After a few weeks of struggling to write a blog for every single day I am willing to admit defeat. I just can’t do it. How Lil Wayne manages to record at least one song every day I will never know. I tried to keep up with you, Weezy, but I just don’t have it in me. Namumu duty calls and I’ll have to keep my focus there.
Still, some interesting things have been going on around town and I’ll have plenty to write about in the next few days and weeks, so stay tuned.
And no, I haven’t married Mampi.
Yet.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Internet Masters
Zenzo and Clever, Namumu’s two young accountants, have become masters of the internet.
Just recently we created email accounts for both of them and I think they are pretty excited.
For Easter our friends at Park Lake Presbyterian Church in Orlando organized themselves and wrote letters to each and every Namumu staff member, just greeting them and telling them a little something about themselves and their families. It was nice. Everyone here really appreciated the gesture and enjoyed having something to keep and take home.
I think Zenzo and Clever would appreciate finding a few new emails in their inboxes in the next couple of days and weeks. If any of you out there are in the mood, give one or both of them a shout. Just say hi, introduce yourself and add a quick message. It will take two seconds and these guys would really enjoy reading them.
Do it.
Zenzo: zsidembo@gmail.com
Clever: csimayoba@gmail.com
Just recently we created email accounts for both of them and I think they are pretty excited.
For Easter our friends at Park Lake Presbyterian Church in Orlando organized themselves and wrote letters to each and every Namumu staff member, just greeting them and telling them a little something about themselves and their families. It was nice. Everyone here really appreciated the gesture and enjoyed having something to keep and take home.
I think Zenzo and Clever would appreciate finding a few new emails in their inboxes in the next couple of days and weeks. If any of you out there are in the mood, give one or both of them a shout. Just say hi, introduce yourself and add a quick message. It will take two seconds and these guys would really enjoy reading them.
Do it.
Zenzo: zsidembo@gmail.com
Clever: csimayoba@gmail.com
Monday, April 26, 2010
Zambian Street Fighting
I finally managed to get my hands on a copy of Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart”, which was surprisingly difficult to find considering it’s said to be the most widely read piece of African literature of all time and I’m living in Africa. Anyway, I finally found it in a small book shop and got to reading.
Let me tell you something, Okonkwo, the main character, is one bad dude, renowned for his wrestling and fighting skills and proud of the fact that he’s killed a number of his tribe’s enemies in battle. He also acts out violently towards his wives (he’s a polygamist) and his children, ruling his family with a firm hand.
I was reading this book all weekend last weekend and, as I rode back on a minibus from Lusaka to Siavonga, I remember thinking about how wonderful it is living in Zambia, a country where people are relatively peaceful, where they don’t often resort to physical violence like Okonkwo.
I was thinking such thoughts literally just minutes before witnessing the following incident…
On the road from Lusaka to Siavonga there are various roadside markets where the bus will stop to let off passengers. At these markets, which all consist of a few small shops lining one side of the street, you’ll see people standing around chatting or vendors sitting in little make-shift stands selling vegetables. There’s almost always a group of women or young children running up to the bus windows holding up tomatoes, okra, rape, maize or bananas for sale, depending on the season. It’s always ho hum, just another day at the market. They’re all pretty much the same.
At one stop, however, the large older woman sitting on the minibus next to me tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a crowd gathering around two sweaty and shirtless young gentlemen at the center of the market, both of whom were clearly unhappy with each other. The crowd soon erupted as one of the guys started swinging at the other one full force. He started really pounding on this other guy who didn’t seem to be putting up much of a defense. At one point the guy getting beaten tried to run away, but his opponent chased him down, tripped him up and started kicking him repeatedly. He even broke off a nearby tree branch and was preparing to whip the guy! This all went on for a few minutes.
Eventually the guy getting walloped was able to scurry into the bush, leaving his sweaty, shirtless, heavily breathing attacker behind.
I was pretty surprised by the crowd’s reaction. Everyone was just laughing and having a good ol’ time. Children, adults, and the elderly all seemed to be genuinely enjoying the spectacle. Actually, the old old women on our bus seemed to get the biggest kick out of it of all, yucking it up and giving a rapid-paced post-fight breakdown all the way to our next stop, which sadly I couldn’t understand because they were speaking Nyanja and I don’t know much Nyanja. All I could make out was “blah blah blah Mike Tyson…ha ha Mike Tyson blah blah blah!” So that was funny.
Then, as our bus was getting ready to drive off, the sweaty now-shirted champion came and hopped on with us, traveling the 15 or so minutes to the next town down the road. As he hopped off someone explained to me that the local police would surely be showing up to that market at some point in the near future looking for that guy, so he was probably going to a friend or relatives’ house to hide out. Apparently we were his getaway vehicle.
So, there you go, I was an accomplice to the escape of a vicious, victorious Zambian street-fighter.
And I thought all Zambians were peaceful. I guess violence is just universal. Sigh…
Let me tell you something, Okonkwo, the main character, is one bad dude, renowned for his wrestling and fighting skills and proud of the fact that he’s killed a number of his tribe’s enemies in battle. He also acts out violently towards his wives (he’s a polygamist) and his children, ruling his family with a firm hand.
I was reading this book all weekend last weekend and, as I rode back on a minibus from Lusaka to Siavonga, I remember thinking about how wonderful it is living in Zambia, a country where people are relatively peaceful, where they don’t often resort to physical violence like Okonkwo.
I was thinking such thoughts literally just minutes before witnessing the following incident…
On the road from Lusaka to Siavonga there are various roadside markets where the bus will stop to let off passengers. At these markets, which all consist of a few small shops lining one side of the street, you’ll see people standing around chatting or vendors sitting in little make-shift stands selling vegetables. There’s almost always a group of women or young children running up to the bus windows holding up tomatoes, okra, rape, maize or bananas for sale, depending on the season. It’s always ho hum, just another day at the market. They’re all pretty much the same.
At one stop, however, the large older woman sitting on the minibus next to me tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a crowd gathering around two sweaty and shirtless young gentlemen at the center of the market, both of whom were clearly unhappy with each other. The crowd soon erupted as one of the guys started swinging at the other one full force. He started really pounding on this other guy who didn’t seem to be putting up much of a defense. At one point the guy getting beaten tried to run away, but his opponent chased him down, tripped him up and started kicking him repeatedly. He even broke off a nearby tree branch and was preparing to whip the guy! This all went on for a few minutes.
Eventually the guy getting walloped was able to scurry into the bush, leaving his sweaty, shirtless, heavily breathing attacker behind.
I was pretty surprised by the crowd’s reaction. Everyone was just laughing and having a good ol’ time. Children, adults, and the elderly all seemed to be genuinely enjoying the spectacle. Actually, the old old women on our bus seemed to get the biggest kick out of it of all, yucking it up and giving a rapid-paced post-fight breakdown all the way to our next stop, which sadly I couldn’t understand because they were speaking Nyanja and I don’t know much Nyanja. All I could make out was “blah blah blah Mike Tyson…ha ha Mike Tyson blah blah blah!” So that was funny.
Then, as our bus was getting ready to drive off, the sweaty now-shirted champion came and hopped on with us, traveling the 15 or so minutes to the next town down the road. As he hopped off someone explained to me that the local police would surely be showing up to that market at some point in the near future looking for that guy, so he was probably going to a friend or relatives’ house to hide out. Apparently we were his getaway vehicle.
So, there you go, I was an accomplice to the escape of a vicious, victorious Zambian street-fighter.
And I thought all Zambians were peaceful. I guess violence is just universal. Sigh…
Time to Plant
The rainy season has finally come to an end here in Siavonga, and that means it’s time to start planting.
For the last few weeks Namumu’s children, under the close supervision of Kebby, the boys’ caregiver, and Savior, the girls’ caregiver, have been busy clearing selected fields and preparing garden beds. The soil is soft and easy to work, so the work isn’t difficult. All that’s needed is to slash away the tall grasses, turn up the soil with hoes and dig out long trenches.
Last planting season I did my best to persuade everybody to at least try a few new farming methods I picked up at Manakintowne and from Pete Markham’s favorite farmer, my man Eliot Coleman, but, as is often the case, most people in rural Zambia are going to continue to do things the way they’ve always been done, so we’re sticking with the usual Zambian techniques. Ah well, I tried.
So far we’ve planted tomatoes, okra, chinese cabbage, eggplant and rape. Already the okra has germinated and is shooting right up.
We’ve got some compost leftover from last season that we made from leaves, grasses and scraps from the kitchen, as well as plenty of cow and chicken poop to go around. So that’s nice.
Let’s hope for a good turnout this season.
For the last few weeks Namumu’s children, under the close supervision of Kebby, the boys’ caregiver, and Savior, the girls’ caregiver, have been busy clearing selected fields and preparing garden beds. The soil is soft and easy to work, so the work isn’t difficult. All that’s needed is to slash away the tall grasses, turn up the soil with hoes and dig out long trenches.
Last planting season I did my best to persuade everybody to at least try a few new farming methods I picked up at Manakintowne and from Pete Markham’s favorite farmer, my man Eliot Coleman, but, as is often the case, most people in rural Zambia are going to continue to do things the way they’ve always been done, so we’re sticking with the usual Zambian techniques. Ah well, I tried.
So far we’ve planted tomatoes, okra, chinese cabbage, eggplant and rape. Already the okra has germinated and is shooting right up.
We’ve got some compost leftover from last season that we made from leaves, grasses and scraps from the kitchen, as well as plenty of cow and chicken poop to go around. So that’s nice.
Let’s hope for a good turnout this season.
Jailas is Sick
I’m always fielding questions about what specifically to pray for at Namumu, and today I’ve got a pretty pressing request.
Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager, has been out sick for a few weeks and it seems as though his condition is getting worse. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he’s suffering from, but I know he hasn’t left his bed in about a week. I’ve been to visit him a few times and he looks and sounds terrible. He’s getting right old, so we’re all pretty worried about him.
Please pray for Jailas, that he can get back on his feet and back to the Namumu office soon.
Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager, has been out sick for a few weeks and it seems as though his condition is getting worse. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he’s suffering from, but I know he hasn’t left his bed in about a week. I’ve been to visit him a few times and he looks and sounds terrible. He’s getting right old, so we’re all pretty worried about him.
Please pray for Jailas, that he can get back on his feet and back to the Namumu office soon.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Unemployment
I haven’t seen any official statistics lately on unemployment in Zambia or Siavonga in particular, but I know it’s high and I’ve been feeling the effects of that.
Every day, and I mean every single day without exception, I have multiple guys, from late teens on up to old old men, coming up to me and asking me for a job. Some tell me they are carpenters. Some tell me they are fishermen. Some tell me that they are willing to do absolutely anything for a small paycheck.
Some of them know me and some of them don’t. The one’s who do know that Namumu is a pretty big organization and they figure there has to be some job for them to do. The ones who don’t know me just figure that a white guy in Siavonga has to have money and has to have a need for low-level workers in some way.
As we have no job openings at Namumu and are in fact trying to reduce the number of employees we have in order to lessen our budgetary burdens, I have to tell every single one of these guys no. It’s not very fun. They all plead with me and look so dejected when I tell them that, while I'll let them know if anything opens up, in all likelihood I won’t be able to help them out.
I sure hope this place starts to develop soon and some more jobs get created, because turning these guys down is not very fun.
Every day, and I mean every single day without exception, I have multiple guys, from late teens on up to old old men, coming up to me and asking me for a job. Some tell me they are carpenters. Some tell me they are fishermen. Some tell me that they are willing to do absolutely anything for a small paycheck.
Some of them know me and some of them don’t. The one’s who do know that Namumu is a pretty big organization and they figure there has to be some job for them to do. The ones who don’t know me just figure that a white guy in Siavonga has to have money and has to have a need for low-level workers in some way.
As we have no job openings at Namumu and are in fact trying to reduce the number of employees we have in order to lessen our budgetary burdens, I have to tell every single one of these guys no. It’s not very fun. They all plead with me and look so dejected when I tell them that, while I'll let them know if anything opens up, in all likelihood I won’t be able to help them out.
I sure hope this place starts to develop soon and some more jobs get created, because turning these guys down is not very fun.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Mampi
Remember Mampi, the buxom Zambian pop singer scorned by Clivert for her “provocative” dancing and manner of dress? Well, I have had the biggest crush on her for some time, and I even got the chance to meet her not too long ago.
I was staying over in Lusaka for the night and my friends and I had seen that Mampi would be performing at a small local night club in the late evening. By now most of my friends are aware of my Mampi infatuation and they, as good friends, agreed to accompany me to the show. That night, with lights flashing, bass pumping and hips shaking, Mampi put on a breathtaking performance into the wee hours of the morning. Most of her songs are in various Zambian languages that I don’t understand, but I didn’t mind one bit. She and her two scantily clad backup dancers rocked it.
After the show, when things had settled down and people had begun to stir again I caught a lucky break. I spotted Mampi hanging around the entrance, mingling with some friends (I guess Zambian pop stars aren’t as untouchable and removed as American ones). It was late and my group was set to leave, so I knew that I didn’t have long to make my move. I pulled myself together and, with the moves of a jungle cat, made my way over to the pop princess, poised and prepared to seduce. As I was walking past her I got her attention and she actually turned to face me.
And I choked under the pressure.
It was very, very late, the lights were flashing and I was chatting with a Zambian superstar. It was too much for me to handle. We made small talk for about 20 seconds before I politely ejected and met up with my friends who were walking out the door.
I blew it, and I’ve regretted not stepping up to the plate nearly every day since.
But don’t worry, folks, I have a plan. I always have a plan. Apparently there are traditional healers nearby in Siavonga who can craft love potions which come in various forms. Some are drinks. Some are powders that you sprinkle on small cuts you make on your body. I haven’t met any of these traditional healers yet, but I know a number of people who visit them regularly, so I think I can network and hook it up.
This way, the next time I won’t even have to come to Mampi. Mampi will come to me.
I’ll be sure to keep you updated.
I was staying over in Lusaka for the night and my friends and I had seen that Mampi would be performing at a small local night club in the late evening. By now most of my friends are aware of my Mampi infatuation and they, as good friends, agreed to accompany me to the show. That night, with lights flashing, bass pumping and hips shaking, Mampi put on a breathtaking performance into the wee hours of the morning. Most of her songs are in various Zambian languages that I don’t understand, but I didn’t mind one bit. She and her two scantily clad backup dancers rocked it.
After the show, when things had settled down and people had begun to stir again I caught a lucky break. I spotted Mampi hanging around the entrance, mingling with some friends (I guess Zambian pop stars aren’t as untouchable and removed as American ones). It was late and my group was set to leave, so I knew that I didn’t have long to make my move. I pulled myself together and, with the moves of a jungle cat, made my way over to the pop princess, poised and prepared to seduce. As I was walking past her I got her attention and she actually turned to face me.
And I choked under the pressure.
It was very, very late, the lights were flashing and I was chatting with a Zambian superstar. It was too much for me to handle. We made small talk for about 20 seconds before I politely ejected and met up with my friends who were walking out the door.
I blew it, and I’ve regretted not stepping up to the plate nearly every day since.
But don’t worry, folks, I have a plan. I always have a plan. Apparently there are traditional healers nearby in Siavonga who can craft love potions which come in various forms. Some are drinks. Some are powders that you sprinkle on small cuts you make on your body. I haven’t met any of these traditional healers yet, but I know a number of people who visit them regularly, so I think I can network and hook it up.
This way, the next time I won’t even have to come to Mampi. Mampi will come to me.
I’ll be sure to keep you updated.
Thole's Shirt
Thole is a middle-aged man who lives with his small family in a small shack on top of a small hill near the harbor where we park our boats and sell our kapenta every morning. We pay him a small rental fee each month, and I’m pretty sure that, along with the little money his wife makes buying kapenta from us and our neighboring fishing companies and selling elsewhere, comprises his only form of income. Most days he just drinks his head off and lays around in the shade all day. I suppose his family is doing alright. He has a few young girls that are always running around playing in the morning or helping their mother cook or wash clothes and plates. They seem to eat pretty well and they’re always relatively happy. Plus, they have a house right by a beautiful lake. Life could be worse.
Anyway, the other day I came to the harbor in the morning and did a double-take. There was Thole, having just woken, dragging out his front door and donning a University of Virginia Lacrosse T-shirt (UVa being the school I attended).
Now, how a T-Shirt from my school thousands of miles away wound up in the hands of a lazy drunk guy living in a small shack on a small hill by a lake in a remote area of southern Africa is beyond me. Perhaps someone from Crestwood (my home church in Richmond, Va.) sent the shirt along with some other clothes to Namumu and it somehow circulated to Thole, but I doubt it. Either way, it was an interesting moment.
A few other similar instances have occurred here in Zambia that have demonstrated how interconnected all points of the globe are these days and they never cease to amaze me.
Anyway, the other day I came to the harbor in the morning and did a double-take. There was Thole, having just woken, dragging out his front door and donning a University of Virginia Lacrosse T-shirt (UVa being the school I attended).
Now, how a T-Shirt from my school thousands of miles away wound up in the hands of a lazy drunk guy living in a small shack on a small hill by a lake in a remote area of southern Africa is beyond me. Perhaps someone from Crestwood (my home church in Richmond, Va.) sent the shirt along with some other clothes to Namumu and it somehow circulated to Thole, but I doubt it. Either way, it was an interesting moment.
A few other similar instances have occurred here in Zambia that have demonstrated how interconnected all points of the globe are these days and they never cease to amaze me.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Lagging
I know, I know, I said I'd be getting out a blog post for every single day and I've lagged behind already. It's not my fault. I was out of Siavonga for a few days and couldn't write or get to a computer for a while. I'll catch back up shortly.
Coming soon to Sam Goes to Africa...
- I am a witness to a crime and somehow find myself on the getaway vehicle fleeing the scene
- I spend two nights basically being spooned by a grown African man
- I may be marrying a Zambian pop singer in the very near future
Stay tuned.
Coming soon to Sam Goes to Africa...
- I am a witness to a crime and somehow find myself on the getaway vehicle fleeing the scene
- I spend two nights basically being spooned by a grown African man
- I may be marrying a Zambian pop singer in the very near future
Stay tuned.
Franco
Franco, one of our older resident boys, came to Namumu just a few months ago, brought here by the Zambian Department of Social Welfare. He’s tall and lanky, and while he’ll smile at you when you talk to him he usually walks around with a bit of a blank stare.
Like many of our children here at Namumu Franco has really gotten the short end of the stick in life. His father passed away some years ago and his elderly mother has had a difficult time supporting the large family. Franco started misbehaving a bit, getting involved with the wrong crowd and drinking, smoking and stealing from time to time. As Namumu is a respected organization here in Siavonga, the Department of Social Welfare thought that if he came to live here for a while Franco could get his life back together.
Franco is not a bad kid. He’s a good kid who sometimes does bad things. He’s nice and polite and you can tell he cares about other people. He’s gotten in some trouble here at Namumu, but nothing outrageous.
As if things weren’t difficult enough for Franco already, last week his mother passed away, leaving him a double orphan. While he has the support of his brothers in the dormitory and the rest of us at Namumu it’s still a tough time for the guy.
Please pray for Franco at some point this week.
Like many of our children here at Namumu Franco has really gotten the short end of the stick in life. His father passed away some years ago and his elderly mother has had a difficult time supporting the large family. Franco started misbehaving a bit, getting involved with the wrong crowd and drinking, smoking and stealing from time to time. As Namumu is a respected organization here in Siavonga, the Department of Social Welfare thought that if he came to live here for a while Franco could get his life back together.
Franco is not a bad kid. He’s a good kid who sometimes does bad things. He’s nice and polite and you can tell he cares about other people. He’s gotten in some trouble here at Namumu, but nothing outrageous.
As if things weren’t difficult enough for Franco already, last week his mother passed away, leaving him a double orphan. While he has the support of his brothers in the dormitory and the rest of us at Namumu it’s still a tough time for the guy.
Please pray for Franco at some point this week.
Monday, April 19, 2010
A Few More Pictures...
I’m posting this blog from an internet café in the heart of Lusaka, and thanks to the high speed of their internet I’ve got a few pictures for you that I thought you’d enjoy…
In case you thought I was just joking about us being in the middle-of-nowhere, here’s a shot of Namumu Orphanage Centre from the top of one of the nearby hills. In the background you can see Lake Kariba and, behind that, the hills of Zimbabwe. Just lovely.
Here we have my man, Clivert, mentally preparing to take a leap into the cool waters of a nearby stream. Don’t let the fact that he’s holding his nose before diving in like a pansy fool you, Clivert is a maniac. He did jumps and flips and twists off of all these rocks. I just jumped. I guess the real pansy is me.
I actually have a picture of myself on this same rock that Clivert is standing here, but my body is so pale that I was worried it might blind some of you out there, so I kept it off.
I’ve been swimming here a number of times and no, Chris and JJ, no amoebas have gotten up in me yet. Phew.
The sunset over on Lake Kariba, as seen from one of Namumu’s two kapenta fishing boats (see the net rim in the lower left corner). Unbelievably beautiful.
After months of preparation and waiting, our chickens finally arrived on March 18th and started laying eggs shortly thereafter. Here some of Namumu’s boys and Mr. Fwanyanga, a teacher at the community school, helping to unload them from the trucks. After the three hour journey that truck smelled like butt.
Here we have Jimmet, one of Namumu’s older boys, helping to place the chickens in the battery cage. We’re trying to get the kids to help out as much as possible so that they develop skills that might enable them to one day run their own poultry operation.
In case you thought I was just joking about us being in the middle-of-nowhere, here’s a shot of Namumu Orphanage Centre from the top of one of the nearby hills. In the background you can see Lake Kariba and, behind that, the hills of Zimbabwe. Just lovely.
Here we have my man, Clivert, mentally preparing to take a leap into the cool waters of a nearby stream. Don’t let the fact that he’s holding his nose before diving in like a pansy fool you, Clivert is a maniac. He did jumps and flips and twists off of all these rocks. I just jumped. I guess the real pansy is me.
I actually have a picture of myself on this same rock that Clivert is standing here, but my body is so pale that I was worried it might blind some of you out there, so I kept it off.
I’ve been swimming here a number of times and no, Chris and JJ, no amoebas have gotten up in me yet. Phew.
The sunset over on Lake Kariba, as seen from one of Namumu’s two kapenta fishing boats (see the net rim in the lower left corner). Unbelievably beautiful.
After months of preparation and waiting, our chickens finally arrived on March 18th and started laying eggs shortly thereafter. Here some of Namumu’s boys and Mr. Fwanyanga, a teacher at the community school, helping to unload them from the trucks. After the three hour journey that truck smelled like butt.
Here we have Jimmet, one of Namumu’s older boys, helping to place the chickens in the battery cage. We’re trying to get the kids to help out as much as possible so that they develop skills that might enable them to one day run their own poultry operation.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
My Crappy Diet
Here's tomorrow's blog posted in advance because like a bunch of dead-beats we haven't paid our internet bill and I'm pretty sure they're going to cut it off this afternoon...
Now, I’ve taken a fair amount of crap from my friends back home concerning my poor eating habits in Zambia, but let me explain my dilemma to you.
There is a small market close to Namumu, but the selection is very limited and the only place to buy most food is at the main market in town, a 45 minute walk or a 10 minute drive away. No, I don’t have my own car or motorcycle.
I’m working all day on weekdays, basically from 5:30 am until around 6:00 pm. On weekend mornings I’m either going to church or doing kapenta fishing work and in the afternoons I’m either cleaning, cooking, sleeping, or enjoying brief moments of laziness. This doesn’t leave a lot of shopping time.
The only real time I have to buy food is in the late morning during the week when the Namumu vehicle goes to town, transporting someone from the accounts department to the bank and other members of staff to complete various tasks, such as purchasing food or cleaning supplies or materials for our income generating activities at the market. I usually go with the vehicle because there’s often something I need to pick up, either for our boats or for the carpentry/welding workshop, and this is the time when I have a few moments to do some quick food shopping as well. The only time.
The problem is this. Nobody has much money in Siavonga. Even though my Namumu co-workers are fortunate enough to have a job at a stable organization, they aren’t making much. Almost all of them are making less than the equivalent of US$100 a month with which most are supporting large families. While living expenses in Siavonga are quite low when compared to those in cities like Lusaka, my co-workers can usually only afford to pay for absolute necessities and the foods they purchase are only the basics. All of them purchase corn meal to make nsima. Besides that, most keep their diets to either kapenta, vegetables like tomatoes, rape and cabbage, and beans. Eggs, chicken and beef are luxuries for most of my friends and are rarely purchased.
So, when I’m out traveling with my big Namumu group, I can’t come back to Namumu packing eggs, chicken and beef all for myself when everyone I’m riding with is struggling to get by while living off the basics. So, these days usually I just follow their trend and keep my diet to bread, eggs, kapenta and vegetables. It’s pretty simple and it never changes. It’s not the healthiest diet, but what can I do?
Sometimes I can’t go with the vehicle for a few days and I’m stuck eating peanut butter sandwiches for every meal of the day. Some meals I’ll eat only eggs. Yes, I understand it’s not good for me, but as you can see I’m a little constrained. Still, I think I’ll survive.
Fortunately, my parents sent me a multivitamin/multimineral supplement that I take every day, and every now and then I’ll buy some fruit, so while my body may deteriorate in other ways, my Dad says that I don’t have to worry about getting scurvy no more. And I say, that’s good. One less thing.
Now, I’ve taken a fair amount of crap from my friends back home concerning my poor eating habits in Zambia, but let me explain my dilemma to you.
There is a small market close to Namumu, but the selection is very limited and the only place to buy most food is at the main market in town, a 45 minute walk or a 10 minute drive away. No, I don’t have my own car or motorcycle.
I’m working all day on weekdays, basically from 5:30 am until around 6:00 pm. On weekend mornings I’m either going to church or doing kapenta fishing work and in the afternoons I’m either cleaning, cooking, sleeping, or enjoying brief moments of laziness. This doesn’t leave a lot of shopping time.
The only real time I have to buy food is in the late morning during the week when the Namumu vehicle goes to town, transporting someone from the accounts department to the bank and other members of staff to complete various tasks, such as purchasing food or cleaning supplies or materials for our income generating activities at the market. I usually go with the vehicle because there’s often something I need to pick up, either for our boats or for the carpentry/welding workshop, and this is the time when I have a few moments to do some quick food shopping as well. The only time.
The problem is this. Nobody has much money in Siavonga. Even though my Namumu co-workers are fortunate enough to have a job at a stable organization, they aren’t making much. Almost all of them are making less than the equivalent of US$100 a month with which most are supporting large families. While living expenses in Siavonga are quite low when compared to those in cities like Lusaka, my co-workers can usually only afford to pay for absolute necessities and the foods they purchase are only the basics. All of them purchase corn meal to make nsima. Besides that, most keep their diets to either kapenta, vegetables like tomatoes, rape and cabbage, and beans. Eggs, chicken and beef are luxuries for most of my friends and are rarely purchased.
So, when I’m out traveling with my big Namumu group, I can’t come back to Namumu packing eggs, chicken and beef all for myself when everyone I’m riding with is struggling to get by while living off the basics. So, these days usually I just follow their trend and keep my diet to bread, eggs, kapenta and vegetables. It’s pretty simple and it never changes. It’s not the healthiest diet, but what can I do?
Sometimes I can’t go with the vehicle for a few days and I’m stuck eating peanut butter sandwiches for every meal of the day. Some meals I’ll eat only eggs. Yes, I understand it’s not good for me, but as you can see I’m a little constrained. Still, I think I’ll survive.
Fortunately, my parents sent me a multivitamin/multimineral supplement that I take every day, and every now and then I’ll buy some fruit, so while my body may deteriorate in other ways, my Dad says that I don’t have to worry about getting scurvy no more. And I say, that’s good. One less thing.
John the Border Jumper
One of the best decisions I’ve made in Africa came when I resolved to befriend at least one person on every minibus or coach bus on which I happened to be traveling. In the beginning I suppose I was a little intimidated by Zambian public transportation and was hesitant to strike up conversations with those surrounding me. Or maybe I was just worried about getting locked into a three hour conversation with some rambler or some lunatic. Either way, I usually kept to myself and zoned out until arriving at my destination.
I don’t remember the exact trip when I made my resolution, but I know it was a few months into my stay here. It’s been great. Yes, I have gotten stuck chatting with ramblers. It’s no big deal, nothing I couldn’t get out of by pretending to fall asleep. Yes, I’ve gotten stuck chatting with lunatics, which, coincidentally, almost always turns out to be a good thing as I arrive at my destination entertained and with a funny story to tell. Overall the policy has worked out very well for me. I’ve made some good friends.
Most recently this initiative led me to John (not his real name), a 40-something Zimbabwean man with a gap in between his front teeth, a black Michael Jackson-esque leather jacket and designer jeans. John had a seat right next to me in the back row of a minibus traveling from Lusaka to Siavonga. He was originally from Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, but had been living in Zambia for a year or two. Oddly enough, I was the one explaining to him the details of our journey through Zambia’s Southern Province, how long the journey would take, where we’d stop along the way, etc. etc.
John immediately struck me as an intelligent man, and I soon learned that this initial perception was correct. He was a computer programmer who had worked for a number of large local corporations. I don’t think there are a great number of computer nerds running around Zambia. I know that John is the first one I’ve come into contact with. So that was interesting.
And he was cheerful, a clear sign that he had been living in Zambia recently, not Zimbabwe. For the most part, people coming across from Zimbabwe are not cheerful. They might smile or be friendly or joke around to some degree, but there’s always a sense of sadness and pain behind their eyes that you can always pick up on. It’s terrible. That place is in rough shape. John, however, was outgoing and jovial.
Anyway, around one hour into the journey I asked him what was bringing him to Siavonga. Oh, he wasn’t going to Siavonga, he replied. He was going back to Zimbabwe. That’s weird, I thought. Most people I know don’t travel by minibus to Harare. There are large coach buses that travel directly from Lusaka to Harare that are more comfortable really not much more expensive than the minibus we were on that would only get him to the border. I inquired as to why he hadn’t taken that option.
He chuckled and responded that his documentation was not exactly in order. No, he wasn’t planning to cross through a border post. He was going to sneak across the border, and he was incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing. This was in no way a big deal to him.
I attempted to voice my opinion, that this may not be the best idea. Zim Police are out of control. I can’t say I know a whole lot about them, but I do know how they handle things on Lake Kariba, where the Zambia/Zimbabwe border passes through the middle of the lake. If any Zambian fishing boat is found fishing on the Zim side or anywhere close to the Zim side they impound the boat and lock up the crew, no questions asked. A friend of mine’s crew was fishing on the Zim side not too long ago and when the police showed up the crew tried to speed away. The police opened fire, shooting and killing one of the crew members. Those guys don’t mess around.
So, I tried to persuade him against it, but he was pretty set. He was going to make the jump. He didn’t exactly seem prepared for the journey ahead of him. He didn’t even know where exactly to get off the bus, and his MJ jacket and jeans were probably not the best outfit for wandering through the woods and fording the Zambezi River, all while trying to avoid the police. But he was supremely confident that it would all work out and there was no convincing him otherwise.
He said he was going to do whatever he had to do to get back to his family, still living in Harare.
We exchanged emails and I told him to contact me whenever he got there so that I knew he had made it safely. This was last week. I’ve emailed him and I still haven’t heard back from him yet. Hopefully he just hasn’t been able to access his email.
John was a nice guy, so please go ahead and pray that he gets home safely to his family without running into trouble.
I don’t remember the exact trip when I made my resolution, but I know it was a few months into my stay here. It’s been great. Yes, I have gotten stuck chatting with ramblers. It’s no big deal, nothing I couldn’t get out of by pretending to fall asleep. Yes, I’ve gotten stuck chatting with lunatics, which, coincidentally, almost always turns out to be a good thing as I arrive at my destination entertained and with a funny story to tell. Overall the policy has worked out very well for me. I’ve made some good friends.
Most recently this initiative led me to John (not his real name), a 40-something Zimbabwean man with a gap in between his front teeth, a black Michael Jackson-esque leather jacket and designer jeans. John had a seat right next to me in the back row of a minibus traveling from Lusaka to Siavonga. He was originally from Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, but had been living in Zambia for a year or two. Oddly enough, I was the one explaining to him the details of our journey through Zambia’s Southern Province, how long the journey would take, where we’d stop along the way, etc. etc.
John immediately struck me as an intelligent man, and I soon learned that this initial perception was correct. He was a computer programmer who had worked for a number of large local corporations. I don’t think there are a great number of computer nerds running around Zambia. I know that John is the first one I’ve come into contact with. So that was interesting.
And he was cheerful, a clear sign that he had been living in Zambia recently, not Zimbabwe. For the most part, people coming across from Zimbabwe are not cheerful. They might smile or be friendly or joke around to some degree, but there’s always a sense of sadness and pain behind their eyes that you can always pick up on. It’s terrible. That place is in rough shape. John, however, was outgoing and jovial.
Anyway, around one hour into the journey I asked him what was bringing him to Siavonga. Oh, he wasn’t going to Siavonga, he replied. He was going back to Zimbabwe. That’s weird, I thought. Most people I know don’t travel by minibus to Harare. There are large coach buses that travel directly from Lusaka to Harare that are more comfortable really not much more expensive than the minibus we were on that would only get him to the border. I inquired as to why he hadn’t taken that option.
He chuckled and responded that his documentation was not exactly in order. No, he wasn’t planning to cross through a border post. He was going to sneak across the border, and he was incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing. This was in no way a big deal to him.
I attempted to voice my opinion, that this may not be the best idea. Zim Police are out of control. I can’t say I know a whole lot about them, but I do know how they handle things on Lake Kariba, where the Zambia/Zimbabwe border passes through the middle of the lake. If any Zambian fishing boat is found fishing on the Zim side or anywhere close to the Zim side they impound the boat and lock up the crew, no questions asked. A friend of mine’s crew was fishing on the Zim side not too long ago and when the police showed up the crew tried to speed away. The police opened fire, shooting and killing one of the crew members. Those guys don’t mess around.
So, I tried to persuade him against it, but he was pretty set. He was going to make the jump. He didn’t exactly seem prepared for the journey ahead of him. He didn’t even know where exactly to get off the bus, and his MJ jacket and jeans were probably not the best outfit for wandering through the woods and fording the Zambezi River, all while trying to avoid the police. But he was supremely confident that it would all work out and there was no convincing him otherwise.
He said he was going to do whatever he had to do to get back to his family, still living in Harare.
We exchanged emails and I told him to contact me whenever he got there so that I knew he had made it safely. This was last week. I’ve emailed him and I still haven’t heard back from him yet. Hopefully he just hasn’t been able to access his email.
John was a nice guy, so please go ahead and pray that he gets home safely to his family without running into trouble.
Monday, April 12, 2010
My Kitchen Window
One of the keys to surviving in rural Africa with no television is to find alternative means of amusement.
For me, looking out of my kitchen window to the back yard while I’m washing dishes usually does the trick. As previously noted, there have been anywhere from 12 to 20 people living in the small house next door to me throughout this past year, and that means that at all hours of the day there is something happening out back behind our house.
Little Junior and Rupiah, the pair of two-year-old rascals living next door, usually provide the most entertainment. Just this past week I was fortunate enough to witness the following events:
On Monday, both Junior and Rupiah were almost trampled in a stampede when the family cows came back to the corral one late afternoon. One minute the boys were running around naked (of course) without a care in the world, the next their eyes were filled with terror as they ran for their lives from the quickly approaching cows. I probably should have been worried for their safety, but the transition from a joyful nude romp through the grass to the raw terror-filled escape was so instantaneous it struck me as particularly hilarious and I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Don’t worry, I knew they were never in any real danger, their older cousins were right there to scoop them up and carry them to safety. It’s like I’ve said, you’ve gotta stay on your toes around those cows.
On Wendesday I saw Rupiah beat Junior up, punching him in the shoulder and then pushing him to the ground. Rupiah is a heavyweight (much like the Zambian president he resembles) and can basically manhandle the welterweight Junior whenever he wants to. Junior started wailing and Rupiah started looking around guiltily, wondering if anybody had seen him. I didn’t have my timer on but it couldn’t have been more than two minutes before the two boys were chasing each other and laughing and having a good ol’ time. I was truly amazed at the drama that had just played out before my eyes. Ah, kids, so quick to forgive and forget.
Finally, sometimes I play music on my computer while doing household chores to make them a little less miserable. On Friday I was cleaning my kitchen and blasting Tupac while Junior was out back. He started dancing/bouncing to “I Get Around”, waving his arms and having a good ol’ time. He was a pretty good little dancer. I felt like a proud parent.
Being easily amused by such things really makes life in the middle-of-nowhere a much more pleasant experience.
For me, looking out of my kitchen window to the back yard while I’m washing dishes usually does the trick. As previously noted, there have been anywhere from 12 to 20 people living in the small house next door to me throughout this past year, and that means that at all hours of the day there is something happening out back behind our house.
Little Junior and Rupiah, the pair of two-year-old rascals living next door, usually provide the most entertainment. Just this past week I was fortunate enough to witness the following events:
On Monday, both Junior and Rupiah were almost trampled in a stampede when the family cows came back to the corral one late afternoon. One minute the boys were running around naked (of course) without a care in the world, the next their eyes were filled with terror as they ran for their lives from the quickly approaching cows. I probably should have been worried for their safety, but the transition from a joyful nude romp through the grass to the raw terror-filled escape was so instantaneous it struck me as particularly hilarious and I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Don’t worry, I knew they were never in any real danger, their older cousins were right there to scoop them up and carry them to safety. It’s like I’ve said, you’ve gotta stay on your toes around those cows.
On Wendesday I saw Rupiah beat Junior up, punching him in the shoulder and then pushing him to the ground. Rupiah is a heavyweight (much like the Zambian president he resembles) and can basically manhandle the welterweight Junior whenever he wants to. Junior started wailing and Rupiah started looking around guiltily, wondering if anybody had seen him. I didn’t have my timer on but it couldn’t have been more than two minutes before the two boys were chasing each other and laughing and having a good ol’ time. I was truly amazed at the drama that had just played out before my eyes. Ah, kids, so quick to forgive and forget.
Finally, sometimes I play music on my computer while doing household chores to make them a little less miserable. On Friday I was cleaning my kitchen and blasting Tupac while Junior was out back. He started dancing/bouncing to “I Get Around”, waving his arms and having a good ol’ time. He was a pretty good little dancer. I felt like a proud parent.
Being easily amused by such things really makes life in the middle-of-nowhere a much more pleasant experience.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Brenda's Return
I witnessed a really nice moment the other day.
I was sitting in the Namumu shelter reading with my girls when we heard a car speeding along the small road that approaches Namumu. We don’t get many visitors that late in the evening so we were all curious to see who it might be. We didn’t recognize the car as it pulled up nearby, parking directly beside the girls’ dormitory, and so we peered through the darkness trying to catch a glimpse.
Suddenly someone shouted out, “Breeeeeendaaaaa!”
It was Brenda (obviously), Namumu’s star eighth-grade pupil who had qualified to attend a prestigious boarding school, back home for the end-of-term break.
Suddenly a wave of girls rushed out of the dormitory and out of the shelter. They all hugged her and jumped up and down and laughed and it was so adorable I almost threw up. You would have thought it had been years since they’d seen her (the term had only lasted a couple of months).
It was nice to see how much these girls care about each other. They really are like sisters. And I get the feeling that the reception would have been the same had it been any one of the girls returning to Namumu.
What a nice place to grow up.
I was sitting in the Namumu shelter reading with my girls when we heard a car speeding along the small road that approaches Namumu. We don’t get many visitors that late in the evening so we were all curious to see who it might be. We didn’t recognize the car as it pulled up nearby, parking directly beside the girls’ dormitory, and so we peered through the darkness trying to catch a glimpse.
Suddenly someone shouted out, “Breeeeeendaaaaa!”
It was Brenda (obviously), Namumu’s star eighth-grade pupil who had qualified to attend a prestigious boarding school, back home for the end-of-term break.
Suddenly a wave of girls rushed out of the dormitory and out of the shelter. They all hugged her and jumped up and down and laughed and it was so adorable I almost threw up. You would have thought it had been years since they’d seen her (the term had only lasted a couple of months).
It was nice to see how much these girls care about each other. They really are like sisters. And I get the feeling that the reception would have been the same had it been any one of the girls returning to Namumu.
What a nice place to grow up.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Pop Culture Catch-Up
I got a chance to catch up on the world of pop culture last week, which was nice. I took a few days off to visit some friends in Kitwe, a city a few hours north of Lusaka, where, along with these friends, I watched E! and MTV music videos to my heart’s content. Then, on the way home I stayed over at my good friend Ndula’s place and did the same. It was great getting reconnected to the world of trashy celebrities and brain-dead reality TV “stars”.
I have a few questions and comments concerning what I saw…
1. Is anyone else as terrified of Lady Gaga as I am? I think there’s a distinct possibility that she is the Antichrist. Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.
2. How awesome is the movie “Taken” starring Liam Neeson? That right there is two hours of Liam Jack Bauer-ing his way around France and single-handedly bringing down an entire sex-trafficking ring. Unbelievable. I watched it for the first time in Kitwe with a couple of friends, two girls who are big on movie interaction (they like to have conversations with the characters and repeatedly said things like “Oooooooooh snap!” and “Daaaaaamn Liam!”). What a great time. I couldn’t believe it when he shot that French guy’s wife in the arm at the dinner table! Incredible! Just like when Jack Bauer threatened to throw Stephen Saunders’ daughter inside a building where an infectious disease had spread in 24’s Season 3, Liam wasn’t afraid to go after bad guys’ family members to get the job done. What a BAMF.
3. After hearing rave reviews for months and months from family and friends alike, I was fortunate enough to catch half an episode of “The Jersey Shore”. It was everything I thought it would be and more. It’s great to know that all of Dcat’s stories were true and people like that really do exist. Dcat, I think you should try to get casted for the next season. While not a Guido yourself, I don’t think anyone in this world appreciates them more than you, and I think you’d get along well with all of them. And your moustache could be the next season’s “situation”. Think about it.
4. How did “The Renegade” Lorenzo Lamas get his own reality show? Does E! just hand those things out to any has-been quasi-celebrity that shows up at their offices and asks for one? Do people actually watch that show?
5. Miley Cyrus’ current boyfriend is much better looking than I am. Dammit.
6. My estimation of the number of times I watched and thoroughly enjoyed Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” music video during the week: 79. Wow. All I can say is wow.
If you’re too embarrassed to respond or comment here on this blog (perhaps you don’t want the world to know that you actually watch The Jersey Shore or Lamas’ reality show) feel free to respond via email at ssc2x@virginia.edu.
I have a few questions and comments concerning what I saw…
1. Is anyone else as terrified of Lady Gaga as I am? I think there’s a distinct possibility that she is the Antichrist. Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.
2. How awesome is the movie “Taken” starring Liam Neeson? That right there is two hours of Liam Jack Bauer-ing his way around France and single-handedly bringing down an entire sex-trafficking ring. Unbelievable. I watched it for the first time in Kitwe with a couple of friends, two girls who are big on movie interaction (they like to have conversations with the characters and repeatedly said things like “Oooooooooh snap!” and “Daaaaaamn Liam!”). What a great time. I couldn’t believe it when he shot that French guy’s wife in the arm at the dinner table! Incredible! Just like when Jack Bauer threatened to throw Stephen Saunders’ daughter inside a building where an infectious disease had spread in 24’s Season 3, Liam wasn’t afraid to go after bad guys’ family members to get the job done. What a BAMF.
3. After hearing rave reviews for months and months from family and friends alike, I was fortunate enough to catch half an episode of “The Jersey Shore”. It was everything I thought it would be and more. It’s great to know that all of Dcat’s stories were true and people like that really do exist. Dcat, I think you should try to get casted for the next season. While not a Guido yourself, I don’t think anyone in this world appreciates them more than you, and I think you’d get along well with all of them. And your moustache could be the next season’s “situation”. Think about it.
4. How did “The Renegade” Lorenzo Lamas get his own reality show? Does E! just hand those things out to any has-been quasi-celebrity that shows up at their offices and asks for one? Do people actually watch that show?
5. Miley Cyrus’ current boyfriend is much better looking than I am. Dammit.
6. My estimation of the number of times I watched and thoroughly enjoyed Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” music video during the week: 79. Wow. All I can say is wow.
If you’re too embarrassed to respond or comment here on this blog (perhaps you don’t want the world to know that you actually watch The Jersey Shore or Lamas’ reality show) feel free to respond via email at ssc2x@virginia.edu.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Family First
“I think Government is making a terrible mistake in making it so easy for people like that to have so-called university education. Education for what? To get as much as they can for themselves and their family. Not the least bit interested in the millions of their countrymen who die every day from hunger and disease.”
-Mr. Green – “No Longer at Ease” by Chinua Achebe
I know, I know, I just recently made fun of people who try to sound cool and intellectual by recommending obscure books, and here I am not only recommending books but quoting from them as well. Whatever. It fits.
People in Zambia look out for their families. It’s great. If an uncle is sick they’ll jump on a bus and travel across the country to visit and take care of them. If an aunt is critically ill but can’t pay her hospital bills they won’t hesitate to take out a large salary advance and wire them money. If a niece or a nephew needs money for school fees they’ll have no problem doing the same. It’s nice to see people loving and taking care of each other.
The problem comes when people help their families at the expense of others, putting the needs of their families above everyone else, completely disregarding and showing a total lack of concern for those outside of their inner circle.
I’ve seen it over and over and over in my time here. I could list hundreds of specific examples. For brevity’s sake I’ll just give you a few that come to mind…
Theft is a big issue in the local kapenta fishing industry. Fishermen, if unsupervised out on the lake, will often sell the fish themselves to black market traders in the middle of the night and pocket the money, benefiting at the expense of their respective companies. Every company deals with this problem, and while it can be limited it will never be completely stopped.
Back in my days of African infancy I foolishly believed that Namumu’s fishermen would never do such a thing. After all, they were raising money to feed orphans and vulnerable children. Surely, no one would steal from orphans and vulnerable children!
Ah, what a naïve young man I was. I’ve since realized that it doesn’t matter where the money comes from, fishermen are going to try to get theirs. They are struggling to make ends meet, and feeding their own kids is always going to take precedence over feeding Namumu kids, even if it means stealing. The fact that they’re stealing from orphans doesn’t matter because these orphans are not in their family or inner circle.
It’s not just within our fishing operation that we’ve experienced theft at Namumu. I’ve seen it to some degree in every Namumu income generating activity.
Recently, a customer came to our carpentry and welding workshop for a small repair job that took only a couple hours. For most repair jobs we don’t have set prices, we simply negotiate depending on the time spent and materials used. Since the workshop is a ways a way from the front office and I can’t always be our there, we’d given our carpenters and welders a fair amount of freedom in negotiating and collecting the money. We trusted them. For this one repair job, our employee (who shall remain nameless) came to the office in the afternoon and submitted 10,000 kwacha (about $2), reporting that that had been the negotiated price. I thought that sounded a bit low, and something about this employee’s behavior suggested that he might not be telling the truth. I had the customer’s phone number and so I called him up. It turns out he had actually paid our worker 20,000 kwacha. Our worker had pocketed half and submitted half.
Now, obviously, we’re not talking about a lot of money. Our guy had only stolen a little over $2. But we had been running things like that for a while and it soon became clear that this was not the first time this had happened. Because we had trusted our guys it’s likely they had been skimming off the top again and again. It didn’t matter that he was stealing from an orphanage. It didn’t matter that he was hurting a department already struggling and losing money for this organization. This guy wanted to get his for his family and he did.
It’s not just stealing, either. People put their families’ wellbeing above that of others in additional ways too.
There are a number of kapenta traders in the Siavonga area who make a living by buying kapenta from us and reselling it elsewhere. That’s how they survive and feed their families. At certain times of the year I’ll have five or six traders calling me a day looking for large amounts of kapenta. There are a good number of traders out there.
We try to take care of everybody. We don’t make actual lists or queues at this point but we try to cycle through and give everyone a chance to buy from us.
On numerous occasions I have had supervisors of mine (who shall remain nameless) lay claim to large amounts of kapenta for them or their family members to resell. They don’t ask. They demand. It doesn’t matter how many traders wanted or needed to buy that kapenta. It doesn’t matter who we had kept waiting for weeks. These guys, my supervisors, have family members in need and take the opportunity to use their positions to get theirs at the expense of traders who have been waiting, and at the expense of Mubita and myself who look like jerks for being forced to stiff these other customers. They know exactly what they’re doing and they still do it without hesitating. It really bothers me.
To give one final example, I recently visited a small organization in Kitwe, Zambia, run by the Catholic Church, that houses 30 orphans of all ages. The Sister-in-Charge, an old Italian woman (who bore a striking resemblance to Tomie dePaola's “Strega Nona”) took me on a tour of the place, showing me the dormitories, the kitchen, the play areas and all the rest, explaining things as we walked. She told me that the local community had been very supportive and that local shop owners would regularly donate money, food or drinks to help support the children.
As she was telling me this she stopped, leaned in and said quietly, “But you know what? They will never give the items to anyone else here [pointing to her Zambian co-workers, all nuns]. They’ll only give them to me. They think that if they give them to these ladies they will just take them home to feed their families.” She suggested to me that this was probably, in fact, the case. Which is crazy, if you think about it. This is a bunch of nuns, we’re talking about. Nuns looking after orphans. Even so, the focus is placed on family above all else.
It’s all been a tough lesson to learn.
You do start to view this all in a new light once you’ve been around here for a while, though. Abject poverty abounds and many times those working in these charitable organizations are worse off than those the organization is catering to. Our fishermen, carpenters and welders make very, very little, and many have big families. It’s very possible that those nuns’ children were malnourished and in desperate need of additional food. It makes sense that people here will do what they can to ensure the survival of their families. I get it, even if Mr. Green of “No Longer at Ease” didn’t.
Still, it’s all been a tough lesson to learn.
-Mr. Green – “No Longer at Ease” by Chinua Achebe
I know, I know, I just recently made fun of people who try to sound cool and intellectual by recommending obscure books, and here I am not only recommending books but quoting from them as well. Whatever. It fits.
People in Zambia look out for their families. It’s great. If an uncle is sick they’ll jump on a bus and travel across the country to visit and take care of them. If an aunt is critically ill but can’t pay her hospital bills they won’t hesitate to take out a large salary advance and wire them money. If a niece or a nephew needs money for school fees they’ll have no problem doing the same. It’s nice to see people loving and taking care of each other.
The problem comes when people help their families at the expense of others, putting the needs of their families above everyone else, completely disregarding and showing a total lack of concern for those outside of their inner circle.
I’ve seen it over and over and over in my time here. I could list hundreds of specific examples. For brevity’s sake I’ll just give you a few that come to mind…
Theft is a big issue in the local kapenta fishing industry. Fishermen, if unsupervised out on the lake, will often sell the fish themselves to black market traders in the middle of the night and pocket the money, benefiting at the expense of their respective companies. Every company deals with this problem, and while it can be limited it will never be completely stopped.
Back in my days of African infancy I foolishly believed that Namumu’s fishermen would never do such a thing. After all, they were raising money to feed orphans and vulnerable children. Surely, no one would steal from orphans and vulnerable children!
Ah, what a naïve young man I was. I’ve since realized that it doesn’t matter where the money comes from, fishermen are going to try to get theirs. They are struggling to make ends meet, and feeding their own kids is always going to take precedence over feeding Namumu kids, even if it means stealing. The fact that they’re stealing from orphans doesn’t matter because these orphans are not in their family or inner circle.
It’s not just within our fishing operation that we’ve experienced theft at Namumu. I’ve seen it to some degree in every Namumu income generating activity.
Recently, a customer came to our carpentry and welding workshop for a small repair job that took only a couple hours. For most repair jobs we don’t have set prices, we simply negotiate depending on the time spent and materials used. Since the workshop is a ways a way from the front office and I can’t always be our there, we’d given our carpenters and welders a fair amount of freedom in negotiating and collecting the money. We trusted them. For this one repair job, our employee (who shall remain nameless) came to the office in the afternoon and submitted 10,000 kwacha (about $2), reporting that that had been the negotiated price. I thought that sounded a bit low, and something about this employee’s behavior suggested that he might not be telling the truth. I had the customer’s phone number and so I called him up. It turns out he had actually paid our worker 20,000 kwacha. Our worker had pocketed half and submitted half.
Now, obviously, we’re not talking about a lot of money. Our guy had only stolen a little over $2. But we had been running things like that for a while and it soon became clear that this was not the first time this had happened. Because we had trusted our guys it’s likely they had been skimming off the top again and again. It didn’t matter that he was stealing from an orphanage. It didn’t matter that he was hurting a department already struggling and losing money for this organization. This guy wanted to get his for his family and he did.
It’s not just stealing, either. People put their families’ wellbeing above that of others in additional ways too.
There are a number of kapenta traders in the Siavonga area who make a living by buying kapenta from us and reselling it elsewhere. That’s how they survive and feed their families. At certain times of the year I’ll have five or six traders calling me a day looking for large amounts of kapenta. There are a good number of traders out there.
We try to take care of everybody. We don’t make actual lists or queues at this point but we try to cycle through and give everyone a chance to buy from us.
On numerous occasions I have had supervisors of mine (who shall remain nameless) lay claim to large amounts of kapenta for them or their family members to resell. They don’t ask. They demand. It doesn’t matter how many traders wanted or needed to buy that kapenta. It doesn’t matter who we had kept waiting for weeks. These guys, my supervisors, have family members in need and take the opportunity to use their positions to get theirs at the expense of traders who have been waiting, and at the expense of Mubita and myself who look like jerks for being forced to stiff these other customers. They know exactly what they’re doing and they still do it without hesitating. It really bothers me.
To give one final example, I recently visited a small organization in Kitwe, Zambia, run by the Catholic Church, that houses 30 orphans of all ages. The Sister-in-Charge, an old Italian woman (who bore a striking resemblance to Tomie dePaola's “Strega Nona”) took me on a tour of the place, showing me the dormitories, the kitchen, the play areas and all the rest, explaining things as we walked. She told me that the local community had been very supportive and that local shop owners would regularly donate money, food or drinks to help support the children.
As she was telling me this she stopped, leaned in and said quietly, “But you know what? They will never give the items to anyone else here [pointing to her Zambian co-workers, all nuns]. They’ll only give them to me. They think that if they give them to these ladies they will just take them home to feed their families.” She suggested to me that this was probably, in fact, the case. Which is crazy, if you think about it. This is a bunch of nuns, we’re talking about. Nuns looking after orphans. Even so, the focus is placed on family above all else.
It’s all been a tough lesson to learn.
You do start to view this all in a new light once you’ve been around here for a while, though. Abject poverty abounds and many times those working in these charitable organizations are worse off than those the organization is catering to. Our fishermen, carpenters and welders make very, very little, and many have big families. It’s very possible that those nuns’ children were malnourished and in desperate need of additional food. It makes sense that people here will do what they can to ensure the survival of their families. I get it, even if Mr. Green of “No Longer at Ease” didn’t.
Still, it’s all been a tough lesson to learn.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
City Market
The City Market Bus Station sits in downtown Lusaka. It’s crowded and dirty, jam-packed with people coming from and going to numerous locations within Zambia. While there are a number of bus stations in the city, any time you get on a minibus from Siavonga to Lusaka City Market is where you end up. I’ve been through the station dozens of times and it’s always an adventure. Allow me to walk you through a typical arrival into the capital city…
I’m always the only white guy for miles. That’s a given. Like I said, I’ve passed through dozens of times, and I can’t recall a single time I ever saw another white person. You might run into a few elsewhere in the city, but most of them don’t use public transport, it seems. Except me. What can I say, I’m a man of the people.
There are always numerous market vendors around the station, most of which fall into one of two categories.
There are the older women, gathered under umbrellas or makeshift tents, or just sitting out in the sun, selling anything from vegetables to kapenta to books to small trinkets. These ladies mostly just sit back and wait for the action to come to them. It’s nice. No sales pressure.
Then there’s the other, infinitely more obnoxious group, the young drunk guys who stay mobile, walking around and shoving their wares, CDs and DVDs (always bootlegs), clothes (always second hand), and jewelry (always total crap), into your face and pestering you mercilessly in hopes that you’ll buy something from them. Ok, they aren’t always drunk. But usually they are.
So, while there are always exceptions, most vendors fit one of these two profiles.
Upon arriving at the station I always mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of the young drunk salesmen. It’s never too bad coming into the city. Mostly they harass people sitting on buses waiting to leave the station. But I always mentally prepare when coming just in case.
Next, after exiting the bus and beginning to weave my way through the crowd I always brace myself for possible pickpocket attempts. As you might imagine, being the only white guy for miles makes me a walking bearded target. These guys can see me coming from a mile away and assume right off the bat that I’m loaded, because all whites are loaded in their minds.
Surprisingly, there have only been two all out attempts to pick my pocket, both unsuccessful thanks to my Chuck Norris-like reflexes. I don’t have the nickname for nothin’, folks.
I always shift my wallet to the front pocket and keep my hands by my sides, so there’s no chance of getting picked there, but sometimes I keep some small change in my front shirt pocket to have handy. I had one guy go after that recently. He was pretending to try to sell my plastic bags and was shoving hem in my face. I saw his hand sneak down towards my shirt pocket and slapped it away briskly. I said some very unkind words to him and he cowered in fear before walking away. Nobody messes with Uncle Chuck Norris’ shirt pocket and gets away with it.
As for the second attempt, a guy walking behind me once tried to quickly unzip my backpack without me noticing and slip something out. I felt a slight tug and turned around immediately. He scampered off in the other direction empty-handed. He didn’t see me staring him down, but I’m confident he felt my eyes burning into the back of his head. I’m an intense stare-er these days.
Finally, before making it out of the station I always face one final obstacle, the most dangerous obstacle of all. The buses themselves.
Let me tell you something, the bus drivers in the city are maniacs. Maybe some are intoxicated. Maybe some are just reckless. Regardless, they shoot in and out of small spaces and in between people and other buses with no apparent regard for human life. It’s crazy. You really have to stay on your toes.
It’s kind of like you’re in a real life version of Mario Kart battle mode. Only you don’t have a car yourself. And if you get hit you don’t lose a balloon. You lose your life.
Oh, and to add to that, while in Zambia they drive on the left-hand side of the street, my brain is still wired to expect them to be coming on the right-hand side. When I cross a street my instinct is to look left and then, if it’s clear, to start to cross. You can see how this might cause a problem. I’ve trained myself to stop and think before crossing, but sometimes I’m in a hurry and my mind is elsewhere and I get into trouble. I’ve had some close calls. I think Namumu should assign someone to hold my hand as I cross all streets in the city.
Honestly, I think the fact that I haven’t been hit by a bus yet proves that God loves me and wants to keep me around for one reason or another.
A wave of joy and relief usually washes over me as I exit from the City Market gate. Sure, there are still crazy, drunken salesmen, schiesty pickpockets and maniac bus drivers on the outside, but it’s all spread out and easier to handle. Lusaka is really a nice city.
I’m always the only white guy for miles. That’s a given. Like I said, I’ve passed through dozens of times, and I can’t recall a single time I ever saw another white person. You might run into a few elsewhere in the city, but most of them don’t use public transport, it seems. Except me. What can I say, I’m a man of the people.
There are always numerous market vendors around the station, most of which fall into one of two categories.
There are the older women, gathered under umbrellas or makeshift tents, or just sitting out in the sun, selling anything from vegetables to kapenta to books to small trinkets. These ladies mostly just sit back and wait for the action to come to them. It’s nice. No sales pressure.
Then there’s the other, infinitely more obnoxious group, the young drunk guys who stay mobile, walking around and shoving their wares, CDs and DVDs (always bootlegs), clothes (always second hand), and jewelry (always total crap), into your face and pestering you mercilessly in hopes that you’ll buy something from them. Ok, they aren’t always drunk. But usually they are.
So, while there are always exceptions, most vendors fit one of these two profiles.
Upon arriving at the station I always mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of the young drunk salesmen. It’s never too bad coming into the city. Mostly they harass people sitting on buses waiting to leave the station. But I always mentally prepare when coming just in case.
Next, after exiting the bus and beginning to weave my way through the crowd I always brace myself for possible pickpocket attempts. As you might imagine, being the only white guy for miles makes me a walking bearded target. These guys can see me coming from a mile away and assume right off the bat that I’m loaded, because all whites are loaded in their minds.
Surprisingly, there have only been two all out attempts to pick my pocket, both unsuccessful thanks to my Chuck Norris-like reflexes. I don’t have the nickname for nothin’, folks.
I always shift my wallet to the front pocket and keep my hands by my sides, so there’s no chance of getting picked there, but sometimes I keep some small change in my front shirt pocket to have handy. I had one guy go after that recently. He was pretending to try to sell my plastic bags and was shoving hem in my face. I saw his hand sneak down towards my shirt pocket and slapped it away briskly. I said some very unkind words to him and he cowered in fear before walking away. Nobody messes with Uncle Chuck Norris’ shirt pocket and gets away with it.
As for the second attempt, a guy walking behind me once tried to quickly unzip my backpack without me noticing and slip something out. I felt a slight tug and turned around immediately. He scampered off in the other direction empty-handed. He didn’t see me staring him down, but I’m confident he felt my eyes burning into the back of his head. I’m an intense stare-er these days.
Finally, before making it out of the station I always face one final obstacle, the most dangerous obstacle of all. The buses themselves.
Let me tell you something, the bus drivers in the city are maniacs. Maybe some are intoxicated. Maybe some are just reckless. Regardless, they shoot in and out of small spaces and in between people and other buses with no apparent regard for human life. It’s crazy. You really have to stay on your toes.
It’s kind of like you’re in a real life version of Mario Kart battle mode. Only you don’t have a car yourself. And if you get hit you don’t lose a balloon. You lose your life.
Oh, and to add to that, while in Zambia they drive on the left-hand side of the street, my brain is still wired to expect them to be coming on the right-hand side. When I cross a street my instinct is to look left and then, if it’s clear, to start to cross. You can see how this might cause a problem. I’ve trained myself to stop and think before crossing, but sometimes I’m in a hurry and my mind is elsewhere and I get into trouble. I’ve had some close calls. I think Namumu should assign someone to hold my hand as I cross all streets in the city.
Honestly, I think the fact that I haven’t been hit by a bus yet proves that God loves me and wants to keep me around for one reason or another.
A wave of joy and relief usually washes over me as I exit from the City Market gate. Sure, there are still crazy, drunken salesmen, schiesty pickpockets and maniac bus drivers on the outside, but it’s all spread out and easier to handle. Lusaka is really a nice city.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
In Weezy's Footsteps
I’m about to give this blog a serious jumpstart and you all have Lil’ Wayne to thank (or blame) for it.
I suppose I should begin by apologizing. I have no been the best blogger I can be. I’ve gone days and even weeks without writing or posting. I’ve withheld stories and other material from you simply because I felt as though I didn’t have the time to write it all down and/or type it all up. I’m telling you, I experience five to ten ridiculous, bloggable moments on a daily basis here, and the fact that I’ve only been posting weekly or biweekly is downright shameful.
I decided to make a change when I was struck with a moment of clarity while watching VH1’s Behind the Music on Lil’ Wayne aka Lil’ Weezy the other day.
For those of you unfamiliar with Lil’ Wayne, he is a hip hop artist in his mid-twenties. He’s been writing since he was 8 and had his first album out when he was 12. He is covered in tattoos from head to toe and has long dreadlocks and diamonds in his teeth. He is very energetic and very arrogant, proclaiming himself to be the best rapper alive. Needless to say, he is a super duper star and a personal hero of mine.
Anyway, besides inspiring me to cover myself in tattoos and fill my own grill up with diamonds, Weezy’s work ethic blew my mind. This guy records a song or two every night. Every single night. He has a recording studio built into his tour bus and even on days when he’s been traveling and performing all day he’ll stay up into the wee hours of the morning making music.
Because of this he has put out unheard of amounts of music in the past few years. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but I remember that, during the year before I left to come to Zambia, if you flipped to one of Richmond’s two hip hop stations, 75% of the time the song playing would either be Lil’ Wayne’s or would have him featured. And I think that may be a conservative estimate.
So, Weezy has inspired me to step up my game and start putting out more material. If he can put in the work after a long day of traveling and performing surely I can do it after a long day of cleaning up chicken poop and reading with my girls. For the next few weeks I will be writing a blog for every single day. Some days the Namumu internet acts up, so I may not be able to post every day, but if I miss a day I’ll post two the following day. If I miss two days I’ll post three the following day. And so on. Some posts may be brief and some may be boring, but I’ll get one out for every day.
Oh, and following in Weezy’s footsteps I will henceforth be referring to myself as the best blogger alive.
That is all. I hope you enjoy…
I suppose I should begin by apologizing. I have no been the best blogger I can be. I’ve gone days and even weeks without writing or posting. I’ve withheld stories and other material from you simply because I felt as though I didn’t have the time to write it all down and/or type it all up. I’m telling you, I experience five to ten ridiculous, bloggable moments on a daily basis here, and the fact that I’ve only been posting weekly or biweekly is downright shameful.
I decided to make a change when I was struck with a moment of clarity while watching VH1’s Behind the Music on Lil’ Wayne aka Lil’ Weezy the other day.
For those of you unfamiliar with Lil’ Wayne, he is a hip hop artist in his mid-twenties. He’s been writing since he was 8 and had his first album out when he was 12. He is covered in tattoos from head to toe and has long dreadlocks and diamonds in his teeth. He is very energetic and very arrogant, proclaiming himself to be the best rapper alive. Needless to say, he is a super duper star and a personal hero of mine.
Anyway, besides inspiring me to cover myself in tattoos and fill my own grill up with diamonds, Weezy’s work ethic blew my mind. This guy records a song or two every night. Every single night. He has a recording studio built into his tour bus and even on days when he’s been traveling and performing all day he’ll stay up into the wee hours of the morning making music.
Because of this he has put out unheard of amounts of music in the past few years. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but I remember that, during the year before I left to come to Zambia, if you flipped to one of Richmond’s two hip hop stations, 75% of the time the song playing would either be Lil’ Wayne’s or would have him featured. And I think that may be a conservative estimate.
So, Weezy has inspired me to step up my game and start putting out more material. If he can put in the work after a long day of traveling and performing surely I can do it after a long day of cleaning up chicken poop and reading with my girls. For the next few weeks I will be writing a blog for every single day. Some days the Namumu internet acts up, so I may not be able to post every day, but if I miss a day I’ll post two the following day. If I miss two days I’ll post three the following day. And so on. Some posts may be brief and some may be boring, but I’ll get one out for every day.
Oh, and following in Weezy’s footsteps I will henceforth be referring to myself as the best blogger alive.
That is all. I hope you enjoy…
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