mini-bus.
Thanks to the British, who held Zambia as a province until 1964, flatbed trucks are known here as lorries; pickup trucks are known as vans; and vans are known as mini-buses. Also fries aren’t French here, but simply known as chips- proving that the British stuck it to the French long before we thought up the whole “freedom” thing. But forget the French for now. I want to talk about the minibus.
Mini-buses are usually light-blue in colour (the natural color of Zambian public transport) and about as big as a midsize van in America. They’re designed to hold maybe nine or ten people, but this specification is uniformly ignored by mini-bus drivers. I was on a mini-bus once with three other volunteers, nineteen Zambians (not including the driver or conductor), two fifty kilogram sacks of potatoes, and three chickens. It was very close; a sort of cultural exchange by osmosis. In addition, it’s a sort of unspoken rule that mini-buses drive as fast as they can at all times. For most of these vehicles, this still means that they could be overtaken by an oxcart. But there are the occasional mini-buses that can exceed a speed limit. This can be quite unnerving as mini-buses aren’t all necessarily endowed with brakes. Those without brakes don’t make “stops,” they make “slow downs.” When a potential customer is in sight, the bus slows down to roughly the running speed of the conductor. The conductor then throws open the sliding side door- filling the bus with the acrid smell of burning metal- and jumps out. He helps (throws) the passengers into the bus and leaps in himself so that the bus can resume cruising speed. This process doesn’t leave much time for price negotiation, so if the passenger doesn’t have enough money, the process is repeated in reverse and the passenger then has to catch the next mini-bus; or oxcart- whichever comes first.
Transport for people and transport for livestock aren’t necessarily separate services in Zambia. It’s a rare mini-bus trip that doesn’t involve a chicken or a goat. I once saw a mini-bus with at least fifteen live pigs tied to the luggage rack on top of the bus. They were making probably the most disturbing sound that I have ever heard. Goats are also sometimes strapped to the outside- depending on size or term of pregnancy- but chickens are usually considered carry-ons. Chicken poop is something that happens on these buses, and people generally deal with it with stoicism and a noted lack of giggling.
Babies occasionally poop as well. They don’t just poop on the bus of course, but it is on the bus that a baby poop is most easily shared with the general public. In Zambia, this event is taken in stride. I will be quietly sharing a day on the bus with twenty or so new friends when the bus will suddenly be filled with the distinct smell of human doody. No one’s facial expression will change in the least, and the only one to move will be the man sitting next to the only open able window. The window will be opened and stern looks will be fixed on the faces of all passengers. We will then reflect, as a group, on the fact that we have a mere three hours to go before the next “slow down.”
Similar to the unspoken rule that mini-buses need go as fast as they can at all times is the unspoken rule concerning radios here. Radios need be played at their maximum volume at all times. An un-blown speaker is an uncommon thing in Zambia. This gives Zambian music an interesting flavor: the mid-tones are a sort of hiss; the bass-tones are a nerve fraying rattle; and the treble is something like a malicious garden gnome tittering maniacally and hitting you on the head repeatedly with a ball-peen hammer. Of course, that last impression might just be mine.
I’ve also found that Zambians have interesting and diverse tastes in music. This is especially true when it comes to American music. For example, every third person has a 50 Cent shirt, but I have never heard his music played here. It’s more common in fact for a Zambian to pop in a Don Williams or Jim Reeves tape- even if they are wearing a shirt that says, “Get Rich or Die Trying.”
A neighbor of mine once put in a Kenny Rodgers tape as we sat drinking local beer. The Gambler came on and, naturally, I started singing along. He asked me what the song meant. I stopped singing and looked at my friend. Then I looked at the ground. I had never thought about a Kenny Rodgers song that deeply. It turns out that The Gambler has a pretty profound message.
I said it was about poker- a card game- but it was also about so much more than games. “The Gambler is about life,” I said, “The old man is talking about life. ‘You have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. You have to know when to walk away,’ says Kenny, ‘and know when to run.’ And in the end the Gambler breaks even. The Gambler dies,” I said, “because he’s finished the game.”
We both settled back in our chairs to think about this complex work of art. The next song on the tape was Daytime Friends and Nighttime Lovers. To my great relief, my neighbor didn’t ask about that one.
The local beer here is something that deserves to be the dedicated subject of volumes, but I will try, in brief to give you an idea of its importance. There are three different types of local beer in my area: mbote, monkoyo and lutuku.
Mbote is made from honey and I’m not sure what else. I know that I’ve seen buckets of it that seemed to be boiling of their own accord. Mbote is generally golden in color, quasi-honey flavored, and-despite the bits of honey comb and dead bees floating in it- the closest of the three local beers to something you would actually want to ingest.
Monkoyo is made from water, a grain (like maize, sorghum, or millet) and the monkoyo root from which it gets its name. Unlike the other two local beers, monkoyo comes in comes in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties. The alcohol content is dependent on how long the mixture of ingredients has been sitting in the calabash. A calabash is the big, dried husk of a gourd. Monkoyo of relatively short-term calabash residence (one to three days) is called sweet monkoyo. This can be misleading as there is nothing inherently sweet about it. You can add sugar, but it’s not required. Sweet monkoyo tastes good but fails utterly at giving the drinker a “buzz.” More aged monkoyo (oh a week or three in the calabash) is deemed hard monkoyo and is quite potent. Try to imagine extremely watered-down Cream of Wheat that has been in a jar next to the heater in the garage for a week. I’ve heard it compared to a rough oatmeal stout. I’ve also heard it compared to vomit. The problem, of course, with hard monkoyo (other than that it tastes like vomit) is that it’s like drinking Cream of Wheat. You have to be a very determined drinker in order to feel any alcoholic effects before you are so full you have to unbutton your jeans.
That’s where lutuku has the advantage.
Lutuku is something like Grandpa’s moonshine. The term “beer” is a bit of a misnomer when applied to lutuku. It’s closer to rubbing alcohol. It’s distilled in pipes with a heat source (I think), maize (of course), and water (I would imagine). I always envision something out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory- only with a more distinct possibility of explosion and fewer musical numbers. Once finished, lutuku is light, less-filling and quite powerful. The only down side is that drinking it may make you blind.
If you are going to indulge in any of these local beers, it’s best to do so with a solid base of food under your belt. You’re fortunate in this respect, because as a “solid base” is the only way they do food here. The center of any meal in Zambia is nshima. Nshima is like a very thick porridge (something along the lines of Play Dough) made, like monkoyo, from maize, sorghum or millet that has been ground. It can also be made from dried and pounded cassava root. Cassava root nshima is closer to Silly Putty than Play Dough, but some people prefer it.
Nshima is spiced with nothing. It has no flavor, and yet having a meal in Zambia without nshima is unimaginable. When eating Zambian, you don’t use forks or spoons. You form the nshima into a little ball with your right hand and use the ball either to pick up whatever else you are eating or as a tiny edible bowl in which to transport gravy (called supu here) to your mouth.
There are a number of things to be eaten with nshima. The hardest for me to get used to was the fish. There aren’t many options for preserving fish here, so it is usually dried. A favorite dish is called kapenta. Kapenta are little tiny dried fish that you fry in oil with onions and tomatoes. Their a lot like those crappie minnows that got dropped out of the minnow bucket into the bottom of the boat last spring and won’t be found now until next spring. Now, I know that doesn’t sound so appetizing and I admit I didn’t like them at first, but now I’ve gotten used to them. If they are prepared right, they really are quite nice; especially the supu.
Now I know you want to hear about the weird stuff I’ve eaten, so here it goes:
caterpillars and flying termites- they kind of tasted like a movie theatre snack with legs; hippo- tasted a little like beef, only somehow more aquatic; monkey and bush baby- kind of like squirrel I guess; puff adder- Zambians won’t go near it, but I had to try it and it tastes nothing like chicken; songbirds that the kids kill in the sorghum fields- their good, but you have to eat twelve- like chicken nuggets; goat offal’s- the stomach lining and other various bits and pieces from the inside of the goat that are now my favorite Zambian dish; and pork that still had the hair on it- no getting around it, that tested my ability to suppress the ol’ gag reflex.
My most memorable culinary experience in Zambia, by far, has been eating rat. It wasn’t the eating of the rat that was memorable. After all, I’ve eaten squirrel and I would guess that they’re pretty close to rats in the chain. It was the method of preparation that stuck with me the most:
Step 1: Take whole dead rat in right hand.
Step 2: Throw whole dead rat on bed of hot coals.
Step 3: Once thoroughly charred, fish dead rat from coals.
Step 4: Take hold of front and hind quarters of dead rat with right and left hands, respectively.
Step 5: Twist front and hind quarters of dead rat in conflicting directions.
Step 6: Hand half of dead rat to your friend.
When someone hands you half a charred dead rat, you either politely decline or remember the adage “when in Rome…” Then you pop the rat in your mouth and get a little closer to understanding why Rome fell.
Well, as I’ve been writing this, the workshop has run it’s course and it’s time for me to head back to the village. Don’t let my kidding fool you into thinking that I dislike it here. Zambia is a beautiful country. There are times when the sunset illuminates the clouds and the whole horizon is like a frozen, silent explosion of blues, violets, pinks and you can do nothing but stand and stare. I think that that’s the beautiful part- you can stand and stare. There are times when the pace of things here can be frustrating for an American- but you can’t argue with the fact that, once you get used to it, the pace here gives you time to really enjoy being alive. Zambia has taught me many things, but that’s the most important lesson. There’s time to breath and see and taste and, yes, smell and that that time has value too. I may never cook a rat again, but I hope that this appreciation for just living is something that sticks with me when I return to the hurry-up of the U.S.
So with that, I sign off so that I can go back to my hut for the next few months. I’ll pack my things, make sure I have correct change and head out to the road to wait for the mini-bus to “slow down.” I won’t let poop- chicken or baby- bother me. I’ll just open that one window, take a deep breath and enjoy being alive.
I’m in Zambia working in the Rural Education Development (RED) program. I was placed in the RED program, I imagine, because of my degree in education. To be clear, I should say that I have a degree in music education. It didn’t take a long time for me to figure out that clarinet lessons are not in high demand here, so I’ve had to improvise a bit. I think I’ve done quite well. I haven’t saved the world yet, but I’m still here.
I’ve spent most of the last year and a half working with schools and community groups interested in education. The program’s policy is to give knowledge (mostly non-clarinet related), not money, to those in need. A main goal of the RED program is to bring education to children that may not get it otherwise. We try to focus on orphans and vulnerable children in rural areas that don’t have access to learning materials. While busy with things of that sort, I’ve been living (as much as possible) in local standard conditions. That means that I live in a mud-brick hut with a grass-thatched roof and I have a pit latrine and I bathe with a cup and a bucket. Living this way assists volunteers in fulfilling two main goals: to learn about the local culture and hopefully show that a complete understanding of American Culture can’t be gained by viewing Chuck Norris films.
Having said all that, I would like to let you know that I’m not writing this to tell you about my program. I don’t want to bore you. I don’t even like to read a detailed description of what I do here. If you really would like to know, write me a letter and I’ll be glad to respond with something long and dull. For the quickest response, send chocolate along with your letter.
What I would really like to write about today is the sensory experience that is Zambia. The country that I had to Google twenty-five months ago is now very alive for me. It’s bright, loud, sometimes quite pungent, and that’s what I would like to share with you. I don’t know if I can do this country justice in writing- especially those pungent aspects- but, doggonit, I’m going to try.
I told you that I am writing from Solwezi, but I don’t live here. I’m here for a workshop. This workshop is about the same as any workshop in the U.S. - ice-breakers, flip charts, role playing- only it’s given in three different languages and there’s a greater number of biting insects.
Four districts from the Northwestern Province are represented at this workshop. We are here to learn about HIV/AIDS prevention- a very important topic in Zambia today. Each volunteer has come with a counterpart from his or her village, and not everyone speaks English. There are nine provinces in Zambia and something like seventy-two different languages spoken. If you can’t speak the language where you are, you need simply ride you bicycle a few kilometers down the bush path and try again.
I stay in Kasempa district. Kasempa district is to the south and west of Solwezi and the language spoken there is Kiikaonde. It’s 130 km from Solwezi to my house, and that trip is generally made with the help of the terrifically interesting public-transport phenomenon known as the mini-bus.
Thanks to the British, who held Zambia as a province until 1964, flatbed trucks are known here as lorries; pickup trucks are known as vans; and vans are known as mini-buses. Also fries aren’t French here, but simply known as chips- proving that the British stuck it to the French long before we thought up the whole “freedom” thing. But forget the French for now. I want to talk about the minibus.
Mini-buses are usually light-blue in colour (the natural color of Zambian public transport) and about as big as a midsize van in America. They’re designed to hold maybe nine or ten people, but this specification is uniformly ignored by mini-bus drivers. I was on a mini-bus once with three other volunteers, nineteen Zambians (not including the driver or conductor), two fifty kilogram sacks of potatoes, and three chickens. It was very close; a sort of cultural exchange by osmosis. In addition, it’s a sort of unspoken rule that mini-buses drive as fast as they can at all times. For most of these vehicles, this still means that they could be overtaken by an oxcart. But there are the occasional mini-buses that can exceed a speed limit. This can be quite unnerving as mini-buses aren’t all necessarily endowed with brakes. Those without brakes don’t make “stops,” they make “slow downs.” When a potential customer is in sight, the bus slows down to roughly the running speed of the conductor. The conductor then throws open the sliding side door- filling the bus with the acrid smell of burning metal- and jumps out. He helps (throws) the passengers into the bus and leaps in himself so that the bus can resume cruising speed. This process doesn’t leave much time for price negotiation, so if the passenger doesn’t have enough money, the process is repeated in reverse and the passenger then has to catch the next mini-bus; or oxcart- whichever comes first.
Transport for people and transport for livestock aren’t necessarily separate services in Zambia. It’s a rare mini-bus trip that doesn’t involve a chicken or a goat. I once saw a mini-bus with at least fifteen live pigs tied to the luggage rack on top of the bus. They were making probably the most disturbing sound that I have ever heard. Goats are also sometimes strapped to the outside- depending on size or term of pregnancy- but chickens are usually considered carry-ons. Chicken poop is something that happens on these buses, and people generally deal with it with stoicism and a noted lack of giggling.
Babies occasionally poop as well. They don’t just poop on the bus of course, but it is on the bus that a baby poop is most easily shared with the general public. In Zambia, this event is taken in stride. I will be quietly sharing a day on the bus with twenty or so new friends when the bus will suddenly be filled with the distinct smell of human doody. No one’s facial expression will change in the least, and the only one to move will be the man sitting next to the only open able window. The window will be opened and stern looks will be fixed on the faces of all passengers. We will then reflect, as a group, on the fact that we have a mere three hours to go before the next “slow down.”
Similar to the unspoken rule that mini-buses need go as fast as they can at all times is the unspoken rule concerning radios here. Radios need be played at their maximum volume at all times. An un-blown speaker is an uncommon thing in Zambia. This gives Zambian music an interesting flavor: the mid-tones are a sort of hiss; the bass-tones are a nerve fraying rattle; and the treble is something like a malicious garden gnome tittering maniacally and hitting you on the head repeatedly with a ball-peen hammer. Of course, that last impression might just be mine.
I’ve also found that Zambians have interesting and diverse tastes in music. This is especially true when it comes to American music. For example, every third person has a 50 Cent shirt, but I have never heard his music played here. It’s more common in fact for a Zambian to pop in a Don Williams or Jim Reeves tape- even if they are wearing a shirt that says, “Get Rich or Die Trying.”
A neighbor of mine once put in a Kenny Rodgers tape as we sat drinking local beer. The Gambler came on and, naturally, I started singing along. He asked me what the song meant. I stopped singing and looked at my friend. Then I looked at the ground. I had never thought about a Kenny Rodgers song that deeply. It turns out that The Gambler has a pretty profound message.
I said it was about poker- a card game- but it was also about so much more than games. “The Gambler is about life,” I said, “The old man is talking about life. ‘You have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. You have to know when to walk away,’ says Kenny, ‘and know when to run.’ And in the end the Gambler breaks even. The Gambler dies,” I said, “because he’s finished the game.”
We both settled back in our chairs to think about this complex work of art. The next song on the tape was Daytime Friends and Nighttime Lovers. To my great relief, my neighbor didn’t ask about that one.
The local beer here is something that deserves to be the dedicated subject of volumes, but I will try, in brief to give you an idea of its importance. There are three different types of local beer in my area: mbote, monkoyo and lutuku.
Mbote is made from honey and I’m not sure what else. I know that I’ve seen buckets of it that seemed to be boiling of their own accord. Mbote is generally golden in color, quasi-honey flavored, and-despite the bits of honey comb and dead bees floating in it- the closest of the three local beers to something you would actually want to ingest.
Monkoyo is made from water, a grain (like maize, sorghum, or millet) and the monkoyo root from which it gets its name. Unlike the other two local beers, monkoyo comes in comes in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties. The alcohol content is dependent on how long the mixture of ingredients has been sitting in the calabash. A calabash is the big, dried husk of a gourd. Monkoyo of relatively short-term calabash residence (one to three days) is called sweet monkoyo. This can be misleading as there is nothing inherently sweet about it. You can add sugar, but it’s not required. Sweet monkoyo tastes good but fails utterly at giving the drinker a “buzz.” More aged monkoyo (oh a week or three in the calabash) is deemed hard monkoyo and is quite potent. Try to imagine extremely watered-down Cream of Wheat that has been in a jar next to the heater in the garage for a week. I’ve heard it compared to a rough oatmeal stout. I’ve also heard it compared to vomit. The problem, of course, with hard monkoyo (other than that it tastes like vomit) is that it’s like drinking Cream of Wheat. You have to be a very determined drinker in order to feel any alcoholic effects before you are so full you have to unbutton your jeans.
That’s where lutuku has the advantage.
Lutuku is something like Grandpa’s moonshine. The term “beer” is a bit of a misnomer when applied to lutuku. It’s closer to rubbing alcohol. It’s distilled in pipes with a heat source (I think), maize (of course), and water (I would imagine). I always envision something out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory- only with a more distinct possibility of explosion and fewer musical numbers. Once finished, lutuku is light, less-filling and quite powerful. The only down side is that drinking it may make you blind.
If you are going to indulge in any of these local beers, it’s best to do so with a solid base of food under your belt. You’re fortunate in this respect, because as a “solid base” is the only way they do food here. The center of any meal in Zambia is nshima. Nshima is like a very thick porridge (something along the lines of Play Dough) made, like monkoyo, from maize, sorghum or millet that has been ground. It can also be made from dried and pounded cassava root. Cassava root nshima is closer to Silly Putty than Play Dough, but some people prefer it.
Nshima is spiced with nothing. It has no flavor, and yet having a meal in Zambia without nshima is unimaginable. When eating Zambian, you don’t use forks or spoons. You form the nshima into a little ball with your right hand and use the ball either to pick up whatever else you are eating or as a tiny edible bowl in which to transport gravy (called supu here) to your mouth.
There are a number of things to be eaten with nshima. The hardest for me to get used to was the fish. There aren’t many options for preserving fish here, so it is usually dried. A favorite dish is called kapenta. Kapenta are little tiny dried fish that you fry in oil with onions and tomatoes. Their a lot like those crappie minnows that got dropped out of the minnow bucket into the bottom of the boat last spring and won’t be found now until next spring. Now, I know that doesn’t sound so appetizing and I admit I didn’t like them at first, but now I’ve gotten used to them. If they are prepared right, they really are quite nice; especially the supu.
Now I know you want to hear about the weird stuff I’ve eaten, so here it goes:
caterpillars and flying termites- they kind of tasted like a movie theatre snack with legs; hippo- tasted a little like beef, only somehow more aquatic; monkey and bush baby- kind of like squirrel I guess; puff adder- Zambians won’t go near it, but I had to try it and it tastes nothing like chicken; songbirds that the kids kill in the sorghum fields- their good, but you have to eat twelve- like chicken nuggets; goat offal’s- the stomach lining and other various bits and pieces from the inside of the goat that are now my favorite Zambian dish; and pork that still had the hair on it- no getting around it, that tested my ability to suppress the ol’ gag reflex.
My most memorable culinary experience in Zambia, by far, has been eating rat. It wasn’t the eating of the rat that was memorable. After all, I’ve eaten squirrel and I would guess that they’re pretty close to rats in the chain. It was the method of preparation that stuck with me the most:
Step 1: Take whole dead rat in right hand.
Step 2: Throw whole dead rat on bed of hot coals.
Step 3: Once thoroughly charred, fish dead rat from coals.
Step 4: Take hold of front and hind quarters of dead rat with right and left hands, respectively.
Step 5: Twist front and hind quarters of dead rat in conflicting directions.
Step 6: Hand half of dead rat to your friend.
When someone hands you half a charred dead rat, you either politely decline or remember the adage “when in Rome…” Then you pop the rat in your mouth and get a little closer to understanding why Rome fell.
Well, as I’ve been writing this, the workshop has run it’s course and it’s time for me to head back to the village. Don’t let my kidding fool you into thinking that I dislike it here. Zambia is a beautiful country. There are times when the sunset illuminates the clouds and the whole horizon is like a frozen, silent explosion of blues, violets, pinks and you can do nothing but stand and stare. I think that that’s the beautiful part- you can stand and stare. There are times when the pace of things here can be frustrating for an American- but you can’t argue with the fact that, once you get used to it, the pace here gives you time to really enjoy being alive. Zambia has taught me many things, but that’s the most important lesson. There’s time to breath and see and taste and, yes, smell and that that time has value too. I may never cook a rat again, but I hope that this appreciation for just living is something that sticks with me when I return to the hurry-up of the U.S.
So with that, I sign off so that I can go back to my hut for the next few months. I’ll pack my things, make sure I have correct change and head out to the road to wait for the mini-bus to “slow down.” I won’t let poop- chicken or baby- bother me. I’ll just open that one window, take a deep breath and enjoy being alive.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The Brothers Kayuma
The rain had come late on Saturday and stayed all through the night. The grass on the side of the path was making my trousers wet and I thought that it was good that I had put on the old pair and not my church trousers.Ahead of me on the path, Boniface was walking with his hoe over one shoulder. The hoe had a long wooden handle that was worn smooth from daily use. It hung from Boniface's shoulder by a large rough-metal blade that was wedged through a hole in the fore end of the handle where the wood had been left with a greater girth. There was no wind in the trees and the humidity was oppressive, but Boniface walked casually and didn't appear to mind the morning sun that was already making the sweat bead on my forehead and trickle down my face at the temples. I tried to take a deep breath and didn't feel that I could pull the air as far down as I needed.
As we walked, we went deeper and deeper into the bush and there were no longer any houses along the path- only dense forest. The path we followed was only wide enough for walking and barely wide enough for that in some places. The dirt on the path was tightly packed and only became slick on the surface after the rain.
After some time, we came to a place where the trees had been cleared in a large circle. The massive hardwood logs had been piled in the center of the clearing. Boniface walked to the pile and let the hoe drop from his shoulder. "Before church, we cover three sides," said Boniface. "I will work hard and if I can cover the pile before night, we will set in fire. Charcoal will be very available, Nkambo." Grasping it with both hands, Boniface raised the hoe over his head and then drove the blade into the ground in front of his feet. Pulling back, he loosened a piece of sod about as big around as a basketball. He repeated this again and again and the slowly the firm ground around the pile of logs became a field of sod blocks that could easily be lifted. He swung the hoe with such a fluid motion, and with so little sweat, that it looked very simple. But I knew that when the hoe is in my hand, the motion is anything but fluid.
I stood there watching Boniface work and thought about how he had said that he would have to work hard to cover the logs that day. People were depending on his ability to swing the hoe with a fluid motion. I knew that he would work hard. His work ethic was something that I respected.
The house that Boniface lives in is thirty meters to the west of my house. It is made of mud bricks that were formed in a mold and then dried in the sun. The roof of the house is made of grass that was gathered during the dry season. I have never been inside of Boniface's house, but if you were to walk in and look up, I know what you would see. You would see dark hardwood poles running from the tops of the brick walls to the ridge on the roof with bamboo shoots that have been split in half and laid perpendicular to the poles. Grass is then layered over all. The roof leaks in the rain, and empty cement bags- from the Belgian road-construction camp near my house- have been strategically placed where the leaks are the worst.
Under his leaky roof, Boniface has a family of five children of his own and his wife's daughter from a previous relationship. This daughter is HIV positive and she has a new baby of her own. The father of that baby has contributed nothing to the family. The nine of them live in this mud brick house about the size of a big living room in the states. Another thirty-or-so meters to the west of Boniface's house is the house of his grandmother. Though she is in her eighties and strong for her age, things are becoming difficult for her. Now you must go right up to her kinzanza to greet her and those greetings must be said loudly. Boniface helps her to find nshima and relish so that she can eat every day.
Boniface finished through the ninth grade- a respectable education in the village- but has had very few opportunities since then.
Fifty meters to the north of my house is the house of Godfrey Kayuma. Godfrey is the older brother to Boniface and the eldest male in the village. The brothers are separated by about ten years, but I don't know exactly how old Godfrey is. When I ask him when he was born, he tells me 24 October 1964. It doesn't seem like an unreasonable date except that it is the exact date that Zambia gained independence from Britain. It's a date that's given by many people here when you ask when they were born. Many people have no idea when they were born in Zambia.
Godfrey was the first of the brothers to call me Nkambo- meaning grandson- and it has defined my family relationship with the whole village. For the past two years, I have been eating at least two meals a day with Godfrey's family. If there is something I need, I go to Godfrey. He makes sure my house is in good condition and makes sure I understand what's happening around me if I'm confused. The relationship designation is not given lightly. I am a part of their family and I am treated as such.
Because I am the grandson of Godfrey, I am also the grandson of Boniface and I have an appropriate relationship name with everyone else in the village. The last volunteer was Mwisho- meaning niece- and because of this, she couldn't walk freely into the Kayuma's houses. I'm Nkambo, so I can go anywhere if I want. I have been told that the relationship difference is because I'm man and the last volunteer was a woman. For a while I tried to argue that I saw no difference- that the gender's were equal in my culture- but started to feel that I was arguing against something that I couldn't understand from the outside and stopped.
When a large patch of ground around the pile of logs had been broken into liftable sod blocks, Boniface laid his hoe on the ground. He started piling the sod around the logs. The sod piled higher and higher and Boniface placed the blocks expertly so that no opening could be detected in the growing wall. "No air should reach the logs, Nkambo," he instructed. "If there is air, the logs will go to ash and you will lose the charcoal." I nodded and started to hand Boniface the sod blocks that were to far from the pile for him to reach without moving.
I know that Godfrey and Boniface aren't friends. They are not cruel to each other outright, but there is a tension that exists and they don't seem to enjoy each other's company. I think that most of it comes from the fact that Godfrey is the older. This means that Boniface shows respect to Godfrey and submits to his elder brother's wishes. Boniface calls Godfrey "The Big Man," and I have also taken to referring to Godfrey in this way when talking to Boniface.
As Boniface piled the sod he talked about "The Big Man" and problems that are happening in his house. Godfrey has nine children and they live in a house that's maybe twice as big as the house of Boniface. The house is made from baked bricks and has an iron roof. This means that Godfrey has the nicest house in the area. He works as a security guard at an electric transformer about five kilometers away. The transformer was put there by Zesco- the electric company in Zambia- about ten months ago. They are bringing electricity to my area, but it's coming very slowly and so far the transformer has just been a skeleton. Because of the job, Godfrey is often gone- sometimes all night- and his wife has suspicions. I also hear stories, but I do my best not to let these stories effect the way I view "The Big Man." His relationship means too much to me, and I could never fully understand what's going on in his family. It would be unfair to judge by my culture.
I continued handing Boniface sod blocks while I listened to his story. There had been a shouting match between Boniface and Godfrey's wife the day before. Boniface had punished Godfrey's son for breaking Boniface's axe and Godfrey's wife felt that he wasn't showing her or the son enough respect because Boniface is the younger brother. I listened and nodded. "Bankambo," I ventured, "can I ask you a question?"
"Please, Nkambo."
"I consider you and The Big Man my family, and I have seen that you work very hard and you are responsible for your family and others and..." I hesitated, not knowing how to say what I thought, "...and you don't seem to get very much respect."
Boniface looked down and I continued. "Why do you stay?"
Boniface didn't hesitate. "Because people- the old ones and the young ones- need me there."
As we walked back to the village to change for church, I thought about what Boniface had said. I thought about what life would be like for me when became too old to hear when people greet me. I wondered what it would be like for my parents. As I put on my church trousers, I couldn't help being greatful that I've had a chance to be a Kayuma.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Down in the Dumps Truck
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.
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.
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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