Most awkward moments can saved with laughter. It cant be just a smile. Because smiles hide sad eyes. And it cant be just a word. Because voices hide broken hearts. And for me, there is no easier way to make someone laugh than to dance. Since my skin color in Africa is The Preemptor of awkward moments, there is always opportunity for dance and always the blessing of a laugh. Which was I greatly anticipated October 24th, Zambian Independence Day.
I was a guest, invited to experience independence at the basic school. There would be food, music and games. All the things needed for a good party. Upon arrival I settled into the teacher's section, known by fancy blue plastic lawn chairs, and listened to the choir. The songs encouraging unity were interrupted with short skits performed by the Anti-Aids club. A real downer if you ask me, but being a health volunteer I encouraged the message.
We took a break for tea and I was delighted to enjoy coffee and bread since I had depleted my own supply a few weeks prior. Mrs. Hamuyube asked me, "How do Americans celebrate their independence?" My reply, "We blow up stuff." It was a good cross-cultural exchange. Chatting with the other teachers over this mid-morning snack allowed me to reminisce over my early education days - peering into the staff lounge and seeing Mrs. Robinson vacuuming. My teacher, vacuuming?! Moms were supposed to vacuum. Who knew teachers did normal people stuff.
Well, if in 2nd grade I thought a teacher vacuuming was strange, these African teachers were about to blow my mind. Mr. Mutinta, a short young teacher with serious eyes swollen behind wire frames, came up to me and whispered, "You will judge." Noting the possible beginning stage of an awkward moment, I whispered back, "iiyi." yes.
Then Akon started blaring from a stereo outside the office and Zambian independence day really started. It was like all the performances up til now were polite protocol. Now it was time to party. I was led to the table with the stereo and a clear view overlooking the courtyard where the 1,000 pupils were packed together. There was an open area between them and me and with the music blaring, my blood started pumping faster as I thought, "oh my lisa marie presely, do I get to judge a dance contest!!" The other teachers had no idea how qualified I was. I spent hours watching America's Best Dance Crew before journeying to Africa. I listen to Usher and I have a Chris Brown music video on my ipod. Everytime a commercial came on advertising So You Think You Can Dance? I always answered, duh YEA. All the students were dancing in place and as I was given a scorecard I went through the lines that would be my "honest" reaction.
"Watch your timing." "You got to feel the beat and make me believe what your puttin down." "Yea, thats fresh."
The d.j. switched to Shaggy and I was nodding my head to the beat. Then all the pupils stopped dancing and stared simultaneously to my left. Instinctively, I followed the gaze and saw one girl step out of a classroom looking stoic with white lipstick smeared on her lips and one hand on her hip...she walked forward and turned a few times so as to swirl her skirt and walked back into the room and as another girl stepped in the doorframe, I knew.
This was no dance contest.
This was a Model Competition.
And Im the judge. Hell Yes!
How did they know I was even moreso qualified? America's Next Top Model and Project Runway marathons. I mean even my brother and sister are practically models. I was so estatic that the music change from annoying english tunes to annoying Tonga beats didnt phase me. I put on my shades and sat rigid as posture of model judges should always be noted. Then I looked at my scorecard, there were categories, four to be precise. This first one I was barely able to concentrate on becaue of my enthusiasm but since it was labeled "intro" I took it as an allowance for my hyper-emotional state.
Quickly came the next category, Casual. And as only villagers would, the six contestants sauntered out in long skirts and fancy flats. Im judging.
Category three was traditional tribal wear and included some age-inappropiate dancing at the end of the runway. By this time I had my top two favorites and I was expecting to be stunned with the final category: office wear.
The Short High-Stepper went first dressed in some green number that reminded me of sweet old church ladies on Easter morning. Second and third were Miss Blase and Miss Risque, respectively. Followed by Blase II and my two favorites: Stocked Sans Stacked (whose icy stare made my fashion sense freeze) and Cool Runnings (whose walk was so smooth she could have been gliding on one of those damn moving lanes inside airport terminals.)
I sat tallying up my scores and handed my card to Mr. Mutinta. He motioned for me to follow the other women teachers. Since I didnt want to miss the announcement of the winner, I was reluctant to follow, but follow I did. The d.j. switched back to Akon and the pupils resumed their dancing and thats when I reached the models' changing room.
Apparently, we female teachers were supposed to model too. Now this was definitely not something I signed up for. As I was staring with wide-opeened eyes at the ceiling the girls giggled while they wrapped tribal fabrics around my white skin. The teachers looked beautiful and I looked a fool with a citenge hiding my trousers.
But like I knew Heidi Klum would be proud, I led the teacher's walk in front of the staring children and made it to the end of the runway with my head held high. What happened next was not planned but the beat carried my legs to the crowd of now laughing children and they encircled me as we all danced for Zambian Independence.
Awkward Moment October 24:
I came.
I danced.
I conquered.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Tropicals
"Lweendo, take off your tropicals and feel the earth." Agreenar called out to me. Reluctantly, I slipped off my flip-flops and stepped barefoot on African soil. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
Agreenar, beaming, sighed the Zambian sigh (equivalent to the sound on Sprite commericals. after the sip. before the tagline), "ah, feels nice. isnt it?" Playing through my mind like the opening to the Wonder Years was a nightmare slideshow of summer afternoons walking on hot asphalt to the park only to slide down burning metal rides meant to scorch the back of kiddies' knees. Nothing compared to Africa. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
"Peepe!" no, I scream. Jumping back into my tropicals I blush at her comment that Americans are weak. Yes, an Zambians are crazy.
Two weeks into this village life and what I feel is just beginning to sink in. Yes, my roommates are termites. Yes, I stay awake staring at the spiders crawling on my mosquitoe net. No, I havent killed anything with my machete...yet. And yes, walking to fetch water is a pain in the ass. But not with the three iwes tagging along. Ive just started to learn their names.
Jipego is probably my favorite. We have full conversations. Her speaking about something in Tonga. And me speaking about something else in English. Then there is Medium. Which is absolutely cruel. Who wants to go through life saying "Hi, Im C+. Who are you?" And then there is Vijay, of whom I have the bad habit of calling Vejayjay. I think its funny and she doesnt get it, so maybe its ok?
And then there was the day when (thanks to the last volunteer before me) three older kids came for help with their math homework. I know how to count my money and thats the extent of any calculations Ive done in years. But trying to save face I sat down with them. The two girls shoved their notebooks in my face and I looked down at numbers...mixed with letters...mixed with shapes.
What the hell is this?!
"Um, right. the lines on your triangle are very straight. And I like how you are using the letter "x", seeing as how you dont have that letter in your language."
Blank faces staring back at me.
I turned to the boy and he showed me his notebook. Fractions! Even worse. Fractions are the sole reason I dont cook. And without the scent of ingredients there was no way I could grasp the abstract directions.
Ashamed, and almost regretting all those years of making the shy girls do my homework, I told them I didnt know about math.
They looked down for a minute and then quickly asked me to bang my banjo. Now that is one thing I do know. So I brought out the guitar, they hid their notebook and we relaxed making up lyrics and enjoying the afternoon sans arithmetic.
It seems everyday Im given good alongside the suck. And I suppose, living in one of the poorest countries means you cant ever seperate the two. Because though Zambia is poor in material measurements, it is not in essence, poor in life.
Because life is one thing. It is now. It is the time of me and you and us. It isnt what I did yesterday, what I need to do today and the plan of action for tomorrow. It seems that outside of my American mind, time isnt actions, time isnt accomplishments. Its breathing, its laughing, its crying, its sleeping. Waking, eating and talking with the Walking souls around you. Time is the existence of life not the calculations of its progressions.
So take off your tropicals. And feel the earth. Its nice, isnt it?
Agreenar, beaming, sighed the Zambian sigh (equivalent to the sound on Sprite commericals. after the sip. before the tagline), "ah, feels nice. isnt it?" Playing through my mind like the opening to the Wonder Years was a nightmare slideshow of summer afternoons walking on hot asphalt to the park only to slide down burning metal rides meant to scorch the back of kiddies' knees. Nothing compared to Africa. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
"Peepe!" no, I scream. Jumping back into my tropicals I blush at her comment that Americans are weak. Yes, an Zambians are crazy.
Two weeks into this village life and what I feel is just beginning to sink in. Yes, my roommates are termites. Yes, I stay awake staring at the spiders crawling on my mosquitoe net. No, I havent killed anything with my machete...yet. And yes, walking to fetch water is a pain in the ass. But not with the three iwes tagging along. Ive just started to learn their names.
Jipego is probably my favorite. We have full conversations. Her speaking about something in Tonga. And me speaking about something else in English. Then there is Medium. Which is absolutely cruel. Who wants to go through life saying "Hi, Im C+. Who are you?" And then there is Vijay, of whom I have the bad habit of calling Vejayjay. I think its funny and she doesnt get it, so maybe its ok?
And then there was the day when (thanks to the last volunteer before me) three older kids came for help with their math homework. I know how to count my money and thats the extent of any calculations Ive done in years. But trying to save face I sat down with them. The two girls shoved their notebooks in my face and I looked down at numbers...mixed with letters...mixed with shapes.
What the hell is this?!
"Um, right. the lines on your triangle are very straight. And I like how you are using the letter "x", seeing as how you dont have that letter in your language."
Blank faces staring back at me.
I turned to the boy and he showed me his notebook. Fractions! Even worse. Fractions are the sole reason I dont cook. And without the scent of ingredients there was no way I could grasp the abstract directions.
Ashamed, and almost regretting all those years of making the shy girls do my homework, I told them I didnt know about math.
They looked down for a minute and then quickly asked me to bang my banjo. Now that is one thing I do know. So I brought out the guitar, they hid their notebook and we relaxed making up lyrics and enjoying the afternoon sans arithmetic.
It seems everyday Im given good alongside the suck. And I suppose, living in one of the poorest countries means you cant ever seperate the two. Because though Zambia is poor in material measurements, it is not in essence, poor in life.
Because life is one thing. It is now. It is the time of me and you and us. It isnt what I did yesterday, what I need to do today and the plan of action for tomorrow. It seems that outside of my American mind, time isnt actions, time isnt accomplishments. Its breathing, its laughing, its crying, its sleeping. Waking, eating and talking with the Walking souls around you. Time is the existence of life not the calculations of its progressions.
So take off your tropicals. And feel the earth. Its nice, isnt it?
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