Homeward Bound: Lesbian Edition

Walkie Talkie has officially been brainwashed. At first I thought it was an innocent babysitting – catsitting. Then it was an obvious catnapping. I tried enticing Dub-T to return. Romantic songs on the guitar. Humorous anecdotes in radio code. Fish in milk.
But nothing worked.
And then I was in town catching a ride with a friend when he pulled up to a house and said he was making a purchase. “ah man, is this illegal? I don’t really like cops.”
Not that there are actually honest cops here.
I walked into the house compound with the friend and we were greeted by a young girl. No greetings were exchanged. She simply led us through a muddy path overgrown with shrubs and random groups of men eating nshima until we reached a large wooden box.
As she pulled the cover off, I gathered my strength and peered in the see...
Puppies!
Now I have made my disdain for animals clear in the past. But everything is cuter when smaller. Trust me, I’ve seen my brother’s baby pictures.
In this black sea of puppy bodies, intertwined and yawning, lay one white puppy.
A mezungu puppy!
He looked up to meet my astonishment (and to show off his one black eye). And we had a moment. Because I too know how it is to be a white in a sea of black.
A few moments later, back in my friend’s car, I stroked Mezungu’s floppy ears and went through the self-bargaining thoughts we all must face directly after impulse shopping.
‘You like dogs better than cats.’
‘But both are animals and the other one practically ran away.’
‘But Mezungu is a boy and Walkie Talkie is a girl. And you do have bad luck with girls.’
This is thought that won. Because two nights earlier, I had accidentally found myself to be the 3rd wheel on a lesbian date.
Lets get homosexuality out of the way. I have lesbian friends. I have gay friends. Its all good. People have types. I get it. But both these chicks were bisexual.
And I do happen to be bi-phobic.
Because there are no rules. Halfway through the meal Girl #1 announced she had to go to the bathroom. I motioned to stand up and realized Girl #2 wasn’t moving.
‘Oh, do we not do that?’ I mean I know its cliché but I totally go to the bathroom with chicks. It’s a moral support thing. And a gossip thing. Thumbs-up to both from me.
It was about that time that I started throwing back Long Island Iced Teas. We were talking politics and international development theories – real Save The World shit that in my book is confined to 3rd date level. Everytime a waiter came by Girl #1 repeated her mantra ‘oh, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I repeated mine. ‘well I do boss. I’ll take her share.’
Yes, rules. Hetero-Rules. There are things you talk about on the 3rd date that you only laugh about on the 1st.
And I don’t care if guys are only after one thing. It doesn’t mean they are going to get it but at least I know the end goal.
To bring it back to 1st date humor I mentioned how the large amount of meat I ate in Costa Rica made me sick so Im currently embracing my inner vegetarian. Girl #2 asked of what I thought vegetarianism. Being a student of all “isms” I tried seriously to consider the views. I explained how I love talking to Rastas about the veggie lifestyle. Their zeal for all things living can be inspirational. Ultimately though, life is birth through death. It is a beautifully grotesque cycle.
And just like that we were back in 3rd date seriousness. Contemplation of death. Respect for life.
Apparently I was being insensitive.
So due to the fact that I make a bad lesbian, I bought a male dog.
When I arrived back at my house, I tried to take Mezungu around to greet people. But nobody knew the ‘mezungu’ term. Since Im not a fan of the Tonga equivalent, I began a search for a more appropriate name. The black eye led me to boxing terms. And the People’s Champ won out. So my neighbors and friends welcomed Champ.
And only one made a connection between Mezungu and Champ, ‘ah yes. The white one always wins.’
So now Im a bi-phobic insensitive skinhead sympathizer.

Parable for Trainees

When you first arrive in country you are sent in smaller groups to stay with a volunteer for a few days to experience village life. I remembered this visit as my favorite part of training, even though you are belittled by the title “Peace Corps Trainee.” Everything is surreal and everybody is just as excited as you are.
Everybody except the host.
Which was me this time. It was interesting being on the other side. The trainees asked so many questions fast fast. I didn’t even have time to pretend I knew the answers. One topic addressed the amount of down time aka free time aka party time in the village. With cancelled meetings and seasonal fieldwork volunteers are forced to improve or invent skills. Mine aren’t really creative: guitar, reading, slingshot. Perhaps in an effort to compliment my time-consuming, mind-numbing, activities, these trainees assumed that my intelligence increased during this time of reading. Ive read 76 books so far! Alas, they didn’t know me before. I recall at one point feeling fairly intelligent. Somewhere between copying A-work algebra in high school and writing a college senior thesis on the misrepresentation of altruism in development organizations.
Sure, I read a lot. But with nobody around to discuss the issue, I typically agree with myself. Consequently my verbal communication has declined. Almost to the point of stuttering.
The trainees were still waiting for my reply on the quest to fill down time with enlightenment. So I told them a parable.
One day in Livingstone I had just finished a successful planning meeting with an NGO for mobile VCT. To celebrate I neglected the bars and ice cream, headed instead straight to the Livingstone Museum to further my intelligence high.
The first exhibit was a bit of a drag. Bones and Rocks. Tiny placards informed me how the variously pointed rocks were used for cutting skins. Im just not one to get excited about an old rock. Especially when I live in a village that isn’t very far removed from stone tools. And this theme, of exhibits mirroring current village life, continued. Because while my Tonga family may have adapted Western clothes, Western technology is (for the most part) an ocean away.
It was then that I reached a room with an entrance sign declaring “Welcome to Our Village.” A short description designated the room as an honest representation of a local village. I entered tentatively, ready to compare it to my beloved Dimbwe.
When I entered the room I was shocked. Its not everyday you see your house, your kitchen, your yard in a museum. The manikins performed average tasks such as fetching water, pounding ground nuts and sifting mealie meal. The entire room even had a dirt floor.
That’s when I noticed the woman in the corner aiding her small child in urination. This was no manikin. This was real life human relief on a dirt floor, inside a museum building, on the corner of a city street. Im not sure what the appropriate response shouldve been but I simply smiled and moved on. It was an authentic representation afterall.
The trainees stared, looking a bit perplexed.
And so I revealed the moral of the parable:
No matter how intelligent you are, you still have to drop trousers to take a piss.

Four Wives Club

Polygamy is starting to make sense. Since the husband died before I lived here, I don’t know what its like having a man around the houses. But without that drama its like a tamed version of Desperate Housewives. Similar to a sorority, they have a name that binds them and there are rumors of pregnancy for all those random children walking around. But instead of ‘baby daddy’ questions, everyone wonders ‘whose your mama.”

Wife #1 is Ruth. And this lady is old. I like her because we cant understand each other but we both respect each other by not trying. She isn’t one of those annoying people that blabbers on which is good because Im not one of those people-pleasers that pretends to listen. Ruth has gray chest hair. This means that she could kick my ass. And I would let her. When Agreenar dies, she hugged me as I cried. Ever since then, Im Ruth’s #1 fan.

Wife #2 is Jane. Agreenar’s mom. She is a little lady and she loves to smile. Which is great because her teeth don’t like to stay in her mouth. Jane does blabber on. But Ive learned tricks to dealing with this. Like pointing out a scary bug and slipping into the shadows as she kills it. Most recently (and more disagreeably) she has catnapped WalkieTalkie. Currently planning search and rescue by means of mouth-watering-whisker-twitching fish via direct route through musuku trees to my casa Hansel and Gretal style. Minus the oven, since thankfully, Jane doesn’t have one.

Wife #3 is Naomi. Whom I relate to wasabi. I thought we understood each other in the beginning. She smiled and I smiled and then BAM, inhaled instead of swallowed and tears form while Im choking on realizing there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Besides, she squints as she looks at me. And I have yet to figure out if its because she doesn’t trust me or because my skin is so pale she doesn’t know if I actually exist.

Wife #4 is Bedina. She is the one I spend most of my time with nowadays. Once when I was overwhelmed by a large group of visitors I hid in my hut. Worried that Bedina would have to justify my slightly offensive behavior, I tried to come up with an explanation. But she refused my words and said, “your same like me, same like my son.”
One day she came in my hut and asked about the box of wine. I told her what it was, “same like cibuku.”
“ah, yebo!”
“Do you want some?”
She nodded.
And took a gulp. And made the same face as a child swallowing cold medicine. The nasty red Robotussin kind not delicious purple Dimeatapp.
“ah, Lweendo. Its good for you but not good for me.”
Then she asked if she could have one of my bras.
“um sure. That’s kinda weird and it probably wont fit since you’ve had a lot of kids and everyone knows that jacks up your shit but if it will make you happy...”

It happened one day that Bedina was gone visiting a sick relative. Paying little attention to the question ‘but how will I eat’ lingering in my mind, I bravely decided to help the man demolishing Agreenar’s house (brick by brick) in order to build another structure somewhere else. It was strenuous with the blaring sun and soon my hands were blistering since we only had one tool that he was using to break up the clay mortar. Of course he took his cibuku breaks and seriously so I got to relax my dusty palms and cracked fingernails. (where was my brother and his Mary Poppins bag o’ tricks with gloves and tools).
All morning the children were bugging me. Asking to color or to play disckee (Frisbee) or football or dance or... As I yelled at them to “leave me alone, Im working” I saw the 2nd wife walking over, carrying my lunch.
And then it hit me.
I am the man of the houses.

Pura Vida

"Stop judging yourself, Brittany." A friend looked at me from across the table at our favorite bar in Choma. That statement followed a lot of people's recent comments exploring how I live, how I think about living.
It reminded me of the week before I came to Zambia. When I sat inside Starbucks sitting across from my best friend and telling her that among the reasons I was leaving was because I felt Africa's suffering was my fault. I forgot her words in reaction because they didnt match the look on her face. You know how the stable person in the relationship always chooses words too carefully but its ok because you know them so well you often dont have to listen, just watch.
(if you dont, your probably the stable person)
Anyways, I wont forget the look on her face. The look of pity for the pressure I must be putting on myself.
And now I see how that pressure prohibits me from being productive. But I dont know how to change it. How to change the way I feel. How to channel feeling into action.
I remember the day my older sister had a revelation about me and my feelings. My family has always joked about my stoicism but missed the reality of the interior. It took my sister meeting her husband (who shares some of my same qualities) to understand how intensely I feel. To understand that growing up, the stoicism is protection for my role in society.
But what about now?
When I told my best friend that Africa's suffering was my fault, I meant responsibility. I meant that the knowledge I obtained concerning HIV/TB/malnutrition was knowledge I gained through the general American school system, not by unusual pursuits or circumstances. I believed that holding that knowledge for my own benefit and not dispersing it was allowing for HIV/TB/malnutrition...
I know Im not the cause for those things. Despite what my mother would have me believe about starving children and me not finishing all of my vegetables. I just dont see the difference of my response to the allowance of suffering and the cause of suffering.
Now I know not everyone feels like me, feels so intensely. I know Im not as productive, not as effective in my village because Im often paralyzed by my emotion. But there are those people, those driven "do'ers" that Ive seen work magnificently here.
And thats the only reason Im ok with the pressure of judging myself. Because my feelings cause me to write, to tell a story.
When I was involved with a homeless shelter awhile back I was hurting for the children. The children who were impacted by the cold of cement and infected by the smell of homelessness just because their parents were addicts. And on a random airplane I spilled the stories of those children to the wealthy oilman sitting next to me. A few weeks later a large check came for the children to get new shoes. Because that man "a do'er" remembered how it felt as a kid to have new shoes.
For all my time I spent downtown in that shelter, Im most proud and most grateful for his donation. Money worked in that situation but it doesnt always have a direct benefit in relief work in Africa. Life just isnt that organized here.
Proof of that came by the construction of the Simakutu clinic. A project I took on after the original volunteer had to go back to America. Some funds were raised and with the purchase of supplies, the builders dug in. I visited and supervised and was overwhelmed by the productivity of the construction crew and the dedication of the head nurse.
But all the plans to finish the much needed treatment facility for over 9,000 people were stalled when I was told no more money was allowed. So even though the community met that which was expected, I had to tell them red tape prohibited me from allocating more funds and more supplies. Thus ending their dream for a clean and safe environment to treat their loved ones.
Not my proudest moment.
Growing up, I was lucky to have those loving parents that told me I could be anything, I could do anything I wanted.
Now I know that really means they will always support my dreams.
My dreams now, after being in Zambia just a year: To tell a story of a need that a "do'er" will accomplish.
I know my emotions paralyze me. But the only way I know to channel all these feelings is to write, to tell stories. Because after a year here I still feel that allowing a problem is creating a problem.
One of the young Americans I met in Costa Rica was telling me his political views. His belief in individual rights. And how he doesnt feel the need to judge nor the right to condemn a person who kills, or rapes, or steals, or whatever offense. I suppose in his circle that view is admired. If we say nothing when a person settles into society than why say something when they cause waves. The academic world allows language to be true in logic while ignoring its truth in persecution. To be tolerant in America is appreciated, is respected.
In response to his politically correct rant I wanted to punch him in the face. I thought I was being mature by holding back but looking back I could have justified it by his own reasoning.
Because he was talking about respecting laws. About respecting people's reasoning. But laws are just words on a dusty page. And his 'respect' for those people portrays his ignorance of a person. Because we can all step back and think attacks in the Middle East are tragic but of course that affects those people. Or the abortion of millions is a fat regret for those people. Or the suffering of AIDS is a painful mistake for those people. Or the date rape of naive targets is horrific for those people.
But what happens when those people become a person.
Become my person.
Ive been there.
I am there.
You dont sit and practice tolerance when those become mine.
You ask 'how?'
You ask 'why?'
And then you act.
That is why tolerance and law perturb me with the ugly fascination of a car crash on the side of the road. People living under this code seem relaxed. Seem to enjoy a pleasant, plush life.
How?
Why?
Is it because as long as they werent the ones pulling the trigger than they werent involved?
All I see in the world is 'what?'
When the only answer is a fact - a horrific experience - then I forget my academic swaddling and I diminish the abyss between allowance and causation by belittling myself.
And then I act.
Even if its only with a pen.

Homeward Bound

So another volunteer is finishing up her service which means she is handing out remembrances. She is an animal lover and needed to distribute the pets she had collected over the two years.
I signed up for a cat.
Now I am not an animal lover. In fact, Im barely a people lover. And cats are moody so I was hesitant to accept such a gift. But I have a problem with the Sallys, Sammies, and Hip-Hoppers. (snakes, lizards, and frogs respectively).
We met in town for the exchange and my mind involuntarily re-played my history with cats. There was Sebastian; who was steamrolled in an open field. I was very young and remember staring at empty eye sockets and ribs clean of their fur. You dont recover from seeing that! But my family persisted and then there was Peter; who was stepped on by my Dad in the middle of the night. They fixed him at the vet but Peter ran away and I dont blame him. I too fear being smashed by giant feet. And finally, Beauty and Beast. Fortunately, I dont recall what happened to Beauty. But Beast; playfully jumped on top a familiar brick tower (that my brother had been stripping of mortar) so that he was pummeled to death by falling bricks.
I blame you Mini-Me.
Needless to say I was nervous about undertaking the role of caretaker for a feline.
When I met the volunteer at the rendezvous she warned me that the cat was a bit tipsy from the benadryll she administered in order to calm it for traveling.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, "I usually get drunk on transport day too!"
It was love at first sight.
She had been calling the cat E-Wok, because it resembled the Star Wars creatures. Im an even less fan of Star Wars than of cats. So I began brainstorming names as I stuffed it in my Parvan side-bag with the zipper open just enough for its scrawny neck to push its over-sized ears through. On the walk to my transport many people spotted the cat and laughed at the "mezungu's baby." It was good preparation for arrival at my truck. The conductor, Debi, greeted me and I proudly proclaimed the cat's name "This is Walkie Talkie." To which Debi replied, "in Tonga, we say kittie."
Well yea, I meant...
Then the other conductor, Charles, told me he found me a seat and led me to the side of the truck so I could stash my bags and climb in. Now usually go to the back and climb in off the bumper. I dont try to Deb it.
(sidenote: Southern Province volunteers, as is the case with most groups of people that spend way too much time together, have our own vernacular. The latest addition being "Deb." To "Deb" is to kick-ass completely, to go above and beyond, to create-begin-finish a project so perfectly as to necessitate higher technology, to make everyone else look like a one-legged red-headed stepchild beat by the ugly stick and instructed to ride the short bus.)
But this time I was excited by new pal and I did, in fact, attempt to Deb it.
And, 8 ft above the ground, with one leg inside the truck and other appendages flailing, I saw Walkie Talkie swinging like a pendulum inside my bag, now hooked on my neck as the zippier began opening with the force of its weight.
"Negative, Dub-T, do not abort."
Then Charles notices I have a "kittie." In hopes to aid my awkward boarding he announces the kittie and it spreads like the game Operator throughout the truck.
The women start to fan themselves and the children start to cry. They are afraid of my kittie. Are you kidding me? These people bring goats and chickens, dead or alive, on transport and they are afraid of my tiny Walkie Talkie hiding in my bag. But at least this time the kids werent technically crying at me...
Finally Im in my seat and I feel a tap on my shoulder from outside the truck. I turn to see a friend from my village. This friend had made a guest appearance in my inappropriate non-PG dream the night before, so my eyes bounced around self-consciously as he said, "How are you?"
"Im good. You were good...uh, i mean...you ARE good?"
Thankfully the conversation ended quickly, they jammed a few more people in the truck and we were on our way. In fact, we were so jammed that halfway through the trip I felt something poking my side and was surprised to find my own elbow attached to an arm long ago lost to feeling.
We were almost home and I was impressed at how calm Walkie Talkie had been along the bumps and swerves. But it seemed the sly cat was patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to grant escape. So when a lady dismounted and I was made to retrieve her belongings, WalkieTalkie made for an exit straight out of the bag! Women screamed and children cried. Luckily all those years at 3rd base in Little League paid off and I grabbed him mid-air, commenced lecturing him in Tonga to the amusement of my fellow passengers and then stared into the open sky while silently stroking him like Dr. Evil on Austin Powers.
Upon arrival to my hut I fed Walkie Talkie then acquainted him with my ever-present box of wine as celebration for his first night. Since he is a long hair and my own hair is now long, we bonded over matching hair cuts. Hopefully mine looks better than his tail. But it was necessary to remove the briars and thorns. From his tail, not my head.
And hopefully Walkie Talkie is a tough village cat and will therefore last longer than any of my past.
But there is a fine line of toughness Im trying to instill. Dub-T must fiercely destroy all Sallys, Sammies and Hip-Hoppers. And yet maintain a naive playfulness. Im shootin for Lion King's Scar mixed with Winnie Pooh's Tigger.
Too much Scar and Dub-T will murder all the chickens.
Too much Tigger and Dub-T could unknowingly bounce all the way to Zimbabwe.
Which is what worries me. Im on my way to Costa Rica for 2 weeks on family "vacation." I say "vacation" because Im being made to do manual labor for a good cause. Because apparently a Pastor's family cant take a family vacation without doing some good. Or something like that. But, hey, it is Costa Rica!
Anyways, Im nervous that Walkie Talkie will feel abandoned and pull a Homeward Bound straight to his previous village and volunteer.
If that happens I will totally Deb a rescue.
Positive thinking leads me to imagine my Tanned Return to a critter free hut with the squawks of happy chickens.
Just in case, I spent ample time this past week instructing my iwes on radio code to address and soothe Walkie Talkie.
Over and Out!

School of Rock

Every so often I decide to bring my guitar from the village into town. If Im going to be there for a few days or if other people will be there ready to be impressed with my one-woman act.
This was one of those trips when I was hoping for both.
Sitting on the back of the truck packed full with bags of maize newly harvested and prepped for purchase, I avoided looking at the eyes staring back at me. The bumpy ride provides ample time for me to dull my senses in anticipation of the inevitable "Desperado" calls by the ever present rastas.
So on this day when I dismounted and hurried off to the house with one goal in mind (gotta pee, gotta go, gotta go right now now) I failed to slow or even really notice the man chasing me.
Actually if I didnt have to pee I dont know if I would have slowed, but I would have noticed.
Eventually like all persistent men he caught up to me and as he caught his breath I prepared to deliver a quick and stern reply to whatever impertinent question I was surely about to be asked.
Yes, its a guitar.
No, Im not selling.
No, I wont play for you.
Yes, women can jam.
But instead...
"Will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
jigga what?
It was either my gaping mouth or the twitch in my right eye that led him to explain. He grew up here in Southern Province, studied music in the cities of Ndola and Lusaka and has returned with his family. Although he does advocacy work for World Hope, every afternoon he gives music lessons to 20 children ages 7-15 from the community. Over the years he has collected guitars, a piano, clarinets, flutes, a trombone, trumpets, and recorders. But since he has such difficulty finding musicians he really only teaches the piano and recorders.
So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
The fact that I only pursued musicianship after knee surgery ended athletic ambition (but i still needed a skill to make people like me) did not run through my mind.
The fact that I taught myself to play the guitar from watching YouTube did not run through my mind.
Another absent fact was that I only know how to read music because in middle school we were forced to choose between art (my stick figures resemble my 3 yr old nephew's masterpieces), drama (you think im introverted now), choir (my ENTIRE family is tone deaf) and band (i chose the baritone saxophone so I could hit anyone with the big ass case if they looked at me funny).
What did run through my mind?
In my village I have seen only two crudely assembled "guitars" with 2 or 3 strings vigorously plucked by men ignorantly imitating a drunken Marachi band. Schools in the village (and most towns) dont teach music. Or art. No instruments. No materials. No teachers. There are no opportunities to pursue creativity. Which bothers me because what little of it I have, I treasure as unique, as evidence of individuality.
So this man and I spoke of the gift of music. The child labor here that steals learning opportunities out of the spongy minds of youth because the family often needs everyone working to acquire enough food to survive. The goal of these music lessons is to create concerts for the community: stripped of entertainment. To create cultural activities for the community: confined of creativity. To create opportunities for children to express individuality; to express the stories ingrained in their souls.
So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
Brother I learned to play so I could teach.
Enter my School of Rock.
Prince is a plump kid with toothy grin.
Day is a consistent strummer with large eyes.
Larry is a nervous pipsqueak adherent to detail.
And then there is the weird kid that has yet to touch the guitar because he cant break his trance of staring at me.
What can I say? It happens.
On the first day when I paused to clarify and asked "are you getting me?" And their affirmative answer reminded me that town kids speak English, I almost called a time out so we could hug it out. Do you know how its been since Ive been able to communicate well with kids?
All the girls play the piano.
And the young ones putter politely on the recorders.
But these are my rockers.
Even though I barely remember how I learned.
Even though I've never taught.
You can find me reading "Guitar for Dummies" remembering the basics. Remembering the first feeling of creating.
Enter my School of Rock.

Even Me Easter: Conclusion

GAY OR ENGLISH?

...where I collided with the ZamNan. She had put the baby to bed and was talking about the strange white folk with the cook, Bezwick. I loved saying Bezwick because you cant say it without sounding English so I felt like I fit in more with the hippy crowd. These 2 people would quickly become my allies through the 3 days everyone else was too stoned to realize the random American girl eating all the food and drinking all the beer.
But actually it was a good thing I was mostly under the radar. Because when conversation really got goin I couldnt understand a damn word. One early morning Lifestyle was frying eggs and asked me to get the rolls ready. Ruth the Mormon (looking savvy with a bun and long jean skirt) came into the kitchen to make tea and they delved into an enthusiastic conversation concerning fried bread.
"But your frying the eggs, not the bread."
They looked at me like I just pimp slapped the Queen.
I mean I get the "egg roll" in Zambia but fried bread...
Then I think the bitter grunts were about Americans but I forgot my Pompous to Plain English dictionary so I left the kitchen.
By now I assume you are all wondering the nature of my relationship with Lifestyle.
As was I.
You see the entire trip I had kept a mental tally to decide if he was gay or just english.
The man made me tea. He owns a steel company and he did know how to change a tire. He was called upon to make snacks for the group - which included a dill sauce over fresh fish. Later, he would show off his cocktail specialties with warm brandy swirling around melted chocolate and topped with cool Amurealo. It wasnt so much the cooking that confused me.
There are plenty of manly men in my family that are great cooks.
It was the presentation. And the fact that he cooked in a wrap-around skirt. In only a wrap-around skirt.
He came up to me one night with the excitement of a boy finding ants for his ant farm and said, "I went out for a slash and they sky is excellent, a velvet blanket of stars showing the curvature of the Earth." What do you say in response to that?
The next morning was decision time. I left Zambia with one goal, to make it to the ocean. And I was close but I also had a free ride straight back if I chose to forgo Mozambique. To be honest, my decisions usually arent too difficult. Im very attune to my intuition, blame all those afternoons watching Oprah. So while I may pretend yo wrestle with a decision, Im always aware of what would be best for me.
So I gave up Mozambique.
I gave up the ocean.
For a free ride and more conversation.
We left with hugs and I realized I really liked these hippie pals. They had beautiful hearts and loved their lives.
Sometimes its easiest to find your smile by watching the Happy of others.
The ride back was as dreary as most returns from vacation. The closer you get to home, the closer your mind turns to business details. At least thats what Ive found to be the case for people who have businesses and think about details.
We were entering that tense mood where you know the end of the road trip isnt as near as you wish, the dark night is burning your unblinking dry eyes that are sore from staring at the bends of a paved road and your arms are heavy from gripping a steering wheel for hours. At some point we re-entered cell phone reception so I received numerous texts from all those friends I was supposed to have met up with.
ummm, whoops.
After assuring them I was alive I decided to call upon Carroll-Anne for some serious girl advice, that is, a sneaky way to decide once and for all: Gay or English?
She told me to ask about rugby.
While I was considering methods of diving into the rugby topic the monotony of the empty road was interrupted by a dog scurrying about. With no escape possible the little girl inside me squealed as we ran over him.
And in reaction to whatever sound I had just made, I started laughing. But Lifestyle was almost on the verge of tears.
So to cheer him up we started reminiscing the events of the week. The sunshine and swimming in the lake. Kimmo's fire dance. The time I tried to make tea and used salt instead of sugar. When I saw Stuck-on Dreds actually smile as he talked to local girls in the native dialect. Painting eggs and then smashing them together at A-Zor's request. Climbing the tallest hill at sunset and seeing across the lake to Mozambique. The mysterious one night appearance and multiple wardrobe changes of Dr. Fire...and soon we were back in Lusaka.
So it was an eventful vacation. One Im glad I took by myself. There is something magical in discovering new places and new people. Because once you do, you discover something new within you. And after the previous couple of months I needed something new...in me so that I could see the possibility of hope beginning again.
And oh yea, do you know the differences between English, South African and Aussie rugby?
Because I do.