On this rainy Saturday morning I find myself at the local Seventh Day Adventist Church. English thrown in to season their Tonga. I think Tonga sounds like bubbles. The deep bubbles massaging a hot tub and floating above to pop at the surface. And in the sermon they reach out to me with english phrases. "a flower blooms" tonga tonga "and God is love but" bubbles bubbles. But what? And where is this flower?
Im almost as lost as the time I alternated between attending Catholic Mass and Pentecostal celebrations. Everyone organizes their own language to describe that haunting spark that connects all humanity. If you dont know the lingo than you follow the herd. sit, kneel, stand, sit, utter Amen.
I sat next to the pastor's wife because she has the hymnn book I casually glance at to follow along. And on my other side sat a lady with bugs bunny stitched on her hat. I like sitting in places to be entertained.
Sometimes at school I would find the most awkward looking couple in the cafeteria and sit, slowly rubbing elbows with them and nodding my head in their direction. Once I even leaned in to answer a question in their confused conversation, "the term in mullato" rub, rub and then I got up and walked away. You ever rub elbows with a stranger? Its a weird sensation. I think because our elbows rarely touch anything. When a stranger touches your butt you know how to react. (well, usually. it relies on a sensitive Stranger-To-Butt ratio to determine Annoyance-To-Heres My Number reaction) But your elbow? Do you say,"um, excuse me. keep your pointy away from my pointy." Because that sounds lame.
So yes, sitting and being entertained while listening to bubbly tonga. Then Bugs got up and switched seats with a fat lady that put her hand on my knee, said "hello" and stuck out her tongue. The preacher continued tonga "for the erection" bubbles. My eyes shot open, "no bugs, come back Bugs!" Tell the fat lady to get her grubby hands off the skirt I scrubbed by hand yesterday.
Wait, did the preacher just say "erection"? The Pastor's wife showed me her bible study book. The title of today "Resurrection and Ascension". ok, phew I feel better. Its just the lack of "r" sounds and those breath filled "ss" that got me all riled up. pun intended.
Ah, crap. The kid wrapped in the citenge on the back of the woman in front of me just woke up and is staring at me. I give him 45 seconds before he starts to cry. I smile. blink kid. 30. I blew him a bubble from my ever present orbit gum. blink kid. 15. He starts tapping on his mom's shoulder. I smile. blink kid. 5. The mouth opens and the mom swoops him forward. ok, phew I feel better.
I look around the church and there is that familiar question in my mind. Where are all the people my age? My closest friends in the village are in their 30s. The rest are strong old women or dirty kids. I guess the children of the 80s are either working in town or dead; leaving their dirty kids to be whipped into shape by the strong old women.
Grubby Hands next to me is laughing. And quietly repeating bubbles "seka, seka" (laugh, laugh). I sucked in my elbows.
Glancing behind me I see Jane, wife #2 of the family I live with, yawn and smile as we lock eyes. The preacher said "vocation of trust and location of spirit." At least thats what it sounded like. Thats an intersting phrase. Before I had time to contemplate it they rang the cow bell and I stood with the herd for the closing prayer.
Or so I thought.
A lady, looking smart in glasses and a sweet leather jacket, steps forward and raised a wand. Yes! This is why I come. The singing grows louder with each verse - turns out Grubby Hands is a baritone, no surprise there. The wand is thrust about as if the lady was casting spells. While I was instinctively ducking and dodging, 3 young men with 2 makeshift guitars moved forward to sing a Mariachi style ballad. The her "Amens" throughout.
Another man steps forward and the herd politely sits to hear sermon #2. This man is much more fired up then the opening act earlier and he is passionately bellowing "Judas" every other sentence.
Which reminds me of my best friend's stuffed gingerbread man she named Judas. So now I picture him running along the rafters of this crumbling building. You cant catch Judas, RUN!
I should mention that there are 2 loofah sponge balls hanging from the rafters as decoration. So now Im giggling, as preacher man screams "Judas, Confess Judas" and I visualize a gingerbread man swinging on the ball, cackling "I wont confess."
And I look at Grubby Hands and whisper "seka, seka." She nods, I blow a bubble and we rub elbows.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Be Our Guest
You ever smell the person your talking to and they smell so bad that you can hear what they're saying over the sound of your judging thoughts? And then you realize your the one that smells! Yea me neither.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Ken Jennings?
I was in the middle of a dream. I was a student at Fuller Theological Seminary and as punishment for making clearly inappropiate jokes about the term "Fuller" I was being made to watch an Extreme House Makeover marathon, hosted by Ken Jennings. (that guy that won Jeopardy too many times)
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Dinner Table
I love the relationships that are formed over a good meal. The cooking aspect is something Im slowly appreciating. The eating aspect is easier to appreciate. The way food opens the soul of conversation is a holy invention often manipulated by pride.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Juggling Thoughts
Help me.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
Friday, November 14, 2008
2 Days in a Row!
So I had to come back into town today because damn cows broke into Agreenar's garden and ate everything. So Im buying seed and food for us. And you people are blessed with another story that I wrote awhile back. Im thinking about staying the night so maybe I will post again tomorrow. but no promises...the old korean man sitting next to me just answered his phone, the ring tone was 'the boots with the fur' song. WOW!
Hankering for Ammenities
Two seasoned PC vets, Persian and Polish, cycled to my hut for a day visit. They were amazed at my lack of ammenities. I was surprised there were such things as ammenities in this country.
"ya know, things with batteries." i dont have any batteries.
"no ipod, no radio, no magazines from home, no game boy." says Polish. "And (gasp) your books are mostly non-fiction. You dont even have a fork." Persian, looking very concerned for my mental health, says "What do you do when you get bored?" oh, I get hankerings. "you what?"
Sometimes I get these hankerings. Its not so much a wanting to do something or even a need. Its like a subconscious obligation manifesting itself in your physical body. It is indeed a hankering. The other night I was thinking I was going to sleep. I had blown out the candles, tucked myself inside the force field mos net and yet I had a hankering. I should have known it was coming since I had a boring day but the muscles in-between my shoulder blades were twitching. Tossing and turning and singing a lullaby had no effect. It was Slim Jim time.
Slim Jims. Those slim sticks smoked snacks that require a snap! I had recently acquired a box of slim jims from my grandma. And much to my surprise even though the box advertised 5, when I opened it there were 7 sticks. The perfect amount for my hankering. But after three, I had another hankering.
This one came with a dilemna.
You see I really wanted a mountain dew. But since I live in the bush, there is nowhere to do the dew. (plenty of space to do the deed, but thats another blog)
But being resourceful like a good PCV I remembered I had some powdered drink mixes graciously bestowed upon me by my over-prepared pal. So I killed all the ants surrounding my water filter and set about measuring out my sugary powders into a sweet shake in accordance to what I imagined would be the eqivalent of mountain dew's delicious recipe. And using the scientific method of hypothesy, experiment and observation - - I am here to testify that if you drink lemonade and green tea with the aftertaste of slim jims still tinkling your tastebuds, while chanting (do the dew, do the dew) in your mind -- it does in fact seem like one could possibly be drinking a third world's version of Mountain Dew.
The vets werent that impressed. So I mentioned that Im writing a book.
"about what?"
the meaning of life.
"so about nothing?" polish deduced.
or everything, the two really arent that different.
Then Persian stood, "Well, I have a hankering for a Super Maheo." Since Im still new to the Zambian snack culture, I had no idea what a Super Maheo was. Only that it made me think of Super Mario Brothers. Which made me remember Polish inferring that some bastard in country had a game boy. Knowing I should take this opportunity to support a fellow PCV's hankering (and gather more information on possible ammenities) we started walking to Shady Ave.
Shady Ave is a brisk 10 min stroll from my hut. If you like taking brisk strolls in the middle of the day. I dont, so I rarely venture out to this business district.
During the walk Persian took the time to describe in unneccessary detail the ins and outs of Super Maheo --"an energy drink manufactured in Zambian's thriving national capital out of maize and fruit flavors. strawberry banana being the best and buttercream the worst" --before I could interject with the fact that neither butter nor cream were fruits, we arrived at the ave.
Polish marched confidently into the first shop and as I meekly followed my eyes burst open with glee. boom (zam soap), sugar, flour, biscutts, girlfriend (zam lotion), etc. Who needs ammenities when I have Shady Ave! The propietor said he only had buttercream super maheo. Persian was noticebly disapointed. But to Polish's surprise, this lovely establishment was stocked with Yess! drinks.
So we purchased three bottles and stepped outside. I felt a bit betrayed as I had just spent time learning the history of Super Maheo and I didnt want to prostitute my tastebuds. But without having a proper introduction to Yess! I ripped off the lid and took a swig.
Polish was saying that this flavor happened to be one of her favorites. But I wasnt listening because I knew this flavor. It was like drinking lemonade and green tea with a slim jim aftertaste. Persian remarked, "yea, it reminds me of something back home." yea, I stammered, its the third world's version of attempting to do the dew.
Polish, "what?"
I mean, its my ammenity.
Persian and Polish, sweat glistening on their foreheads as we briskly strolled, beamed with the pride of vets witnessing the maturing of a rookie. Needless to say I was refreshed but now that I have this hankering for Super Mario brothers...
Hankering for Ammenities
Two seasoned PC vets, Persian and Polish, cycled to my hut for a day visit. They were amazed at my lack of ammenities. I was surprised there were such things as ammenities in this country.
"ya know, things with batteries." i dont have any batteries.
"no ipod, no radio, no magazines from home, no game boy." says Polish. "And (gasp) your books are mostly non-fiction. You dont even have a fork." Persian, looking very concerned for my mental health, says "What do you do when you get bored?" oh, I get hankerings. "you what?"
Sometimes I get these hankerings. Its not so much a wanting to do something or even a need. Its like a subconscious obligation manifesting itself in your physical body. It is indeed a hankering. The other night I was thinking I was going to sleep. I had blown out the candles, tucked myself inside the force field mos net and yet I had a hankering. I should have known it was coming since I had a boring day but the muscles in-between my shoulder blades were twitching. Tossing and turning and singing a lullaby had no effect. It was Slim Jim time.
Slim Jims. Those slim sticks smoked snacks that require a snap! I had recently acquired a box of slim jims from my grandma. And much to my surprise even though the box advertised 5, when I opened it there were 7 sticks. The perfect amount for my hankering. But after three, I had another hankering.
This one came with a dilemna.
You see I really wanted a mountain dew. But since I live in the bush, there is nowhere to do the dew. (plenty of space to do the deed, but thats another blog)
But being resourceful like a good PCV I remembered I had some powdered drink mixes graciously bestowed upon me by my over-prepared pal. So I killed all the ants surrounding my water filter and set about measuring out my sugary powders into a sweet shake in accordance to what I imagined would be the eqivalent of mountain dew's delicious recipe. And using the scientific method of hypothesy, experiment and observation - - I am here to testify that if you drink lemonade and green tea with the aftertaste of slim jims still tinkling your tastebuds, while chanting (do the dew, do the dew) in your mind -- it does in fact seem like one could possibly be drinking a third world's version of Mountain Dew.
The vets werent that impressed. So I mentioned that Im writing a book.
"about what?"
the meaning of life.
"so about nothing?" polish deduced.
or everything, the two really arent that different.
Then Persian stood, "Well, I have a hankering for a Super Maheo." Since Im still new to the Zambian snack culture, I had no idea what a Super Maheo was. Only that it made me think of Super Mario Brothers. Which made me remember Polish inferring that some bastard in country had a game boy. Knowing I should take this opportunity to support a fellow PCV's hankering (and gather more information on possible ammenities) we started walking to Shady Ave.
Shady Ave is a brisk 10 min stroll from my hut. If you like taking brisk strolls in the middle of the day. I dont, so I rarely venture out to this business district.
During the walk Persian took the time to describe in unneccessary detail the ins and outs of Super Maheo --"an energy drink manufactured in Zambian's thriving national capital out of maize and fruit flavors. strawberry banana being the best and buttercream the worst" --before I could interject with the fact that neither butter nor cream were fruits, we arrived at the ave.
Polish marched confidently into the first shop and as I meekly followed my eyes burst open with glee. boom (zam soap), sugar, flour, biscutts, girlfriend (zam lotion), etc. Who needs ammenities when I have Shady Ave! The propietor said he only had buttercream super maheo. Persian was noticebly disapointed. But to Polish's surprise, this lovely establishment was stocked with Yess! drinks.
So we purchased three bottles and stepped outside. I felt a bit betrayed as I had just spent time learning the history of Super Maheo and I didnt want to prostitute my tastebuds. But without having a proper introduction to Yess! I ripped off the lid and took a swig.
Polish was saying that this flavor happened to be one of her favorites. But I wasnt listening because I knew this flavor. It was like drinking lemonade and green tea with a slim jim aftertaste. Persian remarked, "yea, it reminds me of something back home." yea, I stammered, its the third world's version of attempting to do the dew.
Polish, "what?"
I mean, its my ammenity.
Persian and Polish, sweat glistening on their foreheads as we briskly strolled, beamed with the pride of vets witnessing the maturing of a rookie. Needless to say I was refreshed but now that I have this hankering for Super Mario brothers...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Mario Kart
(dedicated to Axel)
Well by now its no secret that Im an excellent bike rider. Part of the thrill is riding by those mere pedestrians and noticing their eyes widen while getting a full view of my kneecaps. Because I wear long shorts and not a long skirt. Dont call me a rebel, Im a freebird!
Anyways, after successfully maneuvering the main roads I decided it was time to take it to the bush. And now I dominate every footpath cutting between fields and trees. The great thing about riding in fields is the raised ground that make the rows. Its like a bunch of speed bumps lined up for me to race over.
And that is exactly what I do.
I race over the bumps just like in Mario Kart and Ive even started throwing stuff behind me. Which turned into a bad idea rather quickly.
You see, sometimes kids chase bikes. Its like the third world's version of kids and the ice cream truck. Except I wasnt playing an annoying and enticing song...and the kids were in for more of a trick rather than a treat.
Well you can imagine what was coming when I started chucking the hollowed shells of fruits over my shoulder while declaring in a high-pitched voice "Im the best" just like Toad passing that bastard Wario.
And just like the Princess (sporting a smirk just because she is the only girl) on of the kids whipped out their slingshot. At this point Im extrememly grateful for two things. 1. Peace Corps makes us wear helmets. 2. Big sunglasses were back in so I had substantial eye protection.
I knew just how important this protection was because my sister had once been hit in the eye by a punk kid and I knew they would actually shoot at me because of an incident back during training a few months prior.
(thats right, this situation was in no way a rookie mistake)
I was hanging out outside the local bar with my friend. While we sipped Castles (the cheaper but surprisingly tastier Zambian beer) I practiced my new slingshot. The slingshot was made by my buddy Philip, the only fat kid in Africa.
A group of young boys peaked their heads around the corner of the bar and flashed the up-to-no-good grins that only young boys and foreign kids have perfected. Then the tallest led the group out to walk in front of me like those ducks you shoot at the fair. They each carried a slingshot. It started innocently enough. I was laughing and they were laughing. We were hiding behind trees. But then I guess our aim just got better or the Castle soaked in enough to sufficiently warn me:
This was no longer a playground.
This was a battleground.
My friend had decided we should head back. She is the sane one while slightly buzzed. I, on the other hand, and The Punisher.
So as we turn to leave and my bitterness is rising because I wanted to stay and play, I got hit square in the back of the neck.
And I lost control. Knowing my throwing arm was much more reliable, I ditched my slingshot and started throwing rocks.
I was throwing rocks at children. African children, which is worse because everyone grows up feeling guilty for them. "Dont waste your food! African children are starving." "Hang up your clothes! African children are naked."
Well, African children have good aim!
My friend had already considered the method of buying our freedom from being stoned. She held up salad cookies and as the kids enjoyed their treat we ran away. literally, ran.
If I was ashamed back then, I was mortified I found myself in the same situation. And this time without a friend.
I needed a boost. One of those freaky mushrooms that give you extra speed so I could ZoomZoom out of the danger zone. So I thought of something that ignites just as much fire. The Brazilian-Argentinian futbol feud. My legs pumped for Ronaldinho.
And I sped through the rows, jumping over half broken maize stalks (wondering why they couldnt watch Barney like 'normal' kids) and cursing the fact that these kids know where I live.
And thats when I thought it was my skin to blame. They knew me, I stuck out. They didnt chase all the other bikes, only mine. It must be my revealing kneecaps!
Maybe next time I'll ride in white skinny jeans.
_______________________________________________
Not everyday is a funny day. But I guess I just find the funny stories easier to explain. Humor makes sense to me. Things like poverty, sickness, grief, starvation do not make sense. The swollen bellies of babies. The patches of raw skin scabbed with disease lurking underneath.
Missing hair, missing teeth, missing nails.
A father's request for lotion to soothe his child's aching sores. A mother desperately selling the rooster for money to take her daughter to the hospital for medicine.
Im surprised when I see a child with shoes.
Im surprised when a man declares his job and by the look of his cleanly pressed trousers he really takes his responsibility seriously.
The old and the young. A whole generation missing between.
And they come to me
Asking
Pleading
Laughing
Giving
Dying
And I teach. I give what I have but not always cheerfully. How can you smile when your feeding a group of kids grilled cheese sandwiches and they stare, confused, trying to figure out 'what is cheese.'
How can you smile when your explaining oral rehydration salts to a mother so her son wont literally waste away?
How can I ever think that its just a job?
Well by now its no secret that Im an excellent bike rider. Part of the thrill is riding by those mere pedestrians and noticing their eyes widen while getting a full view of my kneecaps. Because I wear long shorts and not a long skirt. Dont call me a rebel, Im a freebird!
Anyways, after successfully maneuvering the main roads I decided it was time to take it to the bush. And now I dominate every footpath cutting between fields and trees. The great thing about riding in fields is the raised ground that make the rows. Its like a bunch of speed bumps lined up for me to race over.
And that is exactly what I do.
I race over the bumps just like in Mario Kart and Ive even started throwing stuff behind me. Which turned into a bad idea rather quickly.
You see, sometimes kids chase bikes. Its like the third world's version of kids and the ice cream truck. Except I wasnt playing an annoying and enticing song...and the kids were in for more of a trick rather than a treat.
Well you can imagine what was coming when I started chucking the hollowed shells of fruits over my shoulder while declaring in a high-pitched voice "Im the best" just like Toad passing that bastard Wario.
And just like the Princess (sporting a smirk just because she is the only girl) on of the kids whipped out their slingshot. At this point Im extrememly grateful for two things. 1. Peace Corps makes us wear helmets. 2. Big sunglasses were back in so I had substantial eye protection.
I knew just how important this protection was because my sister had once been hit in the eye by a punk kid and I knew they would actually shoot at me because of an incident back during training a few months prior.
(thats right, this situation was in no way a rookie mistake)
I was hanging out outside the local bar with my friend. While we sipped Castles (the cheaper but surprisingly tastier Zambian beer) I practiced my new slingshot. The slingshot was made by my buddy Philip, the only fat kid in Africa.
A group of young boys peaked their heads around the corner of the bar and flashed the up-to-no-good grins that only young boys and foreign kids have perfected. Then the tallest led the group out to walk in front of me like those ducks you shoot at the fair. They each carried a slingshot. It started innocently enough. I was laughing and they were laughing. We were hiding behind trees. But then I guess our aim just got better or the Castle soaked in enough to sufficiently warn me:
This was no longer a playground.
This was a battleground.
My friend had decided we should head back. She is the sane one while slightly buzzed. I, on the other hand, and The Punisher.
So as we turn to leave and my bitterness is rising because I wanted to stay and play, I got hit square in the back of the neck.
And I lost control. Knowing my throwing arm was much more reliable, I ditched my slingshot and started throwing rocks.
I was throwing rocks at children. African children, which is worse because everyone grows up feeling guilty for them. "Dont waste your food! African children are starving." "Hang up your clothes! African children are naked."
Well, African children have good aim!
My friend had already considered the method of buying our freedom from being stoned. She held up salad cookies and as the kids enjoyed their treat we ran away. literally, ran.
If I was ashamed back then, I was mortified I found myself in the same situation. And this time without a friend.
I needed a boost. One of those freaky mushrooms that give you extra speed so I could ZoomZoom out of the danger zone. So I thought of something that ignites just as much fire. The Brazilian-Argentinian futbol feud. My legs pumped for Ronaldinho.
And I sped through the rows, jumping over half broken maize stalks (wondering why they couldnt watch Barney like 'normal' kids) and cursing the fact that these kids know where I live.
And thats when I thought it was my skin to blame. They knew me, I stuck out. They didnt chase all the other bikes, only mine. It must be my revealing kneecaps!
Maybe next time I'll ride in white skinny jeans.
_______________________________________________
Not everyday is a funny day. But I guess I just find the funny stories easier to explain. Humor makes sense to me. Things like poverty, sickness, grief, starvation do not make sense. The swollen bellies of babies. The patches of raw skin scabbed with disease lurking underneath.
Missing hair, missing teeth, missing nails.
A father's request for lotion to soothe his child's aching sores. A mother desperately selling the rooster for money to take her daughter to the hospital for medicine.
Im surprised when I see a child with shoes.
Im surprised when a man declares his job and by the look of his cleanly pressed trousers he really takes his responsibility seriously.
The old and the young. A whole generation missing between.
And they come to me
Asking
Pleading
Laughing
Giving
Dying
And I teach. I give what I have but not always cheerfully. How can you smile when your feeding a group of kids grilled cheese sandwiches and they stare, confused, trying to figure out 'what is cheese.'
How can you smile when your explaining oral rehydration salts to a mother so her son wont literally waste away?
How can I ever think that its just a job?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)