Grade Seven Exams

In Zambian schools, in order for children to pass grade seven and move on to grade eight they are required to pass a standardized government examination. Being the first (and in some unfortunate cases, the last) big test these kids ever have to take, it’s a big deal.

For the children attending the Namumu Community School, passing means they get to attend grade eight at Siavonga Basic School, located in the main township, a 40-or-so minute walk away. They get to wear sharp new uniforms, different from the ones the children in grades one through seven wear. There’s clearly a certain status attached to moving on up to the Basic School in town.

Those who don’t pass must remain in grade seven for another year and then take the exam again.

Namumu had 19 of its resident children take the exam. Overall they did very, very well. Two, in fact, Christopher and Brenda, did so well that they were accepted into local boarding schools, a significant achievement.

Unfortunately, one of our girls didn’t pass and will be forced to repeat grade seven. Victoria (not her real name...I don’t think this girl would be happy about me throwing her name around and telling everyone she failed), a very sweet, slightly goofy 13 year old, just missed the cut off.

As you can imagine, it’s been a rough week for Victoria. It’s been obvious that she’s embarrassed, and to make matters worse all of her friends passed and are moving on. She’s bounced back over the past few days, but I have a feeling it will take her a while to fully get over her disappointment. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

Still, while it’s unfortunate that Namumu’s children did not all make it through, 18 out of 19 ain’t too shabby. The others scored remarkably high. I would argue that this is further evidence of the advantages our kids have by staying here. They have stable adult influences in their lives that guide them and encourage them to work hard, and the test scores reflect that.

Just another reason why Namumu is so awesome...

Livingstone Shenanigans PART III

Towards the end of the week a wave of lethargy overtook us all simultaneously and we contented ourselves with lying around the lodge’s pool and doing a whole lotta nothing. It was wonderful. We didn’t make it over to Namibia or Zimbabwe, but I knew I’d make it over to them both eventually so I didn’t sweat it. Besides, it felt too good being lazy.

We did make it out on a boat cruise (of the Dunder Mifflin variety) on the Zambezi river on our last night in Livingstone, which was nice. Being the fisherman that I am and having been out on Lake Kariba with my crew for many-a-night it wasn’t so new and exciting, but it sure was pretty. And it was nice to be out on the water without a diesel-guzzling generator pumping noisily in the background for once.

Other than the members of our group there were mostly tourists on board, around 30 in all, I’d say. I spent the majority of my time chatting with a chain-smoking fat guy from Poland. He was very jolly and very cool and I couldn’t imagine anyone I’d rather be cruising on the Zambezi alongside. To be honest, I probably only understood around 35% of the words coming out of his mouth, but that 35% was hilarious. Good times.

We got back and docked just after the sun had gone down. The vacation was almost over and I was looking forward to it ending it with a nice, relaxing night with my good friends, Ndandula, Mwenya and Mucho.

Little did I know that I would soon find myself in the middle of a heated tribal dispute, or that I would be forced to play the role of mediator.

Ndandula had to run off to meet a friend in town, so, in the meantime, while we waited for her to return, Mwenya, Mucho and I decided to stick around at the outdoor bar of the hotel that provided the boat cruise. The Zambezi was well within view and the early evening weather was warm but comfortable. We planned to get some food and drinks and hang around for a bit.

By sheer coincidence, Mucho’s boss happened to be staying at that very same hotel and was sitting by the bar. He was staying with his family, but they were all off somewhere and he was at the bar alone. He was a nice older gentleman, outgoing and easy to talk to. He was, shall we say, a bit tipsy.

So, we sat around at the bar, Mwenya, Mucho, Mucho’s boss and I, chatting about this and that, enjoying the scenery, the weather and the frosty refreshments.

As we talked, I noticed that just down at the other end of the bar sat a group of Zambian women of all ages. They were all there together, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves as much as we were. They looked like fun. I, being a fan of fun women, started up a casual conversation with the few closest to us. It turned out my assessment had been correct. They were very fun.

So, at this point, it was basically like we were one big group. One big happy group. And I was right in the middle, one single white face in the middle of it all. I remember looking around and thinking, yeeeeah, I am so happy that my life has led me here. This is excellent.

At one point we settled into a pretty standard conversation. Where are you coming from? They’d asked. Siavonga. Oh, that’s nice, for how long have you stayed there? About 10 months. Have you learned any of the languages? Yeah, you know, I’m in a Tonga area so I’ve learned some of that. I dropped some Tonga on them and they just about lost their minds.

Then, in the midst of all our jovial laughter, one of these ladies, the Queen Bee of the group, in fact, decided it was a good moment to go on a tirade against Tonga men. I mean she went off. Tonga men are the scum of the earth, she said. They treat women poorly, they drink too much, etc. etc., she spouted. Clearly she had had a bit to drink as well. Suddenly the mood of the group began to turn.

And what tribe do Mucho and Mucho’s boss belong to, you might ask? You guessed it. Tonga.

So they start raising their voices a bit and defending their honor, so to speak. Who is this women to say such things? How can she look down on them like that? What tribe is she from? How are they any better? Blah blah blah.

She raised her voice and gave it right back to them, venom shooting from her mouth and fire from her eyes. I thought she was going to reach across me and scratch out their eyeballs.

So, there I am, stuck in the middle of a full-on Zambian tribal war of words. Right in the middle. What was I to do?

At first, I sat enjoyed the show. It was pretty funny. Then, as things got more and more heated, I knew I had to get out of there. I excused myself and walked over to the men’s room.

Something had to be done, I decided. I took a deep breath, pumped myself up, and headed back to the group. Things had calmed down a bit, but there was still tension in the air. I regained my place in the middle of the groups and prepared myself for the speech of a lifetime.

Listen up, everyone, I said loudly. I had their attention. You’re a Tonga, you’re a Bemba, you’re a Losi, so what? You’re a Zambian, you’re a Zambian, I’m a Zambian (for the purposes of my speech I didn’t go into the details by explaining that I am technically an American citizen in Zambia on a Business Visa). We’re all here tonight. We’re together now. So why don’t we forget all this crap and just have a good time?

I raised my glass in the air, looking around for affirmation.

I got it.

I heard shouts of approval from both sides as everyone raised their glasses. We all drank and continued with our merrymaking, the tension, for the most part, dissolved. While we never got back to our original state of glee, we all had a good time.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking there’s no way that this actually happened, that it was just a delusional daydream. I’m telling you, it happened exactly like that. Exactly.

I’ve failed many times and in many ways here in Zambia, but when it’s all said and done I’ll always have this moment, one that I will cherish forever. The day I stopped a Zambian tribal war.

The next day we packed it up, said goodbye to our lodge friends and headed out of Livingstone, none of us quite ready for the vacation to end.

I arrived back in Siavonga the next day, tired from the travel but glad to be back amongst my friends and Namumu family. That night I ate dinner, nsima and kapenta, on the ground and under the stars with my neighbors. The dogs howled in the background and the crickets chirped. Oh, and then one of my neighbor’s roaming cows peed on the ground right beside where I had placed my backpack, sprinkling it thoroughly.

Welcome back to the bush, Sam. Welcome back.

Livingstone Shenanigans PART II

In beginning Part II, I should probably throw in a few words about my travelling companions/partners in crime, Ndandula, Mwenya and Mucho, all of whom are around my age.

I’ve known Ndandula, Munjongo and Esther’s youngest daughter, for some time now, and she’s always been my main connection in Lusaka. Ndandula has a job with the UN in Zambia, working primarily with refugees coming to Zambia from surrounding countries such as Zimbabwe, Angola and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Ndandula is awesome. She’s fun and often outspoken and doesn’t take crap off of anybody, a far cry from the quiet, submissive women that I’ve been around for months in rural Zambia.

Mwenya, Ndandula’s best friend, works for the UN as well. She was without a doubt the spark plug of the group, always energetic and willing to go anywhere or do anything. Mwenya wears her hair in dread-locks, a style that is pretty uncommon for Zambian women. Having lived with Steven Lowry for three years of my life I of course know more than my fair share about the science of dread-locks and was thus able to connect with her right away. Man, I love this girl. She is very cool.

Mucho had somehow gotten hooked up with the two others a while back and had hit it off with them. He is, shall we say, a stout fellow who, like Mwenya, was basically down for whatever. I never really understood what Mucho does for a living. I guess I didn’t press it because hey, who wants to talk about work during a vacation, right? Mucho was a bad influence right from the start and was responsible for my involvement in a number of non-blog-postable shenanigans. For this I will always be grateful.

These three are from the city. They are very African but, in a way, have been westernized, I would say. They all have good office jobs. They like to eat pizza. They go to see movies at a movie theater. They’ve casually dated other people. They listen to Beyonce Knowles.

I’ll be honest, I don’t have many people in super-rural Siavonga that I would consider great friends. Don’t get me wrong. The people are kind and welcoming and very cool to be around. But there’s a cultural barrier there that, for the most part, seems to prevent me from reaching a deep understanding with anyone. It’s sad, but that’s the way it is. I’ve tried, and I’ve made a number of friends, but nobody that I would say that I can really connect with. Luckily, I connected with my three travelling companions right off the bat.

So, again, while I’ve got love for my homies in Siavonga, it was nice to be able to talk to and really relate to other people for a least a few days.

And now, back to the trip highlights...

Having survived the Victoria Falls monkey trap, the group carried on in high spirits. The next day we set off early on a trek across the border into Botswana. We exchanged some kwacha (Zambia’s currency) for pula (Botswana’s currency), hopped in a cab and rushed off on the 45 minute or so trip to the border. The border crossing was a breeze and we got on a bus to the nearby town of Kasene. We didn’t have any plans and, to be honest, there wasn’t much to do there, but it was cool to see a new country and there were still a few highlights.

As if it hasn’t been difficult enough trying to get around in a country with nine or so major languages, now I was hearing another completely different one in Kasene. I didn’t have much room in my brain for Swana, the local language, although I did learn how to say “That girl has a big butt”, a phrase that I now know how to say in four different southern African languages. I get really great responses whenever I drop that one on people who aren’t expecting it. I’m fully aware that one day I’m going to catch a beat down for it, but at this point it’s still a risk I’m willing to take.

We walked around the town for a good part of the day. For the most part it was similar to other towns I’ve been around in Zambia, although it was interesting to notice a few of the subtle differences. The roads were much better, for one. And so were most of the houses. Even in the areas of town that were clearly where the lower classes live, the houses were well built and better organized than many that I’ve seen in Zambia. Also, instead of cows and goats roaming around, I saw a number of what looked to be boars. That was weird.

And speaking of animals, I had my first African elephant sighting. We were traveling on a minibus going back to the border and spotted two very large elephants just hanging out by the road. Nobody else seemed too amazed. Ho hum, just another day in Botswana, I suppose. But it gave me a great sense of satisfaction knowing that people are coming into Zambia and paying exorbitant rates to take safaris and see elephants and that I got to see two close up for the price of a bus ticket.

So, that was about it for Botswana. We walked around and ate lunch and headed back for mother Zambia in the early evening.

We piddled around Livingstone for a few days and, before we knew it, Christmas Eve was upon us.

My Christmas Eve/Christmas routine has been unflinchingly rigid over the past few years in Richmond. I like it that way. This year, obviously, being thousands of miles away from friends and family forced me to deviate from this routine, but everything ended up working out just fine.

For Christmas Eve supper we got dressed up and went out to a nice little Livingstone restaurant where I slammed Coca Colas like it was my J-O-B. I treated myself to very large steak which, given the fact that I’ve been forced into a life of quasi-vegetarianism by circumstance in my new home of Siavonga, was just about the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life. They had a guy serenading everyone with a guitar who sang some Bob Marley songs, which of course my dread-locked friend, Mwenya, and I enjoyed a great deal.

During my typical Christmas Eve routine, the late evening is a time for worship at Crestwood’s 11 o’clock service. I really love worshipping at the service. The music is beautiful and you always get to see friends who have come back to Richmond for the holidays.

My Zambian Christmas Eve routine was a bit different, as the late evening was a time for bumping in a night club in downtown Livingstone. Hey, it’s where my group led me, and who was I to argue? Throughout the night I was surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad young Zambian women dancing and having a good ol’ time. It felt like I was right in the middle of a 50 Cent video. Merry Christmas to me. I danced/sweated quite a bit and had a good ol’ time myself. I feel pretty good about my dancing performance, and truly believe that if I can hold my own on a Zambian dance floor I can hold my own on any dance floor in the world. My goodness these people can move.

After such a fun, action-packed Christmas Eve the rest of the trip was pretty tame by comparison. Although, I did have another one of my life’s proudest moments when I was thrown into the middle of a Zambian tribal dispute. But I suppose I’ll save that one for the conclusion in Part III...