My Scars

A South African bar rant, "Those fuckin rich people that cut themselves are just doing it for attention. Because Daddy doesnt love them enough."

Why is that wrong?

The actions we take for attention. For control. Some people are workaholics. Some get tattoos. Some dress outlandlishly. Some drink and some fuck. But if thats not your vice and you dont "get it" then you shame the others.

The first time I hurt myself intentionally I was 14 and my family was going to move again. I didnt know how to express my disagreement for the proposed move while still supporting my family. As Ive matured Ive learned better communication skills and I dont internalize everything as I once did. But sometimes in extreme grief and confusion I am tempted and take the past actions of a scared and lonely girl.

When I visited the states I was amazed at the speed of life and the individual directions everyone moved in. We live in a time period and culture that demands movement and progress. To stop and feel and reflect is to stop production and spit in the face of the norm. Maybe in all this we are isolating the essential human cravings for love and community.

Sometimes I think of designs. Most days I think its ridiculous. Other days I can still see the faded scars on my skin. I go online and read blogs and articles aimed at helping those that self-injure. It always ends in frustration because the advice is for teenagers and that angst of youth. Which I feel far removed from. I may be merely 25 but are 30 or 40 or 50 year olds not haunted from their youth?

I have access to professional help and I have utilized that option. I just wish there were articles written by adults that struggled with self-injury. There are plenty of comments by loved ones of cutters that wonder why their child or sister or friend would do this. And to those loved ones, I say its ok. We all crave attention and search for a means to control our lives. Not everyone's scars are physical.

Sometimes if you cant receive the help you desire, you must first offer that to someone else.

Today I strive to reject the shame and love my scars. May you do the same.

Spy on The Rock

Yesterday I brought women's skirts to a man named Seven on the docks of Alcatraz. Five minutes after meeting, all plans to seduce him were spoiled when he shoved a touch screen gadget slideshow of Milo in my face.
"So...you have a kid?"
"Yes, 5 months old. His name is Milo."
The pictures were cute, as most 5 month old baby pictures are. As he rambled on about Milo's gurgling and smiling skills, I remembered that Milo is a brand name of hot chocolate in Zambia.
Ahh, Zambia. Im 3 weeks into a month long holiday in the States. Peace Corps sends you home for this holiday if you extend your service for a 3rd year.
It has been a busy 3 weeks. It seems as if the efficiency of technological systems distracts everyone from interaction with others and, more frightening, with themselves. Everything is presented with flair and meant to provoke a certain something within me but Im not given the choice or time for the reaction. I thought this was a free country?
Its that feeling in a dream. When things are happening around you. Maybe everyone is running a race. And you want to run. And you remember how to run. But you look down and find your feet are cement blocks.
So i stood with Seven on the docks. His dad is a Peace Corps Volunteer and sent me with a present to bring to Seven. We walked up the gates and Seven flashed his employee badge, saying "This is my cousin Fresh. She is with me." The gate keeper let us through as I giggled because his dad had apparently passed along my nickname, not my given name, but unsurprisingly a man named Seven didnt ask questions.
I had many questions for him though. For instance, how does one become a spy on The Rock?
But of course you cant just come out and directly ask a spy this because they will no doubt deny it.
"So what is your job here on Alcatraz?"
"I maintain the electronics. Mostly the headphones used for the audio tour."
Sure you do. And I live in Timbuktu.
"Would you like to take the audio tour?"
"Uh, duh."
He brought me a set of nicely maintained electronics and disappeared to his lair while I was left to wander the cell blocks solo. Normally, if I had to suggest tips on how to best walk through a deserted prison alone, I would place an importance on opening all senses and walking in a Pink Panther meets Tai Chi crouch. Because you just never know.
But when one is strapped into headphones, sealing off a most useful sense when walking through a deserted prison alone, one should spin with the energy of a Tourettes ADHD teenager in ballet class. Because you just never know.
The tour was educational and not as boring as a PBS special because one of the narrators, a former inmate, was down on the lower level signing books for all the meaningless tourists.
I found Seven in his lair, a former guardsmen office, and we got to talking about his dad and the village experience.
Why does everyone want to talk about the same thing?
The physical challenges. No running water. No electricity. Poor transportation. The bugs! The illnesses!
Because these things are security. To try and survive in a place where they are not assured seems ludicrous, preposterous!
When I say that actually you get over these physical challenges within the first 6 months, people look at me as if Im lying or Im a hero.
During my 2nd week back in AmericaLand I was in the parking lot with my sister at the high school she works at. She pointed at a Hummer and said that a 16 year old was given the car for her birthday. Other people in the conversation talked about how that much money could have been used for "better" purposes. I was stuck trying to comprehend the fact that a person so young could be in charge of such a responsibility.
Your lying. Your a hero......


I've been back in Zambia for a week now. I met Seven's dad on the side of the road. He was sunburnt, lean and smilely. He dismounted his dusty bicycle and gave me a big hug.

If only we talked on Airplanes

Hi. Im the middle seat. And I will make you hate me. Im the one with the smallest bladder and the bad knees. The loud laugh and the disgusting table manners. Im fidgeting.
So go ahead and sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.
Hi. Im the introspective window seat. And I will make you jealous. My head blocks the whole brilliant view. I journal. I sigh.
Hi. Im the cocky aisle seat. I kick out my foot and I point out my elbow. Im relaxed because Im in control. Do not pass go.
Hi. Im the dumbass interior decorator of airplanes. I created a hierarchy within a confined space. The pilot may dictate your destination but my organization will dictate your mood. I got this job based on how many lego men I could fit in Barbie's playhouse.
We should wear stopwatches around our necks telling how long it has been since we left home. The person with the most time can choose their seat.
Because maybe today Im fidgeting.
Or maybe Im reflective. Or hell, I may even be cocky. People would cheat their stopwatches though. People would say...What does home really mean? My old man kicked me out when I was 16 and Ive been on the move since...
Hi. Im more special than you. I travel. I have those fancy neck roll pillows. Sure I look like a dandelion but I can sleep. I have the flight safety instructions memorized. I know the names of the airports not cities. Time zones dont apply to me. Im worldly.
Hi. Im the sweaty overweight mother with a crying baby. Its white noise to me so only all of you will suffer. You'd yell at me but my baby has the cutest little smile and when you stare in my desperate eyes you know my soul has already been sucked out to an island oasis living my other life.
Hi. Im the foreigner. I lean back my chair. I take dumps in the one tiny bathroom and its cool because you cant understand me and I cant understand you.
Hi. Im the sassy flight attendant. I dont breathe oxygen. I have perfect teeth and excellent hearing. I got this job because Ive always loved cheerleading and waitressing.
Hi. Im the pilot and I'll be your captain. Everyone knows computers really run this show. I got this job because I look good in a uniform and my voice sounds as reassuring as an ambulance siren to a victim.
So go ahead and sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.

I am

So today I turned 25. Im in the big city Lusaka for medical tests since Im extending my Peace Corps service into a 3rd year...more on that later.

But I was walking with a friend to the grocery store. And she (being older than me) playfully asked if I felt older and more mature and wise and all that playful witicism jazz that people say on the official recognition day of aging. This birthday was the first time I said yes. Yes I do feel older and more accomplished and wiser and all that jazz.

Maybe its the monumental number 25. A quarter century. Probably its that.

Its that I no longer feel focused on fixing myself. I've always been concerned with bettering myself. With trying to change. My skills. My knowledge. My beliefs. My personality? Always advancing and pushing for the latest model of Brittany. But lately and especially on this official recognition I have a concrete idea of who I am and what Im great at and all those things I suck at and for the first time its all OK.

For my 3rd year Im moving provinces (states) in Zambia to be what is called Peace Corps Volunteer Leader (PCVL). Basically its the person that is the middleman between the volunteers in that province and the Peace Corps administration in Lusaka. The PCVL takes care of the office in the capital, which is really like a frat house for the volunteers in transit. The PCVL has to handle a lot of details and listen to a lot of complaints.

And for that reason a lot of people think Im nuts to do this job. Hell, I think Im nuts.

But its all OK. Because its an important job. Its important for the PCVL to listen to the volunteers bitch about things that are really just products of being culturally tired. Tired of changing. Tired of adapting. Tired of always trying.

And its really nice to do this when for the first I've stopped trying.

I just am.


New Address:

Brittany Freitas
P.O. Box 710150
Mansa, Luapula
Zambia

Charlie

Loneliness has become my friend. No longer running. No longer denying. I’ve given it a name.
Charlie.
They told me to outline a plan. To construct a survival guide.
But what to outline? The spider web of emotions splattered against the walls of my heart like paintball explosions.
It is overwhelming to be surrounded by people. People that are ignorant of the noise within my mind. People that don’t understand the language of my mind.
The language of our minds describe concepts. Describe emotions. Describe ways of being that I once assumed were universal.
It is overwhelming to be bored every day. People that only know tired or lazy. I am not tired or lazy. I am bored.
The gap of concept. The gap of emotion. The gap between mind and heart.
Charlie.

Its Our Way

I was sitting with a glass of wine enjoying the first day in weeks that the sun had decided to peek through the clouds. That morning I had spent fishing with my bamama. With two long sticks and a piece of twine knotted to the ends of our fishing poles. Dressed in my new rainboots “ma jumbo” I trudged behind my barefooted bamama as she squished through the tall grasses and moist soil to the bank of our dam. She put the worm on my hook and with a piece of a flip-flop acting as a bobber, I dropped the line from our perch a couple feet above the water’s edge. Quickly the minnow sized fish were biting and since Im not one to touch anything squirmy we developed a system whereby she did the dirty work of baiting the hook and putting the fish in our bucket, while I got to feel the anticipation when dropping the line and accomplishment when pulling out the line with a dangling fish. After a few hours we had enough for the children’s relish (the term for the meat or vegetables accompanying nshima) so we arrived back at home to sit and rest. I proudly showed my bataata our catch and he laughed as I told him that I feared to touch the fish, asking me “Why do you fear a relish? Its our way.”
I was sunburned and tired like every good fishing day, feeling that I conquered the depths, provided food and yada yada yada. The pop in the swelling of my ego occurred with the pitter patter of 4 yr old Castro’s feet and the slurring of children’s excited words. Kid Tonga takes me almost as long as Old Man’s Tonga to decipher. But eventually I realized Castro said my bamama was calling me because the baby is coming.
Baby is coming? I got up from my comfortable seat and walked to the house of my bamama’s married daughter, Felista, located on the edge of our family compound about 100 yards from my hut. Baby is coming? Lately we have had puppies and goats popping up so I figured it was some other creature pro-creating and my bamama wanted to order me around.
Upon reaching the home, it was eerily quiet. I thought I was in the wrong place. No movement in the cikuta (outdoor kitchen). No movement in the goat’s home. Even the chickens had taken off for the day. So I started shouting the usual “odi” acknowledging my presence and began wondering if either Castro was playing a joke or my Tonga was much worse than I thought. Then I heard my bamama beckoning me from inside the house. I walked in to the dark, mud smeared walls as my eyes adjusted I saw my bamama standing over Felista who was lying naked on the thin mattress and breathing heavily.
Baby Person is coming!
“Lweendo we need a torch. And gloves. Run fast fast!”
So I sprint out of the darkness into the bright day with my mind racing faster than my feet. Baby Person is coming. We need to call 911. Baby Person is coming!
Upon entering my own dark hut I stumble around blind finding the gloves in my PC med kit and grabbing the headlamp off my bed. Then when sprinting back to Felista’s hut I made a conscious effort to focus my mind. Thank God I already started drinking. Its game time. I am 911.
Entering the hut for the second time I took in the surroundings. The thin mattress, lacking sheets, was a foot above the dirt floor on top a crudely crafted frame. I put the headlamp on my bamama’s head and we both put on gloves. I spread a piece of plastic over the mattress and Felista lay atop it. I held her legs and my bamama pressed on her stomach. And what do you know you seriously just have to catch the baby. The eerie quiet I perceived earlier now felt mystical. The blue slimy head was followed by all the correct body parts while a puff of “wow” escaped my lips. I began wiping away the fluids that seemed to encase the baby like shrink wrapped goods at the supermarket. My bamama picked up the same spool of thread we had used for fishing line that morning and cut two pieces. I held the sprawling fingers and toes as my bamama tied the knots around the umbilical cord. She then used a razor blade to cut the cord and blood swirled on the plastic with the other fluids. My bamama utters the first words encouraging the small gurgles to become a loud cry. Then she rushed outside for water as I nervously held the baby adding my English encouragements for the baby to cry. I took those few seconds to tell Felista she now had a baby girl. Then my bamama rushed in and spit water on the baby’s back which immediately drew forth the beautiful wails of a baby person. I wrapped the baby girl in a citenge and another thicker blanket then placed her on the dirt floor. We turned our attention back to the new mother and the dangling cord attached to a placenta. My bamama again placed her hands on the belly while gently pulling on the cord but when only half of the placenta would come our strategy was for gravity to take over. So I grabbed Felista’s arms and she slid off the bed along with the plastic to squat on the ground. Quickly enough it was finished and again Felista lay on the bed as I placed the baby beside her. My bamama finally smiled and let loose the African woman praise yelp as I was half crying and half laughing.
“Ah, was this your first time Lweendo?”
Which made me only laugh louder. Yes, definitely yes.
My bamama went outside to dig a hole behind the house for the placenta and I walked back to my hut telling the men sitting so casually under a tree that we have been given a baby girl.
My bataata said we are lucky the baby is ok and the mother is ok. And after he laughed at my inquiry into his presence at any births he said, “no, no. I fear too much.”
But why do you fear? Its our way.
I weighed the baby 1 week later and she weighs a measly 4.4lbs. They asked me to fill out the birth form for the clinic and as they proudly watched my hand writing the name of the village and the necessary facts they officially announced the arrival of Baby Lweendo.

The Feb Funk

For a few years now I have fallen victim to the February Funk. It seems unfair to have an entire month of bad luck but with how well the other 11 months always go, I guess I deserve it. I know I certainly cant help it.
The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!
I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”
“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.
My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”
Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!
“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.
Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.
I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.
I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.
The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.
After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.
A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.
They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.
What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.
Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”
That’s not white medicine, right?
Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.
The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.
But now its March.
I got paid.
Im less crazy.
I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.
Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.
Heres to another 11 months of peace.

Im telling you...

Avatar is Peace Corps of the future. Educate yourself on that.

Wham, Bam, Screw You Nam!

He was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt over baggy jeans straight from my sister’s rave days and carrying a silver briefcase. Those are three things I wouldn’t trust when seen solo but when combined I knew I had to talk to that guy.
My chance came when I was enjoying an after dinner glass of wine with my friends Carroll-Anne and Shadow. (Shadow is a traveling name. Carroll-Anne hates her traveling name so I only use it when face to face to get a thrill from her death glare). This interesting adorned man, now wearing a Coat of Character, put said coat on a trembling Shadow in a gentlemanly gesture. As with most gentlemen and their gestures he failed to notice that Shadow was trembling from his creepiness and not her temperature. I took it upon myself to introduce myself and question the Coat of Character. A coat not unlike those adorning many homeless men walking the streets of a big city. A coat that says people have died while wearing me and their souls stitch my inseam. A coat when combined with Che Guevara t-shirt, rave jeans and non-descript briefcase alert ME that I will do everything to be That Guy’s friend so that when anthrax tainted ecstasy is released at the next labor union strike and He starts collecting body pieces (because what else would he put in a briefcase) then I would be safe and happy with own Coat of Character. And so, C.J. from Durban became a prominent figure in our Namibian vacation.
Up until this point vacation had been somewhat normal. I met up with 7 friends in Livingstone for Christmas. They all live in other parts of Zambia so it was fun for me to show them around TongaLand. We visited Victoria Falls and I can now say that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t. Because one by one they went bungee jumping and I cringed while videotaping. Of course this was partly because the day before I had assumed the Meryl Streep role in The River Wild and rafted the Zambezi River. Ive been rafting numerous times before and enjoyed the slight adrenaline rush coupled with laughing while bouncing along. This time there was no laughing. At my place in the front, alongside PCV Tim, we got a clear view of the rapids to come as the boat dipped down seconds before collision and I would inevitably utter a curse word. After a couple hours Tim couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at me over the crashing waves. “Seriously Britt, those could be the last words I hear!” So I switched to something more appropriate for his mid-western Catholic upbringing and started hailing Mary like baby Jesus at supper time. Our boat flipped twice. I was thrown out 2 more times. Once I slammed headfirst Crash Dummy style into the rocks on the river side when we were wildly spinning. And I took a paddle to the face. Now I know why they make you wear helmets. When we docked at the end I nearly kissed the shore and promised never to test fate again. Thus I was videotaping and feeling like an accomplice to more asinine actions.
Our one day stop in Windhoek was over the weekend when everyone was in transit to the beach town Swakopmund for New Years. It made the capital seem like a ghost town and mistakenly modern. For when Carroll-Anne and I sat down at a proper table with advertisements shouting off the wall we thought these were signs that we would actually get what we ordered. But when bowls of lettuce showed up and we were told that the ingredients were missing to make lettuce into the distinguishing salads we had ordered, I knew the amenities were a façade. “Can I say something? I want to say something.” No. You will sit there and eat your leaf and think menacing thoughts of this restaurant and this country and this continent. Just like me. “ok, Nana. You can say something.” Even though this is extremely crisp lettuce. And they even washed it!
Soon we were on our way to Swakopmund. The attractive, middle aged Afrikaner woman giving us a ride smiled as Gizmo commented on her music. “It’s my son’s cd.” As she slipped off her wedding ring. “Im going to meet my girlfriends for the holiday. What are your plans?” Gizmo’s WASP eyes lit up and I ordered 2012’s earth ending quakes and fires to ascend right now.
But then we found ourselves at the backpackers lodge and in company of permanent resident C.J. “Ive been here for 3 months but my country, they doesn’t know it. I have a doctor’s note.” Wink. A doctor’s note? What sickness keeps you out of your own country?
My friends and I breathed in the salt air and arrived at the open air club on the sand with the loudest music and 90% of Namibia’s high school student body. What? The place was swarming with acne, hair gel, neon sunglasses and Smirnoff Ice. Apparently we had stumbled on Southern Africa’s version of Spring Break Cancun. This scene would be repeated night after night until New Year’s Eve when it was crowned with sweaty bodies dancing around a bonfire. And this is where I blame the downfall of the rest of our trip.
Every year I have an anti-social tradition of staying in and reflecting on all the bad times of the year past while realizing Ive made it to another year with brand new horrors awaiting. Its not pessimistic. Its realistically slapping the world in the face before it pinches you back. But this year I get sucked into teenie bopper angst and what happens...
The Skeleton Coast Automobile Debacle. Why is it called the Skeleton Coast? Is it a graveyard? Of ships? Of animals? No. Of your pride? Of your checkbook? Of your bladder? Yes.
On New Years Day I walked all over the town with Carroll-Anne just to discover the rental car’s office was closed. Of course that turned out to be the wrong company and though we were a couple hours late to the proper company, our reservation and vehicle were gone due to a 10 minute wait policy. Apparently some things in Africa do operate within 10 mins. Things like greeting the woman selling bananas then buying bananas then thanking her and then sending greetings to her family. And things like American rental car companies.
Two days later we were on the road. But not in one large vehicle. The 8 of us were split into 2 tiny Nissans meant to be taxis. When me and the only other person knowledgeable and experienced with driving a standard realized we had left our licenses at PC HQ in Lusaka, the two with licenses started hyper-ventilating. We needed Carroll-Anne and Buck to drive us out of this teenaged hormone city and far away from C.J. with his suitcase and Coat of Character. I remembered how stressful it was for me to learn and how long it took to be comfortable. How I hated my mom for yelling “push in the clutch.” How I hated the car for having 3 pedals. How I hated every driver for honking when I stalled.
And now I and the other knowledgeable person were going to sit shotgun and teach and yell and be hated! So I looked at Carroll-Anne and did what any friend would “Im abandoning you. I’ll be in the other car coaching Buck. Your gonna do great.” Thumbs up!
What I forgot to factor in was the fact that my great state of California gives away licenses like Halloween candy. So most of my instructions weren’t “push in the clutch” but remember you have to steer and the brake is for stopping.
The worst place for car trouble is the desert. The majestic desolation steals hope of passer-bys due to the 360 degree view of the horizon which reminds you that urination will be in full view of God, the coastline and the other 7 people on this trip that you now hate because your teaching and ADD male how to drive and your best friend is mentally abusing herself while they all giggle and take pictures of NOTHING! Its sand. Get over it.
The Skeleton Coast was sand and water and a teeth stained dude wearing a Cowboy hat who sold us a tire for our FIRST flat. Lets just say Nissan taxis were not meant for canvassing the African bush.
Arriving back in Zambia has never felt so good. We don’t drive here. And when a vehicle we are in breaks, village ingenuity fixes it with spit and melted flip-flops. But now, due to the over charges with the vehicles, Im in debt to Carroll-Anne. Did I mention she is a great driver?!
Everyone has their theory of when the trip went wrong. Some don’t even think it went that wrong. I guess we all made it back safely so there is a surprise.
And of course, I can rest assure that I’ll have a heads up on the next house/trance dance Latin induced attack via briefcase so I can hide in my own Coat of Character. But if anyone wants my advice?
Stay the hell out of Nam.

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Description of Pictures in last blog posted by PCV Christa

1. Signpost leading to my village; Dimbwe
2. Standing in front of my house with my Bataata, Fellow
3. Pretending to help fix my bike, PCV Tim is on the right
4. Moses - the 2 year old brat
5. Forgot the kids name, he is in charge of the goats
6. Clyde – he is in charge of the cows
7. Choolwe
8. Castro
9. Sitting with my boys at my house
10. My bathing shelter that is currently occupied by a dog and her brand new 6 puppies
11. My latrine – should have a roof but it’s a work in progress
12. Cikuta – the kitchen the family cooks in, the dish rack on the right, the structure on left is used to store maize
13. View from my house. Garden and fields.
14. The well
15-pictures of the inside of my house