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.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Even Me Easter: Part Three
FIREFLIES IN OUR MUSHROOM GARDEN
My tent was on the banks of Lake Malawi. Surrounded by baobabs, palm and bamboo trees. Baboons scampered around, chased my dogs that I deduced belonged to whoever lived at the huge house just to my left. A quick investigation turned up kayaks, wind-surf boards and an annoying native tobacco farmer named Headaches (his self-declaration, not my nickname).
Headaches, already with a beer at 6 in the morning, opened a bottle for me and proceeded to tell me what was wrong with America. Once, on a flight, he had sat next to an old lady from Kentucky who had asked him if he had a pet cheetah. Of course he aided her ignorance by creating an alternate life where he lived in a tree house to escape the roaming creatures he had to hunt for food and clothing. Instead of pleading that old ladies from Kentucky are about the worst representation of America, I sacrificed my pride and faked a laugh.
So Paradise comes with a price.
Eventually people started coming out of the house and other tents. And I realized I had crashed a huge Easter bash of old friends.
Which made me smile even bigger.
After breakfast, I found myself sitting an a cliche circle and as the joint was passed from hand to hand, I had one of my out-of-body thought trains. Its where I go when i dont have a pen and paper handy. I suppose its my MemoryLand. I try to burn every word uttered, every sensation felt, to this land, to be re-called upon later once I have proper writing time.
The tagline on this thought train 'Why i dont take drugs.' Its something Ive had years to consider. Everyone goes through these circle moment of truth - smoke or pass. And back in high school, I guess it was harder because my reasons to not partake always seemed lame. I didnt want to get made fun of and I didnt want the smokers to think I was judging them.
So back then - why didnt I take drugs? Was i afraid? Of the effect? Of getting caught? Was I morally superior? Was I dedicated to athletics?
How did I 'stay above the influence'? As all those annoying advertisements encourage today's overly mediacized youth.
Ruth (who dressed like a 3rd wife to a Mormon elder) leans to my and asks, "you dont smoke?" So here is the moment. The moment I usually try a lame joke to appease the stoned masses. Something like, "nah, my lungs are feelin a bit rough today," (rough from hyperventilating trying to think of a response to your question) or "hey! no worries, more for you." (that one really works)
In college the trick was to give a firm NO but remain general with a reason. As you get older, peer pressure fades, or is it you find yourself stronger to stick to your ways.
Whatever the response, you can be sure the question will come. And it came as I looked around a huge group of South-African, English and Dutch hippies by the banks of Lake Malawi on Good Friday.
It was a relaxing day. Just spent getting to know everyone. Among the group there was: an angry white Rasta from Zimbabwe with what appeared to be a stuck-on dreded beard; Kimmo, the artist, host and girlfriend to 'A-Zor'; Dr. Fire, an eye surgeon with beady eyes and gray hair; Mr. Friendly Giant, a professional photographer with a long, blonde pony-tail; Mike, who owned a chemical company and his wife Triss who brought along their precious baby and Zambian Nanny.
Dusk gently arrived with the lighting of tiki torches and Stuck-on Dreds drummed out a beat on bongos as the group decided it was decoration time.
We set up psychedelic backdrop paintings, installed huge speakers - complete with the dj table, 6 ft tall plastic mushrooms...People changed into tye-dye, the techno music started and as the sun set the blacklights flipped on. Everyone grabbed a beer and resettled into the circle...to do...Acid!
Woah, timeout...stop the thought train.
People still do acid?
I thought that stopped when all the good guitarists died.
So now my thought train is steamrolling. I need a different answer. Lame jokes only work with weed. People get seriously offended if you reject a high quality drug.
Mike brought the plate around and people licked their fingers and savored the paper like a hershey's kiss.
And then Mike leans to me and with his seductive South African accept says, "oh come on dear, be a bit of a devil."
And thats when a fresh light bulb, free of that stupid blacklight UV shit, went off in my train. I dont want to be a devil. I dont want to reach a good feeling by being bad. But what is up with the whole good or bad reasoning anways. Since when is chasing a sensation good or bad? People attend worship services, exercise or work excessively, create music and make love -- all for what? TO feel something. Something different. Something real.
Bl'azor' or R'azor' or L'azor', whatever the name of the dude that sounded like Andre the Giant from Princess Bride, leaned to me to explain how acid affects you. How is opens all the filters of your touch, taste, smell and sight so "that your life will never be the same."
Does that sound tempting to you?
It didnt work for me.
Because my thought train had arrived at its destination.
Question: Why dont you take drugs?
Answer: I like myself.
Wow. Written down it doesnt seem like a great revelation. But all these years of trying jokes, of rationalizing some moral standards that I now find ridiculous, and I realize the real reason is me. I like me. I like my brain. And damn, its a good one. I enjoy the highs and lows because its all My Life.
Now Im not saying everyone that does drugs is chasing a happiness they cant find sober.
I think they just started before they fell in love with themselves.
Because now, drugs are a part of who they are, which is fine with me if they are happy with themselves.
I just became me without the addition of a substance.
So I replied to Mike, "sorry man, its just not me."
And like all good middle-aged hippies in the world, he nodded and said, "right on, cheers."
Without knowing it, my comment of 'me' started a conversation about the identification of the self. These were people serious about expression. THey were stuck in nationalities. Some to places they had never even visited. (cheers to British colonalism) and some would never return to the country of their birth since laws required a more natural hairstyle than dreadlocks.
Triss told a story of an infamous immigration office where the permanency of her tattoos was brought with the question of what God would think of her when they meet at the gate. Triss, fired up from the remembrance of such a ludicrous comment, declared "God is gonna dig me cuz Im an individual!"
With that another joint was lit and the techno was turned up louder. The first to start trippin rose to dance their toddler-esque pee-pee movements along the banks of the lake.
And I sank into the shadows...
My tent was on the banks of Lake Malawi. Surrounded by baobabs, palm and bamboo trees. Baboons scampered around, chased my dogs that I deduced belonged to whoever lived at the huge house just to my left. A quick investigation turned up kayaks, wind-surf boards and an annoying native tobacco farmer named Headaches (his self-declaration, not my nickname).
Headaches, already with a beer at 6 in the morning, opened a bottle for me and proceeded to tell me what was wrong with America. Once, on a flight, he had sat next to an old lady from Kentucky who had asked him if he had a pet cheetah. Of course he aided her ignorance by creating an alternate life where he lived in a tree house to escape the roaming creatures he had to hunt for food and clothing. Instead of pleading that old ladies from Kentucky are about the worst representation of America, I sacrificed my pride and faked a laugh.
So Paradise comes with a price.
Eventually people started coming out of the house and other tents. And I realized I had crashed a huge Easter bash of old friends.
Which made me smile even bigger.
After breakfast, I found myself sitting an a cliche circle and as the joint was passed from hand to hand, I had one of my out-of-body thought trains. Its where I go when i dont have a pen and paper handy. I suppose its my MemoryLand. I try to burn every word uttered, every sensation felt, to this land, to be re-called upon later once I have proper writing time.
The tagline on this thought train 'Why i dont take drugs.' Its something Ive had years to consider. Everyone goes through these circle moment of truth - smoke or pass. And back in high school, I guess it was harder because my reasons to not partake always seemed lame. I didnt want to get made fun of and I didnt want the smokers to think I was judging them.
So back then - why didnt I take drugs? Was i afraid? Of the effect? Of getting caught? Was I morally superior? Was I dedicated to athletics?
How did I 'stay above the influence'? As all those annoying advertisements encourage today's overly mediacized youth.
Ruth (who dressed like a 3rd wife to a Mormon elder) leans to my and asks, "you dont smoke?" So here is the moment. The moment I usually try a lame joke to appease the stoned masses. Something like, "nah, my lungs are feelin a bit rough today," (rough from hyperventilating trying to think of a response to your question) or "hey! no worries, more for you." (that one really works)
In college the trick was to give a firm NO but remain general with a reason. As you get older, peer pressure fades, or is it you find yourself stronger to stick to your ways.
Whatever the response, you can be sure the question will come. And it came as I looked around a huge group of South-African, English and Dutch hippies by the banks of Lake Malawi on Good Friday.
It was a relaxing day. Just spent getting to know everyone. Among the group there was: an angry white Rasta from Zimbabwe with what appeared to be a stuck-on dreded beard; Kimmo, the artist, host and girlfriend to 'A-Zor'; Dr. Fire, an eye surgeon with beady eyes and gray hair; Mr. Friendly Giant, a professional photographer with a long, blonde pony-tail; Mike, who owned a chemical company and his wife Triss who brought along their precious baby and Zambian Nanny.
Dusk gently arrived with the lighting of tiki torches and Stuck-on Dreds drummed out a beat on bongos as the group decided it was decoration time.
We set up psychedelic backdrop paintings, installed huge speakers - complete with the dj table, 6 ft tall plastic mushrooms...People changed into tye-dye, the techno music started and as the sun set the blacklights flipped on. Everyone grabbed a beer and resettled into the circle...to do...Acid!
Woah, timeout...stop the thought train.
People still do acid?
I thought that stopped when all the good guitarists died.
So now my thought train is steamrolling. I need a different answer. Lame jokes only work with weed. People get seriously offended if you reject a high quality drug.
Mike brought the plate around and people licked their fingers and savored the paper like a hershey's kiss.
And then Mike leans to me and with his seductive South African accept says, "oh come on dear, be a bit of a devil."
And thats when a fresh light bulb, free of that stupid blacklight UV shit, went off in my train. I dont want to be a devil. I dont want to reach a good feeling by being bad. But what is up with the whole good or bad reasoning anways. Since when is chasing a sensation good or bad? People attend worship services, exercise or work excessively, create music and make love -- all for what? TO feel something. Something different. Something real.
Bl'azor' or R'azor' or L'azor', whatever the name of the dude that sounded like Andre the Giant from Princess Bride, leaned to me to explain how acid affects you. How is opens all the filters of your touch, taste, smell and sight so "that your life will never be the same."
Does that sound tempting to you?
It didnt work for me.
Because my thought train had arrived at its destination.
Question: Why dont you take drugs?
Answer: I like myself.
Wow. Written down it doesnt seem like a great revelation. But all these years of trying jokes, of rationalizing some moral standards that I now find ridiculous, and I realize the real reason is me. I like me. I like my brain. And damn, its a good one. I enjoy the highs and lows because its all My Life.
Now Im not saying everyone that does drugs is chasing a happiness they cant find sober.
I think they just started before they fell in love with themselves.
Because now, drugs are a part of who they are, which is fine with me if they are happy with themselves.
I just became me without the addition of a substance.
So I replied to Mike, "sorry man, its just not me."
And like all good middle-aged hippies in the world, he nodded and said, "right on, cheers."
Without knowing it, my comment of 'me' started a conversation about the identification of the self. These were people serious about expression. THey were stuck in nationalities. Some to places they had never even visited. (cheers to British colonalism) and some would never return to the country of their birth since laws required a more natural hairstyle than dreadlocks.
Triss told a story of an infamous immigration office where the permanency of her tattoos was brought with the question of what God would think of her when they meet at the gate. Triss, fired up from the remembrance of such a ludicrous comment, declared "God is gonna dig me cuz Im an individual!"
With that another joint was lit and the techno was turned up louder. The first to start trippin rose to dance their toddler-esque pee-pee movements along the banks of the lake.
And I sank into the shadows...
Even Me Easter: Part Two
HIKING INTO PARADISE
I wish I could say I awoke refreshed. But really I was exasperated at my predicament. I knew I had a long way to travel and I wanted to start off but I couldnt be rude to this amazing family. So I took down the tent and packed my bag looking for a quick get away.
No such luck.
They had warmed up bath water AGAIN - did I really get that dirty just sleeping - and were cooking me breakfast. So I tried my best to kill the cynical Debbie Downer voice in my head and enjoy the morning while leaving them with a positive impression of Americans.
I suppose it was Twaambo that brought me out of the morning blues. He was around 5 years old and lacking in the usual child fright he smiled instantly upon seeing me. Consequently, I was happy to have him accompany me to the road for my hiking attempts. Of course Shumba came along to continue conversation. But Im not much of a talker in the mornings. Or any time really. Im good for 30 mins or so but at the 1 hour mark something inside me shuts off. And we had such a great talk the night before I had no idea what more I could offer.
Well the morning traffic was slow on this cloudy day and inevitably, Shumba dove into conversation while I began a target practice routine - as on all slow days. That is, picking up rocks and choosing a near-by tree to harass with my apathy. Twaambo found the game to be fascinating. Poor kid was stuck in a football country and he had a great arm! Of course, he had taken a position directly 2 feet in front of the tree and was just too adorable as my oversized sunglasses slipped down his nose with his dramatic wind-ups; nonetheless I was impressed he aimed for the highest branch.
Now as time ticked by I may or may not have started throwing rocks in the general direction of passing vehicles but regardless of my action (or in-action) a car swooped up to pick me. It was a small, blue Ford pickup truck with the words "Blue Steel" printed on the side.
The driver leaned over and swung open the passenger door. "Right then, its a bloody long way to Malawi. Get in."
Yes. It is a long way. No. It should not be bloody.
"The driver held out his hand, "Peace Corps then, is it?"
Oh, he's English.
"yea, is it that obvious?"
"single white female on the side of the road with a huge backpack. Yes but you know love, everyone chooses a lifestyle and I admire your mission."
And that is how I came to meet Lifestyle.
He had taken a one-way ticket from England to Zambia when he was 21 and now, at age 36, owned a steel company. "I had the company before Zoolander, mind you."
Lifestyle was headed to the southern part of Lake Malawi (my friends were meeting me at the Northern part) and we decided he would drop me in Lilongwe.
Now my hiking track had taught me that English people like to drink. And its best just to drink with them. So me and Lifestyle started off into the lush landscape of the Luangwa Valley in Eastern Province. The police checkpoints all waved us through so our only pit-stops were to top-up our drinks. I was thanking the hiking gods for bestowing upon me a direct ride - and it was even a cool dude to hang out with. The only negative things was that he only had techno music. Oh and he was drinking and driving, but this is Africa so stop being so square. (or stop reading)
Eventually the pit stops turned into pee stops and as the sun set we crossed the border into Malawi...where we were greeted with a flat tire! As Lifestyle started to work I held the torch with a heightened focus and thats when I realized my leatherman was no longer attached to my belt. I cant say at what pee-pit-stop I lost it but since it was a goodbye gift (and an important tool I use EVERY day) I made Lifestyle halt the vehicle repairs and look in the bush.
As my sadness turned to grief (this is the second goodbye gift I've lost), Lifestyle said, "Im sorry love but you mustn't be so attached to things." He quickly realized his admonition furthered my distress and attempted to recover by adding "it was a proper special-ops tool though."
We had an In-Rembrance Drink followed by a Celebratory Toast for the repaired tire and continued the drive. At a pause in the music we spoke about dreams and plans - and how disconnected they can be. He asked what I was going to do after Peace Corps. My response, "I dont know. I want to be a writer. But I'll probably have a dumb office job and work for just 2 weeks off a year."
His prophecy, "No, you'll be back. Africa calls and besides, that life is a bit soul-less, isnt it?"
So we arrived in Lilongwe. And it was time to go our separate ways. Only I didnt want to say goodbye. And I dont think he did either. Perhaps it was the vodka and Red Bulls, ok Not Perhaps. But he said, "Come to Monkey Bay." And I said, ok drunkenly shouted, "yea, Fuck Nkhata!" And he shouted "Fuck Nkhata. Bring on Monkey!" So we turned up the techno. And arm danced our way into the night.
And then I woke up in my tent.
Had one of those quick slide-show reels of the day before. Complete with sorrow for the leatherman and the damn bass line of techno.
I took a deep breath and opened my tent, not knowing what to expect.
And the laughter bellowed from deep in my gut - so much so that it rocked my limbs.
I had hitchhiked my way into paradise.
I wish I could say I awoke refreshed. But really I was exasperated at my predicament. I knew I had a long way to travel and I wanted to start off but I couldnt be rude to this amazing family. So I took down the tent and packed my bag looking for a quick get away.
No such luck.
They had warmed up bath water AGAIN - did I really get that dirty just sleeping - and were cooking me breakfast. So I tried my best to kill the cynical Debbie Downer voice in my head and enjoy the morning while leaving them with a positive impression of Americans.
I suppose it was Twaambo that brought me out of the morning blues. He was around 5 years old and lacking in the usual child fright he smiled instantly upon seeing me. Consequently, I was happy to have him accompany me to the road for my hiking attempts. Of course Shumba came along to continue conversation. But Im not much of a talker in the mornings. Or any time really. Im good for 30 mins or so but at the 1 hour mark something inside me shuts off. And we had such a great talk the night before I had no idea what more I could offer.
Well the morning traffic was slow on this cloudy day and inevitably, Shumba dove into conversation while I began a target practice routine - as on all slow days. That is, picking up rocks and choosing a near-by tree to harass with my apathy. Twaambo found the game to be fascinating. Poor kid was stuck in a football country and he had a great arm! Of course, he had taken a position directly 2 feet in front of the tree and was just too adorable as my oversized sunglasses slipped down his nose with his dramatic wind-ups; nonetheless I was impressed he aimed for the highest branch.
Now as time ticked by I may or may not have started throwing rocks in the general direction of passing vehicles but regardless of my action (or in-action) a car swooped up to pick me. It was a small, blue Ford pickup truck with the words "Blue Steel" printed on the side.
The driver leaned over and swung open the passenger door. "Right then, its a bloody long way to Malawi. Get in."
Yes. It is a long way. No. It should not be bloody.
"The driver held out his hand, "Peace Corps then, is it?"
Oh, he's English.
"yea, is it that obvious?"
"single white female on the side of the road with a huge backpack. Yes but you know love, everyone chooses a lifestyle and I admire your mission."
And that is how I came to meet Lifestyle.
He had taken a one-way ticket from England to Zambia when he was 21 and now, at age 36, owned a steel company. "I had the company before Zoolander, mind you."
Lifestyle was headed to the southern part of Lake Malawi (my friends were meeting me at the Northern part) and we decided he would drop me in Lilongwe.
Now my hiking track had taught me that English people like to drink. And its best just to drink with them. So me and Lifestyle started off into the lush landscape of the Luangwa Valley in Eastern Province. The police checkpoints all waved us through so our only pit-stops were to top-up our drinks. I was thanking the hiking gods for bestowing upon me a direct ride - and it was even a cool dude to hang out with. The only negative things was that he only had techno music. Oh and he was drinking and driving, but this is Africa so stop being so square. (or stop reading)
Eventually the pit stops turned into pee stops and as the sun set we crossed the border into Malawi...where we were greeted with a flat tire! As Lifestyle started to work I held the torch with a heightened focus and thats when I realized my leatherman was no longer attached to my belt. I cant say at what pee-pit-stop I lost it but since it was a goodbye gift (and an important tool I use EVERY day) I made Lifestyle halt the vehicle repairs and look in the bush.
As my sadness turned to grief (this is the second goodbye gift I've lost), Lifestyle said, "Im sorry love but you mustn't be so attached to things." He quickly realized his admonition furthered my distress and attempted to recover by adding "it was a proper special-ops tool though."
We had an In-Rembrance Drink followed by a Celebratory Toast for the repaired tire and continued the drive. At a pause in the music we spoke about dreams and plans - and how disconnected they can be. He asked what I was going to do after Peace Corps. My response, "I dont know. I want to be a writer. But I'll probably have a dumb office job and work for just 2 weeks off a year."
His prophecy, "No, you'll be back. Africa calls and besides, that life is a bit soul-less, isnt it?"
So we arrived in Lilongwe. And it was time to go our separate ways. Only I didnt want to say goodbye. And I dont think he did either. Perhaps it was the vodka and Red Bulls, ok Not Perhaps. But he said, "Come to Monkey Bay." And I said, ok drunkenly shouted, "yea, Fuck Nkhata!" And he shouted "Fuck Nkhata. Bring on Monkey!" So we turned up the techno. And arm danced our way into the night.
And then I woke up in my tent.
Had one of those quick slide-show reels of the day before. Complete with sorrow for the leatherman and the damn bass line of techno.
I took a deep breath and opened my tent, not knowing what to expect.
And the laughter bellowed from deep in my gut - so much so that it rocked my limbs.
I had hitchhiked my way into paradise.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Even Me Easter: Part One
THE DAY I FELL IN LOVE WITH AFRICA
I awoke just as the sun peeked between the window blinds at the Peace Corps office in Lusaka. TOday was the day my 'Even Me Easter' trip was to begin. My bag was packed and my friends were all warned of the adventure I intended to experience. There was a group of volunteers meeting up at Nkhata Bay (the northern part of Lake Malawi) and I told them I was on the way.
So I set off with my lucky (hitch)hiking shirt. Or at least what I had previously considered to be my lucky shirt. The first ride was easy enough but it left me in Chongwe. Just a 30 min ride outside of Lusaka and Chongwe isnt exactly the most pleasent of towns. Ama guys are hyped up on Shake-Shake and love the sight of a single white female equipped with a backpack big enough to smuggle a few iwes. To avoid Obtaining the Frustration early in my day I walked a bit and met a man riding to town on his way to sell charcoal.
In my village charcoal men are tore-up. They are Rough and Tough and usually Drunk. But Kelvin wasnt any of these things and he had a nice smile. Eventually the topic of tribal affiliation came up and he said "im Tonga." To which I enthusiastically replied, "Even Me!" This was a rare event indeed, to meet a Tonga outside the Southern Province. His face lit up as I attempted to ramble through simple Tonga phrases and soon he was on his way to work with an entertaining story to tell his family later.
A couple hours later and Im still on the side of the road in the sweltering sun cursing my lucky shirt. By now my presence had bored all adults and I had an IwePack staring at my every movement. Which demands a suitable reaction: so I started to break it doen on the side of the road and the iwes soon joined in. Then I recruited them to flap their skinny arms to wave down cars - since I was convinced by now that aint nobody tryin to help a sister out by picking me up.
After a couple more hours I needed to refuel so I walked back into Creeper Central for an egg roll. That is, an egg on a roll, brilliant. And in mid-bite I hear "Blitelia, Blitelia!" I havent heard that since training which means..."Bamayo!" I blurt out with bits of egg. It was my neighbor during training (Carroll-Anne stayed with her) the woman that knitted me a bright blue beanie as a remembrance. Which I whipped out of my bag so she could beam with pride in front of her friends. Reunited and it felt so good. Now I was ready to take on hiking with a new and improved attitude!
But by now it was well into the afternoon. The hottest part of the day. When the IwePack slowly started to disperse I knew I needed a new game plan. Outlasting the energy of iwes is a scary place to find yourself. I had hoped to be staying the night an 8 hr drive down the road but I was losing daylight.
And thats when Kelvin found me. He was concerned I was still hiking. When I told him I have a house in my backpack so I can sleep in the bush, his eyes widened, "do you not fear?" Inside I laught because a tent really isnt all that different from my mud hut (except i can zip the door closed to keep out snakes, unlike my hut). Outside I smile and say "We must take fear with us." Which confused him Then and me Now but it sounded good. Kelvin struggled silently admist his thoughts and finally shook his head and said, "you must come home with me and start off in the morning."
Yes. I must.
We set off walking and 3 hours later my shins are starting to hurt.
"um Ba Kelvin, where exactly do you live?"
"ah, it is just here." He says as he points off in the general direction of the horizon and what seemed like never-ending road towards a thirsty sun-stroked death and another country's border.
He saw the light in my eyes fading and knew I wouldnt manage so he suggested I stay with another Tonga family that was closer. At this point I was so tired I would have stayed with a Bemba family (which are infamous thieves).
So a car randomly pulls over for us. The first car all day! And I jump in to tell the large white man in tiny shorts (classic South African) to take us to this friend's house. He started driving and talking. At least Im sure he thinks he was talking. He gargled on every word like if Jabba the Hut was rapping underwater. I did my usual chuckle, uh huh, at every pause. I caught just 3 words the entire 20 min trip. Australia. Mwannawasa (Zambia's late President). Whiskey.
What was Jabba the Hut talking about?
He dropped us off at this friend's house and I said "Ba Kelvin, I failed to understand a word." He laughed said, "Even me."
And then we met Shumba. He was visiting his sister and her husband (who were just returning from town that night). Shumba just graduated from college where he studied water engineering. And we talked about Zambian people and American people and Shumba's dream to bring fresh, clean water to his people.
The couple arrived soon enough and were quick to encourage me to feel free. THeir home was my home. They insisted I set up my tent inside the house because they had enough shelter. They fed me a deliciously warm meal, warmed up a bucket of water for me to bathe under the stars and I fell asleep to the sound of the family cheering around a tv (hooked up to a car battery) broadcasting a football game.
I fell in love with Africa right then. I have passed the Vacation Infatuation. I have lived here to be amazed and disgusted and yet Im still here and still happy. That day I felt the extremes of emotion. I was frustrated and desperate but thanks to African people at the end of the day my essential needs were provided.
Its important to check your mindset when going on adventures. Dont go to dominate. Dont go to contaminate. Go to relate. Go to integrate. I had my attitude checked as the sun set that day. I wanted to escape. To disappear. But people were always waiting, intentionally. So now I would travel this adventure to appreciate. To affiliate. To say 'thank you' isnt as important as to feel gratitude. Because words are meants to connect the emotions of souls.
That was a good first day.
But the adventure was just beginning...
I awoke just as the sun peeked between the window blinds at the Peace Corps office in Lusaka. TOday was the day my 'Even Me Easter' trip was to begin. My bag was packed and my friends were all warned of the adventure I intended to experience. There was a group of volunteers meeting up at Nkhata Bay (the northern part of Lake Malawi) and I told them I was on the way.
So I set off with my lucky (hitch)hiking shirt. Or at least what I had previously considered to be my lucky shirt. The first ride was easy enough but it left me in Chongwe. Just a 30 min ride outside of Lusaka and Chongwe isnt exactly the most pleasent of towns. Ama guys are hyped up on Shake-Shake and love the sight of a single white female equipped with a backpack big enough to smuggle a few iwes. To avoid Obtaining the Frustration early in my day I walked a bit and met a man riding to town on his way to sell charcoal.
In my village charcoal men are tore-up. They are Rough and Tough and usually Drunk. But Kelvin wasnt any of these things and he had a nice smile. Eventually the topic of tribal affiliation came up and he said "im Tonga." To which I enthusiastically replied, "Even Me!" This was a rare event indeed, to meet a Tonga outside the Southern Province. His face lit up as I attempted to ramble through simple Tonga phrases and soon he was on his way to work with an entertaining story to tell his family later.
A couple hours later and Im still on the side of the road in the sweltering sun cursing my lucky shirt. By now my presence had bored all adults and I had an IwePack staring at my every movement. Which demands a suitable reaction: so I started to break it doen on the side of the road and the iwes soon joined in. Then I recruited them to flap their skinny arms to wave down cars - since I was convinced by now that aint nobody tryin to help a sister out by picking me up.
After a couple more hours I needed to refuel so I walked back into Creeper Central for an egg roll. That is, an egg on a roll, brilliant. And in mid-bite I hear "Blitelia, Blitelia!" I havent heard that since training which means..."Bamayo!" I blurt out with bits of egg. It was my neighbor during training (Carroll-Anne stayed with her) the woman that knitted me a bright blue beanie as a remembrance. Which I whipped out of my bag so she could beam with pride in front of her friends. Reunited and it felt so good. Now I was ready to take on hiking with a new and improved attitude!
But by now it was well into the afternoon. The hottest part of the day. When the IwePack slowly started to disperse I knew I needed a new game plan. Outlasting the energy of iwes is a scary place to find yourself. I had hoped to be staying the night an 8 hr drive down the road but I was losing daylight.
And thats when Kelvin found me. He was concerned I was still hiking. When I told him I have a house in my backpack so I can sleep in the bush, his eyes widened, "do you not fear?" Inside I laught because a tent really isnt all that different from my mud hut (except i can zip the door closed to keep out snakes, unlike my hut). Outside I smile and say "We must take fear with us." Which confused him Then and me Now but it sounded good. Kelvin struggled silently admist his thoughts and finally shook his head and said, "you must come home with me and start off in the morning."
Yes. I must.
We set off walking and 3 hours later my shins are starting to hurt.
"um Ba Kelvin, where exactly do you live?"
"ah, it is just here." He says as he points off in the general direction of the horizon and what seemed like never-ending road towards a thirsty sun-stroked death and another country's border.
He saw the light in my eyes fading and knew I wouldnt manage so he suggested I stay with another Tonga family that was closer. At this point I was so tired I would have stayed with a Bemba family (which are infamous thieves).
So a car randomly pulls over for us. The first car all day! And I jump in to tell the large white man in tiny shorts (classic South African) to take us to this friend's house. He started driving and talking. At least Im sure he thinks he was talking. He gargled on every word like if Jabba the Hut was rapping underwater. I did my usual chuckle, uh huh, at every pause. I caught just 3 words the entire 20 min trip. Australia. Mwannawasa (Zambia's late President). Whiskey.
What was Jabba the Hut talking about?
He dropped us off at this friend's house and I said "Ba Kelvin, I failed to understand a word." He laughed said, "Even me."
And then we met Shumba. He was visiting his sister and her husband (who were just returning from town that night). Shumba just graduated from college where he studied water engineering. And we talked about Zambian people and American people and Shumba's dream to bring fresh, clean water to his people.
The couple arrived soon enough and were quick to encourage me to feel free. THeir home was my home. They insisted I set up my tent inside the house because they had enough shelter. They fed me a deliciously warm meal, warmed up a bucket of water for me to bathe under the stars and I fell asleep to the sound of the family cheering around a tv (hooked up to a car battery) broadcasting a football game.
I fell in love with Africa right then. I have passed the Vacation Infatuation. I have lived here to be amazed and disgusted and yet Im still here and still happy. That day I felt the extremes of emotion. I was frustrated and desperate but thanks to African people at the end of the day my essential needs were provided.
Its important to check your mindset when going on adventures. Dont go to dominate. Dont go to contaminate. Go to relate. Go to integrate. I had my attitude checked as the sun set that day. I wanted to escape. To disappear. But people were always waiting, intentionally. So now I would travel this adventure to appreciate. To affiliate. To say 'thank you' isnt as important as to feel gratitude. Because words are meants to connect the emotions of souls.
That was a good first day.
But the adventure was just beginning...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Even Me Easter: Introductory Lists
Things Lost:
Knife
Tolerance for Techno Music
One Innocent dog's life
Things Maintained:
Reasons to NOT do acid
Awesome sense of humor
Belief that Americans should drink coffee
Things Gained:
More reasons to NOT do acid
Complete understanding of Rugby (Aussie vs English rules)
Schistosmasis
Windsurfing Skillzzzz
Main Characters:
Iwe Pack
Shumba
Kelvin
Jabba the Hut
Twaambo
Stuck on Dreds
Kimmo
A-Zor
Friendly Giant
Lifestyle
Ruth the Mormon
ZamNan
Headaches
Dr. Fire
Hitchin Guidelines
If you get a ride from:
A British Dude - prepare to get drunk
A Zambian Dude - prepare to flatter them with compliments concerning nshima and weather
A White Farmer - prepare for racist comments
A South African - prepare to laugh at every pause since that will be the only time you understand any of the conversation
Knife
Tolerance for Techno Music
One Innocent dog's life
Things Maintained:
Reasons to NOT do acid
Awesome sense of humor
Belief that Americans should drink coffee
Things Gained:
More reasons to NOT do acid
Complete understanding of Rugby (Aussie vs English rules)
Schistosmasis
Windsurfing Skillzzzz
Main Characters:
Iwe Pack
Shumba
Kelvin
Jabba the Hut
Twaambo
Stuck on Dreds
Kimmo
A-Zor
Friendly Giant
Lifestyle
Ruth the Mormon
ZamNan
Headaches
Dr. Fire
Hitchin Guidelines
If you get a ride from:
A British Dude - prepare to get drunk
A Zambian Dude - prepare to flatter them with compliments concerning nshima and weather
A White Farmer - prepare for racist comments
A South African - prepare to laugh at every pause since that will be the only time you understand any of the conversation
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Into The Wild
Sometimes its hard to plan vacations. People change their mind. Weather. Money. blah blah.
So I decided to pick a destination. And hope I make it there.
Im bringing a map and my backpack stuffed with a tent and a knife.
I hope I make it to the ocean.
Enjoy your Easter.
Remember why...
So I decided to pick a destination. And hope I make it there.
Im bringing a map and my backpack stuffed with a tent and a knife.
I hope I make it to the ocean.
Enjoy your Easter.
Remember why...
Friday, March 27, 2009
Because
Somehow I thought that death was honorable. That death was clean. I dont know. Blame the media, blame the books I've read. It was a horrible misconception.
Because death is ugly.
And I never knew that.
Death is slow. It is disgusting. And that is appropiate.
Because death is the climax of birth.
And birth is slow. I remember when my sister was giving birth. It seemed like forever. Crowded in the waiting room of a hospital. Pacing with a styrofoam cup full of lukewarm coffee. It is agnozing to wait. To feel that anticipation of the unexpected. Boy? Girl? Healthy? Hair? 10 fingers? 10 toes?
And birth is disgusting. I wasnt in the room for the delivery. I came a few minutes after. My sister looked exhausted and damp with hours of sweat straining for life dripping from her forehead. Looking around the room there are fluids--where they came from, I dont want to know! The baby-this new creation, a result of the purity in love-looked straightup gross! Dude had brand new fingernails and already needed a trip to the salon. In fact, he should just go to the detail shop my mom takes the cars to because damn, brother needed a polish and wax.
And yet, the change in my sister's eyes at that moment meant everything. She was no longer the girl I idolized with a sweet jump-shot and killer dance moves. She was a woman I respected and stood before in that delivery room completely awestruck.
Because birth is beautiful.
So this is where I get confused. If we make beautiful entries into this world than why must the end be so revulting?
And it is, mind you. It isnt sweet. Its bitter. But maybe thats just the job of us. The survivors. In death its too easy to manipulate memories. To steal the sanctity of shared sensations. But if birth is beautiful and death is ugly--than somewhere between is reality. is actuality.
Neither good nor bad.
Just is.
Right now I hate death.
I hate ugly.
But it is a wonderful ruler from which I will measure life.
Because life is...
Thank you to everyone for your comments, prayers and support.
Time ticks on.
Because death is ugly.
And I never knew that.
Death is slow. It is disgusting. And that is appropiate.
Because death is the climax of birth.
And birth is slow. I remember when my sister was giving birth. It seemed like forever. Crowded in the waiting room of a hospital. Pacing with a styrofoam cup full of lukewarm coffee. It is agnozing to wait. To feel that anticipation of the unexpected. Boy? Girl? Healthy? Hair? 10 fingers? 10 toes?
And birth is disgusting. I wasnt in the room for the delivery. I came a few minutes after. My sister looked exhausted and damp with hours of sweat straining for life dripping from her forehead. Looking around the room there are fluids--where they came from, I dont want to know! The baby-this new creation, a result of the purity in love-looked straightup gross! Dude had brand new fingernails and already needed a trip to the salon. In fact, he should just go to the detail shop my mom takes the cars to because damn, brother needed a polish and wax.
And yet, the change in my sister's eyes at that moment meant everything. She was no longer the girl I idolized with a sweet jump-shot and killer dance moves. She was a woman I respected and stood before in that delivery room completely awestruck.
Because birth is beautiful.
So this is where I get confused. If we make beautiful entries into this world than why must the end be so revulting?
And it is, mind you. It isnt sweet. Its bitter. But maybe thats just the job of us. The survivors. In death its too easy to manipulate memories. To steal the sanctity of shared sensations. But if birth is beautiful and death is ugly--than somewhere between is reality. is actuality.
Neither good nor bad.
Just is.
Right now I hate death.
I hate ugly.
But it is a wonderful ruler from which I will measure life.
Because life is...
Thank you to everyone for your comments, prayers and support.
Time ticks on.
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