Friday, February 5, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
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.
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
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.
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
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Knocked Up
The clock is tickin. Cliches. Those bothersome overused expressions that I suppose become clichés simply by the fact that they’ve been proven true for enough people. Like all humble writers I have thought myself to be far above any cliché factor.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Movin On Up...
Awe-inspirirng African moments are few and far between these days. That horrible “same ole thing” sinks in and I get writers block because nothing surprises or engages my creativity. How did I become used to Africa? Time. I don’t believe time heals. I believe time dulls. And I don’t like it.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Scuba Diving
Hitch-hiking to Malawi was rather uneventful this time around. For half the trip I took proper buses to meet up with my 3 pals and we were off to conquer the great depths.
The day before we started the scuba course we had to do a bunch of paperwork. Which always stresses me out. Especially these days when I don’t know which name to use and who in which country is my emergency contact (I still put you Mom). My favorite part was the huge checklist of medical issues to prohibit one from swimming with the fishes. The kind of list you finish reading and automatically flex like a bodybuilder because you figure if all these things haven’t killed my incredible self than this somewhat dangerous activity has no chance.
Then we briefly met the man who was to be our instructor for the next 4 days. And that’s when my confidence of kickin scuba divin’s ass depleted –he was British. As in English. The people who speak gibberish. I can understand Scottish folk thanks to my Dad’s obsession with Braveheart but Im completely lost with Londoners. Luckily there is a lot of hand signals in scuba diving which Im great at thanks to softball. In fact, we invented many of our over the next few days. Most were along the theme of what one would expect coming from a group of health volunteers that routinely teach sex education. Extra points for signing behind the instructor’s back while a person was performing skills such as removing the mask and putting it on again. Which I was a victim of as I started laughing and choking violently and thought ‘well this it it, Im going to drown because of an obscene hand gesture.’
But before we could dive we had to do classroom work. Which meant I had to decipher a British description of another foreign language – physics. As if I have to understand density and thermocline in order to swim. Fuckever. As soon as he diagrammed a balloon, substitute your lungs, as bursting during ascent I was with the program. Keep breathing to equalize – no problem Im a breathing machine.
And then came the construction of the gear. So that we all felt like superheroes. Eventually. The first day I ended up drenched in sweat and bleeding. Apparently wet suits aren’t supposed to feel as tight as they look. And once I figured out all of the snaps, dials and buttons – I was no longer intimidated by the tank but feeling confident to discover the world underwater. Of course there was always the getting back into the boat after a dive. Going into the water from the boat was fine. Flipping backwards is just like falling, which my clumsy self is great at. But pull this 200 pounds back into the boat was a cruel joke by our British gnome friend. I even tried waving them off, ‘its cool, Im just gonna swim it in.’ But they insisted on a group effort to pull me in so that I ended every dive face-down on the deck, fins in the air, hyperventilating and flippin off my “supportive” laughing friends.
I will say that even though they had their shit together on land, I was most comfortable down under. Sinking is no problem and I was often found, sitting on a rock or chillin upside down while my friends took their precious time over-equalizing and finding ‘neutral buoyancy.’ Another stupid theory to describe going with the flow of maintaining a swimming level.
We went on 5 dives and saw some cool fish and rock formations. At the end of the course nobody could really hear and it took nearly a week for our ears to fully equalize. A week that I spent kayaking, snorkeling and cliff jumping.
During my travels back I sat by a woman with a disproportionate baby. Bottle head baby rocked and jiggled with every bump and the curiosity drove me to poke him. Which made him giggle and jiggle. When we arrived at the station the mom handed me the baby then disappeared for a nerve-wracking 15 minutes that I spent singing my hopes of mommy’s return for the top-heavy iwe.
Now safely back in Choma, Im starting off for the village today to have an important meeting where I beg for another family to let me live with them. I don’t have a specific family in mind, Im just going to sell my skills. Which now include scuba diving! That’s bound to impress these landlocked peoples.
The day before we started the scuba course we had to do a bunch of paperwork. Which always stresses me out. Especially these days when I don’t know which name to use and who in which country is my emergency contact (I still put you Mom). My favorite part was the huge checklist of medical issues to prohibit one from swimming with the fishes. The kind of list you finish reading and automatically flex like a bodybuilder because you figure if all these things haven’t killed my incredible self than this somewhat dangerous activity has no chance.
Then we briefly met the man who was to be our instructor for the next 4 days. And that’s when my confidence of kickin scuba divin’s ass depleted –he was British. As in English. The people who speak gibberish. I can understand Scottish folk thanks to my Dad’s obsession with Braveheart but Im completely lost with Londoners. Luckily there is a lot of hand signals in scuba diving which Im great at thanks to softball. In fact, we invented many of our over the next few days. Most were along the theme of what one would expect coming from a group of health volunteers that routinely teach sex education. Extra points for signing behind the instructor’s back while a person was performing skills such as removing the mask and putting it on again. Which I was a victim of as I started laughing and choking violently and thought ‘well this it it, Im going to drown because of an obscene hand gesture.’
But before we could dive we had to do classroom work. Which meant I had to decipher a British description of another foreign language – physics. As if I have to understand density and thermocline in order to swim. Fuckever. As soon as he diagrammed a balloon, substitute your lungs, as bursting during ascent I was with the program. Keep breathing to equalize – no problem Im a breathing machine.
And then came the construction of the gear. So that we all felt like superheroes. Eventually. The first day I ended up drenched in sweat and bleeding. Apparently wet suits aren’t supposed to feel as tight as they look. And once I figured out all of the snaps, dials and buttons – I was no longer intimidated by the tank but feeling confident to discover the world underwater. Of course there was always the getting back into the boat after a dive. Going into the water from the boat was fine. Flipping backwards is just like falling, which my clumsy self is great at. But pull this 200 pounds back into the boat was a cruel joke by our British gnome friend. I even tried waving them off, ‘its cool, Im just gonna swim it in.’ But they insisted on a group effort to pull me in so that I ended every dive face-down on the deck, fins in the air, hyperventilating and flippin off my “supportive” laughing friends.
I will say that even though they had their shit together on land, I was most comfortable down under. Sinking is no problem and I was often found, sitting on a rock or chillin upside down while my friends took their precious time over-equalizing and finding ‘neutral buoyancy.’ Another stupid theory to describe going with the flow of maintaining a swimming level.
We went on 5 dives and saw some cool fish and rock formations. At the end of the course nobody could really hear and it took nearly a week for our ears to fully equalize. A week that I spent kayaking, snorkeling and cliff jumping.
During my travels back I sat by a woman with a disproportionate baby. Bottle head baby rocked and jiggled with every bump and the curiosity drove me to poke him. Which made him giggle and jiggle. When we arrived at the station the mom handed me the baby then disappeared for a nerve-wracking 15 minutes that I spent singing my hopes of mommy’s return for the top-heavy iwe.
Now safely back in Choma, Im starting off for the village today to have an important meeting where I beg for another family to let me live with them. I don’t have a specific family in mind, Im just going to sell my skills. Which now include scuba diving! That’s bound to impress these landlocked peoples.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Mid-Term Conference
In-Country Stats
Books Read: 98
Books Written: ¼
Snakes In Hut: 3
Snakes Killed: 0
# of exotic diseases self-diagnosed: 3
# of exotic diseases professionally diagnosed: 0
Rules broken: 4
Sunglasses owned: 2
Sunglasses lost: 2
# of people punched: 3
# of times I’ve been punched: 0
Weight loss: 15 pounds
Animals owned: 2
Animals I still own: 0
# of bike crashes: 5
# of knives owned: 3
# of knives I still own: 1
Songs written: 4
Things I’ve Learned
1. Rookie mistake of washing reds with whites applies to every color of Chitenges and your favorite shorts
2. Either name the bugs or kill them because staring at them just makes them scarier
3. The grit of dirt shines pots and pans. Its nature’s elbow grease.
4. Never take your hands off the handlebars.
5. Never wear tropicals when gathering firewood. Potential for machete slashing toes of trip/faceplant to the amusement of locals.
6. Its better to be polite than to be honest.
7. When running, never put the house key in your bra or it could be added to the list of things lost in the bush.
8. Always dance with rastas.
9. I should never own another pet.
10. People die.
11. Kids will do anything for sweeties.
12. Lusaka Zambians have no concept of Village Zambians.
13. Netball has no net.
14. I can start a fire with 1 match.
15. Organizations don’t care about people. People care about people.
It was great to see all my friends again. Besides social time though, the conference was a waste of time for me. Most people have moved on from HIV/AIDS to more tangible work such as agriculture and building projects. And I don’t blame them. It is disheartening to constantly face the beliefs that keep people from making decisions to protect themselves from something they will rarely publicly acknowledge. And it was even more frustrating to listen to the reasons administration is shutting down my program and my province. Because I don’t feel they are giving up on me but instead giving up on people that really need help. And that’s how I learned my latest lesson.
16. I lack the ability to bullshit.
Diplomacy is not a career for me. Which is fine. Because as far as Im concerned, it is a profession of dog-shit motives slicked in cookie dough breath.
I protest their filthy ways.
I attempt to fail at my ideals.
Tomorrow Im headed back to Malawi. This time Im taking a proper bus and meeting some friends. Im going to get scuba certified which Ive wanted to do for awhile. And hopefully I will dance with some rastas. Because that is always some fun. When I come back to good ole Zambia, Im having a village meeting to move because my wives left me and Ive realized I cant take care of myself. And I really want to live with a family. I hope yall are living it up in AmericaLand. Peace!
Books Read: 98
Books Written: ¼
Snakes In Hut: 3
Snakes Killed: 0
# of exotic diseases self-diagnosed: 3
# of exotic diseases professionally diagnosed: 0
Rules broken: 4
Sunglasses owned: 2
Sunglasses lost: 2
# of people punched: 3
# of times I’ve been punched: 0
Weight loss: 15 pounds
Animals owned: 2
Animals I still own: 0
# of bike crashes: 5
# of knives owned: 3
# of knives I still own: 1
Songs written: 4
Things I’ve Learned
1. Rookie mistake of washing reds with whites applies to every color of Chitenges and your favorite shorts
2. Either name the bugs or kill them because staring at them just makes them scarier
3. The grit of dirt shines pots and pans. Its nature’s elbow grease.
4. Never take your hands off the handlebars.
5. Never wear tropicals when gathering firewood. Potential for machete slashing toes of trip/faceplant to the amusement of locals.
6. Its better to be polite than to be honest.
7. When running, never put the house key in your bra or it could be added to the list of things lost in the bush.
8. Always dance with rastas.
9. I should never own another pet.
10. People die.
11. Kids will do anything for sweeties.
12. Lusaka Zambians have no concept of Village Zambians.
13. Netball has no net.
14. I can start a fire with 1 match.
15. Organizations don’t care about people. People care about people.
It was great to see all my friends again. Besides social time though, the conference was a waste of time for me. Most people have moved on from HIV/AIDS to more tangible work such as agriculture and building projects. And I don’t blame them. It is disheartening to constantly face the beliefs that keep people from making decisions to protect themselves from something they will rarely publicly acknowledge. And it was even more frustrating to listen to the reasons administration is shutting down my program and my province. Because I don’t feel they are giving up on me but instead giving up on people that really need help. And that’s how I learned my latest lesson.
16. I lack the ability to bullshit.
Diplomacy is not a career for me. Which is fine. Because as far as Im concerned, it is a profession of dog-shit motives slicked in cookie dough breath.
I protest their filthy ways.
I attempt to fail at my ideals.
Tomorrow Im headed back to Malawi. This time Im taking a proper bus and meeting some friends. Im going to get scuba certified which Ive wanted to do for awhile. And hopefully I will dance with some rastas. Because that is always some fun. When I come back to good ole Zambia, Im having a village meeting to move because my wives left me and Ive realized I cant take care of myself. And I really want to live with a family. I hope yall are living it up in AmericaLand. Peace!
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