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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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…
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Chickens Are Here And Hopefully Miley Cyrus Will Be Soon
At long last the chickens have arrived and our poultry operation is a go.
After months of restoring the poultry house, putting together the battery cages to keep the chickens contained and then waiting for our order with the poultry company to be filled, Namumu now has 100 layers, already pumping out eggs and pooping up a storm. None of us know anything at all about chicken rearing, but we’re learning from our mistakes and getting the hang of it.
Kanyama is running the show, mostly, feeding them, getting them water and sweeping out the ever-present piles of poop from under the cages. I’m trying to help out here and there, too. I’ve even swept out poop once or twice. It’s terrible. But Jesus washed his disciples feet and told me to humble myself and do the same so I figure cleaning up chicken poop at Namumu is the rough equivalent.
Other than that there’s not too much new around Namumu. The Siavonga weekends have been slow. I realized I’d reached a new low when the social highlight of my most recent weekend was watching “The Hannah Montana Movie” with a group of 12 to 14 year old Namumu girls in their dormitory. Just writing that sent a wave of sadness through my body. I really need to get out more.
It’s funny, though. A few months back, I started telling various Namumu children that not only did I know Miley Cyrus but that we were, in fact, engaged to be married the next time I’m back in the States and that she’d come soon to visit Namumu. I’ve made up really elaborate, detailed stories supporting this lie. Most of the girls know I’m messing around, but now I actually think some believe me, and I’m going to feel like a jerk telling them it’s not true. So, if any of you know Miley Cyrus and could get her to come to Namumu and/or marry me I would appreciate it.
The reading is still going well. We have a big group these days. I have to brag about my girl, Charity. Charity’s reading skills were pretty abysmal as of a few months ago as she struggled through children’s books, but she’s been working hard and has really improved. In fact, these days she’s nearly finished with Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island”! Ok, so it’s only an abridged version for young adults, but for her level it’s still impressive. She has a really tough time reading the words “apple barrel” (as in the place where Jim hides and overhears Long John Silver’s sinister plan). She can’t even say it anywhere close to correctly after I say it and tell her to just repeat what I'm saying. So that’s weird. But, other than that, she’s doing great. Let me know if you have any words of encouragement for Charity and I’ll past them along.
Finally, let me say that I tend to avoid recommending books to people, mostly because when people recommend books to me it usually feels like they couldn’t care less about me reading a good book and really just want to sound cool and intellectual, especially if it’s an obscure book or one by a foreign author, and I don’t want to be like that. But I’m going to recommend one here anyway. If you want to get a good feel for life in Africa go read something by Chinua Achebe. He’s the famous Nigerian author who wrote “Things Fall Apart”, among many others. I would say they are relatively easy reads and lay out a number of interesting problems of life in Africa in a way that’s easy to understand. Do yourself a favor and go check him out.
After months of restoring the poultry house, putting together the battery cages to keep the chickens contained and then waiting for our order with the poultry company to be filled, Namumu now has 100 layers, already pumping out eggs and pooping up a storm. None of us know anything at all about chicken rearing, but we’re learning from our mistakes and getting the hang of it.
Kanyama is running the show, mostly, feeding them, getting them water and sweeping out the ever-present piles of poop from under the cages. I’m trying to help out here and there, too. I’ve even swept out poop once or twice. It’s terrible. But Jesus washed his disciples feet and told me to humble myself and do the same so I figure cleaning up chicken poop at Namumu is the rough equivalent.
Other than that there’s not too much new around Namumu. The Siavonga weekends have been slow. I realized I’d reached a new low when the social highlight of my most recent weekend was watching “The Hannah Montana Movie” with a group of 12 to 14 year old Namumu girls in their dormitory. Just writing that sent a wave of sadness through my body. I really need to get out more.
It’s funny, though. A few months back, I started telling various Namumu children that not only did I know Miley Cyrus but that we were, in fact, engaged to be married the next time I’m back in the States and that she’d come soon to visit Namumu. I’ve made up really elaborate, detailed stories supporting this lie. Most of the girls know I’m messing around, but now I actually think some believe me, and I’m going to feel like a jerk telling them it’s not true. So, if any of you know Miley Cyrus and could get her to come to Namumu and/or marry me I would appreciate it.
The reading is still going well. We have a big group these days. I have to brag about my girl, Charity. Charity’s reading skills were pretty abysmal as of a few months ago as she struggled through children’s books, but she’s been working hard and has really improved. In fact, these days she’s nearly finished with Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island”! Ok, so it’s only an abridged version for young adults, but for her level it’s still impressive. She has a really tough time reading the words “apple barrel” (as in the place where Jim hides and overhears Long John Silver’s sinister plan). She can’t even say it anywhere close to correctly after I say it and tell her to just repeat what I'm saying. So that’s weird. But, other than that, she’s doing great. Let me know if you have any words of encouragement for Charity and I’ll past them along.
Finally, let me say that I tend to avoid recommending books to people, mostly because when people recommend books to me it usually feels like they couldn’t care less about me reading a good book and really just want to sound cool and intellectual, especially if it’s an obscure book or one by a foreign author, and I don’t want to be like that. But I’m going to recommend one here anyway. If you want to get a good feel for life in Africa go read something by Chinua Achebe. He’s the famous Nigerian author who wrote “Things Fall Apart”, among many others. I would say they are relatively easy reads and lay out a number of interesting problems of life in Africa in a way that’s easy to understand. Do yourself a favor and go check him out.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Ox Cart Part II
So, after a few minor distractions we had finally arrived in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Zambia, all of us ready to take care of business.
And, to clarify, the pressure was on to take care of said business. While Marvious always gives us a much lower price for his services than any other truck driver in town, it was still costing us a pretty penny to get to Lusitu and back. Making another trip out in the future would be costly and certainly would not be optimal. It was imperative that we unload the ox cart and get the cows back to Siavonga then and there.
Kanyama led us to the first of the two potential buyers. We pulled up to a small house with walls of burned bricks and a grass roof, typical of the area. The guy’s wife and children were around, washing plates and clothes in front of the house. He was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he had gone out on some other business and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Awesome, I thought. 0 for 1. Plus, we now only had one potential buyer in the area and no leverage going into the negotiation. Just awesome.
I know, I know, we should have made sure the buyers would be at home before going out there. But this is easier said than done. We had tried to call him, but while the vast majority of families in Zambia, even rural Zambia, have at least one person with a cell phone, the reception in such areas is usually very spotty. We had to come out and take a chance.
We jumped back in the truck and continued on along the dirt road deeper into the village, at last coming to the home of buyer number two, another burned brick, grass-roofed number, again finding a wife and children outside. The good news was that this guy was around town and very interested in buying the ox cart. The bad news was that nobody knew exactly where he was and we had to go find him. So, Kanyama, Marvious and I set out to track the man down. The hour-long search was not without its interesting moments…
Every single woman we encountered, and I mean 100 percent without exception, was breastfeeding a small child. It was unbelievable. I don’t know how they do it. Well, I know how they do it, I just don’t know how they do it so much.
I almost lost my life in a cow stampede. Those things came out of nowhere. I felt like Simba but with no Mufasa to rescue me. While I may not be as spry as I once was, I somehow managed to scurry away and survive. You gotta stay on your toes in the village.
Oh, and I saw a young boy that had been walking in front of us squat down right beside the path and drop a deuce right before our eyes. Yikes. Welcome to the village.
At long last we tracked down the buyer, an old man with gray hair and only a few teeth, hunched over and slow-moving. His English was mediocre at best. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a button-up shirt with pictures of Saddam Hussein all over it. Obviously amused by such an absurdity, I kicked off the conversation after greeting him by commenting, “Hey, Saddam Hussein…great guy,” to which he responded, “Oh, thank you, thank you,” apparently not picking up on the sarcasm dripping thickly from my voice. What a sarcastic jerk I am.
Shortly after introductions I became aware of the fact that Kanyama and this guy were actually related in some way. Kanyama hadn’t mentioned this before. Now I had to deal with a clear conflict of interest because, in my experience, even when you have people committed to the Namumu organization, as Kanyama clearly is, helping out one’s family always seems to take precedence over helping Namumu. I’ve seen it time and time again. So, even though, as you might have guessed, I don’t have much experience in cattle negotiations, I’d have to take over and make Kanyama assume the role of spectator.
The old man, with the assistance of some 20 or so boys/young men who had come to gather round as we arrived (I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they were all this guys’ sons), checked out the ox cart from top to bottom. After a lengthy inspection, he led us to his cattle, some 30 or so heads, and then brought us to a small nearby hut, beneath which we sat on stools to chat and negotiate.
So, there I am, a single, bearded white guy, sitting under a small hut surrounded by a large and rapidly increasing number of young men, women and children, all gathered around to see what was happening, few of whom spoke much English. At our feet beneath the hut were chickens, ducks, a couple of pigs and a dog, roaming around in one large, bizarre group. I was wearing open-toed sandals at the time and, as if there wasn’t enough to distract me from our talks, the ducks started nipping at my toes. Resisting the urge to Jackie Chan the nuisances I sat still and focused on the negotiations.
Now, as I mentioned, Kanyama had come out with Vincent to this place some days before to set up the deal. He was supposed to have shown the guy pictures of the ox cart, which he did. He was also supposed to have checked out the exact cattle that the guy was offering so that we knew the guy was offering cows big enough for us to get a good price at the butchery before going all the way out there, which he did not do. He had previously told me that he had done so, but it was now becoming clear that he hadn’t. We had to work out the specifics then and there. Or rather, I had to, because of Kanyama’s conflict of interest.
The thing is, I am not a great businessman. I am not a great negotiator. I’m pretty confident at this point that it is not my life’s calling. However, after participating in numerous kapenta, carpentry and welding negotiations over the past months I have gotten the hang of the basics to some degree.
One thing I’ve picked up on is that, all too often, people have played on my conscience, attempting to exploit the fact that I’m a white American and that they are impoverished Zambians, pleading for me to cut them a good deal because they are really struggling. Oh, help us out, they say, give us this price, we are really suffering and you can afford it, etc. etc. Back in early 2009, when I was young and foolish, I used to fall into this trap from time to time, letting my empathy take over and giving good deals to help these people out. Oh no, not anymore. Now I am ruthless.
The fact of the matter is that I am working for an orphanage. The kapenta profits don’t go into my pocket. The carpentry and welding sales don’t go to my personal bank account. It all goes to feeding and supporting orphans and vulnerable children. My orphans and vulnerable children. While I’d love to help out all my brothers and sisters in Siavonga, our Namumu kids are my priority.
So, when the old man and the old ladies around started begging to be helped out, for me to cut them a break, to accept two very small cows in return for the ox cart, I never even hesitated. No can do, I said.
For a little over an hour we stood by his cattle pen attempting to reach an agreement, trying to pick out two cows that would be suitable. I’m certainly no cattle expert, but I knew the size we should be getting and this guy wasn’t giving them to us. He knew exactly what the ox car was worth and he was trying to work us over.
The guy wouldn’t budge. We packed up the ox cart and left.
Our lack of preparation really came back to bite us. Because we hadn’t worked out the specifics before bringing out the ox cart we were now stuck with a big transport bill and no ox cart buyers. We looked around for another one, but the sun was sinking down fast and we couldn’t find anyone interested.
Luckily, we were able to avoid complete disaster as Kanyama knew a guy who, having a house in the middle of town where people pass through quite frequently, had previously offered to let us leave the ox cart tied up on his land with a For Sale sign in case any interested buyers passed by. With no other option we took him up on his offer, dropping off the ox cart and riding off into the sunset, disappointed and cow-less.
Back in the day I would have been absolutely miserable. I would have felt like a failure. Things weren’t supposed to this way. We had had a plan. Everything had gone wrong.
But you know what? I’ve learned that if you let it upset you every time things don’t work out or go according to plan in southern Africa you are destined to lead a gloomy, miserable life, because things rarely, if ever, work out completely or go according to plan. If you let that stress build up you simply will not survive. You have to do what you can and, if things don’t work out, let it go and just try to do better the next time.
On the way back my man Marvious bought us all some sugar cane on the road side. With traditional African music on the stereo we headed for home eating away. The air was still warm and the breeze felt just swell as we sped south along the road. Yes, we had failed that day. But life was still pretty good.
And, to clarify, the pressure was on to take care of said business. While Marvious always gives us a much lower price for his services than any other truck driver in town, it was still costing us a pretty penny to get to Lusitu and back. Making another trip out in the future would be costly and certainly would not be optimal. It was imperative that we unload the ox cart and get the cows back to Siavonga then and there.
Kanyama led us to the first of the two potential buyers. We pulled up to a small house with walls of burned bricks and a grass roof, typical of the area. The guy’s wife and children were around, washing plates and clothes in front of the house. He was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he had gone out on some other business and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Awesome, I thought. 0 for 1. Plus, we now only had one potential buyer in the area and no leverage going into the negotiation. Just awesome.
I know, I know, we should have made sure the buyers would be at home before going out there. But this is easier said than done. We had tried to call him, but while the vast majority of families in Zambia, even rural Zambia, have at least one person with a cell phone, the reception in such areas is usually very spotty. We had to come out and take a chance.
We jumped back in the truck and continued on along the dirt road deeper into the village, at last coming to the home of buyer number two, another burned brick, grass-roofed number, again finding a wife and children outside. The good news was that this guy was around town and very interested in buying the ox cart. The bad news was that nobody knew exactly where he was and we had to go find him. So, Kanyama, Marvious and I set out to track the man down. The hour-long search was not without its interesting moments…
Every single woman we encountered, and I mean 100 percent without exception, was breastfeeding a small child. It was unbelievable. I don’t know how they do it. Well, I know how they do it, I just don’t know how they do it so much.
I almost lost my life in a cow stampede. Those things came out of nowhere. I felt like Simba but with no Mufasa to rescue me. While I may not be as spry as I once was, I somehow managed to scurry away and survive. You gotta stay on your toes in the village.
Oh, and I saw a young boy that had been walking in front of us squat down right beside the path and drop a deuce right before our eyes. Yikes. Welcome to the village.
At long last we tracked down the buyer, an old man with gray hair and only a few teeth, hunched over and slow-moving. His English was mediocre at best. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a button-up shirt with pictures of Saddam Hussein all over it. Obviously amused by such an absurdity, I kicked off the conversation after greeting him by commenting, “Hey, Saddam Hussein…great guy,” to which he responded, “Oh, thank you, thank you,” apparently not picking up on the sarcasm dripping thickly from my voice. What a sarcastic jerk I am.
Shortly after introductions I became aware of the fact that Kanyama and this guy were actually related in some way. Kanyama hadn’t mentioned this before. Now I had to deal with a clear conflict of interest because, in my experience, even when you have people committed to the Namumu organization, as Kanyama clearly is, helping out one’s family always seems to take precedence over helping Namumu. I’ve seen it time and time again. So, even though, as you might have guessed, I don’t have much experience in cattle negotiations, I’d have to take over and make Kanyama assume the role of spectator.
The old man, with the assistance of some 20 or so boys/young men who had come to gather round as we arrived (I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they were all this guys’ sons), checked out the ox cart from top to bottom. After a lengthy inspection, he led us to his cattle, some 30 or so heads, and then brought us to a small nearby hut, beneath which we sat on stools to chat and negotiate.
So, there I am, a single, bearded white guy, sitting under a small hut surrounded by a large and rapidly increasing number of young men, women and children, all gathered around to see what was happening, few of whom spoke much English. At our feet beneath the hut were chickens, ducks, a couple of pigs and a dog, roaming around in one large, bizarre group. I was wearing open-toed sandals at the time and, as if there wasn’t enough to distract me from our talks, the ducks started nipping at my toes. Resisting the urge to Jackie Chan the nuisances I sat still and focused on the negotiations.
Now, as I mentioned, Kanyama had come out with Vincent to this place some days before to set up the deal. He was supposed to have shown the guy pictures of the ox cart, which he did. He was also supposed to have checked out the exact cattle that the guy was offering so that we knew the guy was offering cows big enough for us to get a good price at the butchery before going all the way out there, which he did not do. He had previously told me that he had done so, but it was now becoming clear that he hadn’t. We had to work out the specifics then and there. Or rather, I had to, because of Kanyama’s conflict of interest.
The thing is, I am not a great businessman. I am not a great negotiator. I’m pretty confident at this point that it is not my life’s calling. However, after participating in numerous kapenta, carpentry and welding negotiations over the past months I have gotten the hang of the basics to some degree.
One thing I’ve picked up on is that, all too often, people have played on my conscience, attempting to exploit the fact that I’m a white American and that they are impoverished Zambians, pleading for me to cut them a good deal because they are really struggling. Oh, help us out, they say, give us this price, we are really suffering and you can afford it, etc. etc. Back in early 2009, when I was young and foolish, I used to fall into this trap from time to time, letting my empathy take over and giving good deals to help these people out. Oh no, not anymore. Now I am ruthless.
The fact of the matter is that I am working for an orphanage. The kapenta profits don’t go into my pocket. The carpentry and welding sales don’t go to my personal bank account. It all goes to feeding and supporting orphans and vulnerable children. My orphans and vulnerable children. While I’d love to help out all my brothers and sisters in Siavonga, our Namumu kids are my priority.
So, when the old man and the old ladies around started begging to be helped out, for me to cut them a break, to accept two very small cows in return for the ox cart, I never even hesitated. No can do, I said.
For a little over an hour we stood by his cattle pen attempting to reach an agreement, trying to pick out two cows that would be suitable. I’m certainly no cattle expert, but I knew the size we should be getting and this guy wasn’t giving them to us. He knew exactly what the ox car was worth and he was trying to work us over.
The guy wouldn’t budge. We packed up the ox cart and left.
Our lack of preparation really came back to bite us. Because we hadn’t worked out the specifics before bringing out the ox cart we were now stuck with a big transport bill and no ox cart buyers. We looked around for another one, but the sun was sinking down fast and we couldn’t find anyone interested.
Luckily, we were able to avoid complete disaster as Kanyama knew a guy who, having a house in the middle of town where people pass through quite frequently, had previously offered to let us leave the ox cart tied up on his land with a For Sale sign in case any interested buyers passed by. With no other option we took him up on his offer, dropping off the ox cart and riding off into the sunset, disappointed and cow-less.
Back in the day I would have been absolutely miserable. I would have felt like a failure. Things weren’t supposed to this way. We had had a plan. Everything had gone wrong.
But you know what? I’ve learned that if you let it upset you every time things don’t work out or go according to plan in southern Africa you are destined to lead a gloomy, miserable life, because things rarely, if ever, work out completely or go according to plan. If you let that stress build up you simply will not survive. You have to do what you can and, if things don’t work out, let it go and just try to do better the next time.
On the way back my man Marvious bought us all some sugar cane on the road side. With traditional African music on the stereo we headed for home eating away. The air was still warm and the breeze felt just swell as we sped south along the road. Yes, we had failed that day. But life was still pretty good.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Ox Cart Part I
Around eight months ago our welders put together an ox cart. It’s a nice ox cart, sturdy and good looking with a solid frame and a pair of durable, second hand tires, capable of carrying a large amount of farm produce from point A to point B. There are a good number of serious farmers here in Zambia’s Southern Province, and while our welders usually stick to crafting door frames and window frames, we figured we could put this ox cart together, sell it off at a high price and make some good money without much of a problem.
We were wrong. We were very, very wrong.
After an eight month long, aggressive flier and word-of-mouth advertising campaign around the Siavonga area we were unable to locate a single serious buyer.
Finally, a few weeks ago, we decided to send Vincent, Namumu’s Senior Welder, and Kanyama, Namumu’s former Kapenta Fishing Rig Foreman and current Poultry Attendant, into the farming areas just outside Siavonga in an effort to, at long last, find a buyer for the burdensome ox cart. For three days they traveled by bicycle and moved all around, chatting with farmers and giving them their sales pitch.
Fortunately, they were able to locate two serious potential buyers in a nearby village. Most of these small scale Zambian farmers don’t do much dealing in cash, so the plan was to exchange the ox cart for two large cows, which would then be transported back to Siavonga and sold to the local butchery.
I went out to the village to lock down the deal, and, just as I suspected, the trip turned out to be an interesting experience, fraught with the typical African absurdities that I’ve come to expect on a daily basis.
I can’t say I was happy with the outcome. But, on the bright side, I learned a thing or two about Zambia and about business in the process, and I realized that in some ways I’ve definitely evolved during my time here.
On Tuesday morning I set off with Kanyama and Marvious, a local Siavonga driver with a big truck, to take care of the deal once and for all. Kanyama is originally from the area where we were heading, so he was to be the navigator. We loaded the ox cart into the truck bed and set off for the Lusitu area, a good 45 minute drive away.
Oh, what a team it was.
Kanyama is a goof ball. He’s in his early forties. He has a few wives. He has more than a few children (let me put it this way, if you gathered all his children up and put them on a soccer field you could form two full teams, both with coaches, and have enough left over for a referee and two lines judges…seriously). I’ve really grown to love Kanyama. Obviously, I can’t say I agree with or support all of the choices he’s made in his life, but he is not a bad man. He’s almost always happy and I think he treats other people pretty well. I’d call him a scallywag. A very likeable scallywag.
And Marvious is one of my favorite Zambian guys I’ve met, without a doubt. As close friends and family will tell you, I find an unreasonable amount of satisfaction in ranking things in numerical order, and of the hundreds of people I’ve met here in Africa I’d have to say that Marvious is in my top three. He’s a young guy, 25, and is still a bachelor. He loves driving a truck for a living and is always smiling, a very positive person.
He’s our usual go-to guy when it comes to transporting big items. He’s done every single supply run for our carpentry and welding workshop in the last year, charging us significantly less than all the other truck drivers in town. He knows we’re taking care of orphans and vulnerable children and it’s his way of helping out.
Best of all, he’s always buying me food and drinks on our excursions. As a white man in Africa, surrounded by people in the grips of poverty, I’m very often asked for money and food by friends and strangers alike, both in the big cities and in Siavonga. People ain’t shy about asking for things. So, it’s nice to receive small gifts for a change. Now, Marvious is not a wealthy guy. Far from it, actually. But he’s always sharing peanuts, fritters and drinks just because he’s a kind man who likes to share and make other people happy. And let’s face it, I’m pretty easy to win over. Get me an ice cold Coca-Cola and you’re my best friend for life.
So, back to the trip…the three of us set off from Namumu around 10 am, ready to take care of business. The aforementioned typical African absurdities started almost right away.
It was all pretty cut and dry. We’d drive out for 45 minutes to Lusitu, find the buyer, unload the ox cart, load up the cattle, and head back home. I had a few things I still wanted to do in the office that day and figured we could easily get back to Nammu by early afternoon.
I immediately stopped myself. Have you learned nothing in the past year, Sam? I berated myself. There are too many variables for something not to go wrong. Obviously something is going to come up. Things rarely, if ever, run like clockwork here. I readjusted my mental timetable and began planning under the assumption that we wouldn’t be back until much later.
So, I’m sitting there thinking these very thoughts. As I’m thinking them, and I mean right in the middle of this thought process, Marvious’ phone rings. His uncle had just passed away and he needed to get to the hospital to meet up with other family members. We hadn’t even made it 100 meters away from Namumu and already our plans had to be changed.
Marvious tells us that it’s ok, we shouldn’t cancel the trip. He just wanted to go to the hospital, visit with the family for a short while, and then we could start off. So, we headed into town and went to the hospital. About two hours later we set off for Lusitu. Again.
About twenty minutes outside of Siavonga we see a guy we know whose truck had broken down on the side of the road. So, while we needed to get out to do this deal, we couldn’t just leave him stranded. We pulled off and helped him fix the engine. Around an hour later the problem was solved and we set off again.
Now, back in the day, before becoming thoroughly Africanized I might have been frustrated at this point. After all, I had things to do back at Namumu that wouldn’t get done, because things kept popping up unexpectedly. But, you know what? When you are used to the absurdities and expect to run into them at all times it totally lightens the blow when they actually come. I couldn’t have been happier or more calm.
I just sat back and enjoyed the wind whipping through my hair and the light-hearted conversation with my guys. I had a lengthy chat with Kanyama, during which he explained, in detail, how he sweet talked his first wife into accepting the fact that he wanted to get another wife. I’m friends with a few polygamists, but I’ve never felt comfortable asking questions about their lifestyle. But, the mood was jovial and we had plenty of time on our hands, so I fired off a few questions and Kanyama was more than happy to answer them. I could probably write about ten blogs based on this one conversation, but I suppose I’ll just save those for later.
Finally, after turning off of the main road and driving some twenty minutes into the bush on a bumpy dirt path we arrived at the buyers’ village. And that’s where things got interesting…
We were wrong. We were very, very wrong.
After an eight month long, aggressive flier and word-of-mouth advertising campaign around the Siavonga area we were unable to locate a single serious buyer.
Finally, a few weeks ago, we decided to send Vincent, Namumu’s Senior Welder, and Kanyama, Namumu’s former Kapenta Fishing Rig Foreman and current Poultry Attendant, into the farming areas just outside Siavonga in an effort to, at long last, find a buyer for the burdensome ox cart. For three days they traveled by bicycle and moved all around, chatting with farmers and giving them their sales pitch.
Fortunately, they were able to locate two serious potential buyers in a nearby village. Most of these small scale Zambian farmers don’t do much dealing in cash, so the plan was to exchange the ox cart for two large cows, which would then be transported back to Siavonga and sold to the local butchery.
I went out to the village to lock down the deal, and, just as I suspected, the trip turned out to be an interesting experience, fraught with the typical African absurdities that I’ve come to expect on a daily basis.
I can’t say I was happy with the outcome. But, on the bright side, I learned a thing or two about Zambia and about business in the process, and I realized that in some ways I’ve definitely evolved during my time here.
On Tuesday morning I set off with Kanyama and Marvious, a local Siavonga driver with a big truck, to take care of the deal once and for all. Kanyama is originally from the area where we were heading, so he was to be the navigator. We loaded the ox cart into the truck bed and set off for the Lusitu area, a good 45 minute drive away.
Oh, what a team it was.
Kanyama is a goof ball. He’s in his early forties. He has a few wives. He has more than a few children (let me put it this way, if you gathered all his children up and put them on a soccer field you could form two full teams, both with coaches, and have enough left over for a referee and two lines judges…seriously). I’ve really grown to love Kanyama. Obviously, I can’t say I agree with or support all of the choices he’s made in his life, but he is not a bad man. He’s almost always happy and I think he treats other people pretty well. I’d call him a scallywag. A very likeable scallywag.
And Marvious is one of my favorite Zambian guys I’ve met, without a doubt. As close friends and family will tell you, I find an unreasonable amount of satisfaction in ranking things in numerical order, and of the hundreds of people I’ve met here in Africa I’d have to say that Marvious is in my top three. He’s a young guy, 25, and is still a bachelor. He loves driving a truck for a living and is always smiling, a very positive person.
He’s our usual go-to guy when it comes to transporting big items. He’s done every single supply run for our carpentry and welding workshop in the last year, charging us significantly less than all the other truck drivers in town. He knows we’re taking care of orphans and vulnerable children and it’s his way of helping out.
Best of all, he’s always buying me food and drinks on our excursions. As a white man in Africa, surrounded by people in the grips of poverty, I’m very often asked for money and food by friends and strangers alike, both in the big cities and in Siavonga. People ain’t shy about asking for things. So, it’s nice to receive small gifts for a change. Now, Marvious is not a wealthy guy. Far from it, actually. But he’s always sharing peanuts, fritters and drinks just because he’s a kind man who likes to share and make other people happy. And let’s face it, I’m pretty easy to win over. Get me an ice cold Coca-Cola and you’re my best friend for life.
So, back to the trip…the three of us set off from Namumu around 10 am, ready to take care of business. The aforementioned typical African absurdities started almost right away.
It was all pretty cut and dry. We’d drive out for 45 minutes to Lusitu, find the buyer, unload the ox cart, load up the cattle, and head back home. I had a few things I still wanted to do in the office that day and figured we could easily get back to Nammu by early afternoon.
I immediately stopped myself. Have you learned nothing in the past year, Sam? I berated myself. There are too many variables for something not to go wrong. Obviously something is going to come up. Things rarely, if ever, run like clockwork here. I readjusted my mental timetable and began planning under the assumption that we wouldn’t be back until much later.
So, I’m sitting there thinking these very thoughts. As I’m thinking them, and I mean right in the middle of this thought process, Marvious’ phone rings. His uncle had just passed away and he needed to get to the hospital to meet up with other family members. We hadn’t even made it 100 meters away from Namumu and already our plans had to be changed.
Marvious tells us that it’s ok, we shouldn’t cancel the trip. He just wanted to go to the hospital, visit with the family for a short while, and then we could start off. So, we headed into town and went to the hospital. About two hours later we set off for Lusitu. Again.
About twenty minutes outside of Siavonga we see a guy we know whose truck had broken down on the side of the road. So, while we needed to get out to do this deal, we couldn’t just leave him stranded. We pulled off and helped him fix the engine. Around an hour later the problem was solved and we set off again.
Now, back in the day, before becoming thoroughly Africanized I might have been frustrated at this point. After all, I had things to do back at Namumu that wouldn’t get done, because things kept popping up unexpectedly. But, you know what? When you are used to the absurdities and expect to run into them at all times it totally lightens the blow when they actually come. I couldn’t have been happier or more calm.
I just sat back and enjoyed the wind whipping through my hair and the light-hearted conversation with my guys. I had a lengthy chat with Kanyama, during which he explained, in detail, how he sweet talked his first wife into accepting the fact that he wanted to get another wife. I’m friends with a few polygamists, but I’ve never felt comfortable asking questions about their lifestyle. But, the mood was jovial and we had plenty of time on our hands, so I fired off a few questions and Kanyama was more than happy to answer them. I could probably write about ten blogs based on this one conversation, but I suppose I’ll just save those for later.
Finally, after turning off of the main road and driving some twenty minutes into the bush on a bumpy dirt path we arrived at the buyers’ village. And that’s where things got interesting…
Sunday, March 7, 2010
We're Google-ing and the President is Living Next Door
A number of Namumu staff members are becoming technologically savvy these days. It took me a little while to convince some of these guys to get serious about their computer skills, but the computer trend has caught on and now the movement is gaining steam. Mrs. Mutelo, Namumu’s Office Assistant/Secretary is pounding out memos and other Word Documents on a daily basis. Zenzo and Clever, Namumu’s Accounts Assistants, are getting pretty good at typing up spreadsheets and other accounting documents. Mr. Simamba, the Executive Director, is learning his way around Microsoft Office and Namumu’s email program. Even Mubita, my right hand fishing man, has been practicing data entry on Excel.
Zenzo and Clever are my guys, my star pupils. We recently had a few internet browsing lessons where they learned the finer points of google-ing. It’s been fun to see two guys, guys who come from an area and a culture where access to information is often very limited, start using a program that can give them access to just about any information they could want in a matter of seconds.
Although, I’m concerned that I may have created a monster. Now they want to get online all the time and I’m worried that their work-day productivity will take a hit. So far it hasn’t been too much of a problem. But I’m definitely NOT going to introduce them to Facebook. Lord. Namumu productivity would grind to a halt. We’ll keep it to google-ing, for now…
In other news, I celebrated my one-year anniversary of life in Mother Zambia last Tuesday. My celebration? I had my usual supper of bread and eggs, read with my girls for a while and went to bed at 9 pm. Ah, the wild and crazy life of a Siavonga bachelor...
Speaking of reading, the number of Namumu readers is shooting through the roof. In addition to my nightly girl readers, a good number of boys are reading consistently these days as well. I’ve been keeping most of the books in the sitting room at my house and there has been a steady stream of children checking out books on a daily basis.
And also, now that my hair is getting longer, while reading, every night, I get my hair braided by anywhere from one to five of the Namumu girls at once. Emasculating? Yes. Painful? Sometimes. But they seem to enjoy doing it and it makes everyone laugh, so I go with it. And you know what? Every now and then I think it looks pretty good. I’ve taken a number of pictures and will consider revealing them one day.
For your Junior update, my neighbors have a few new family members staying next door these days and I’m happy to report that Junior has a new little friend to play with, a fat little two-year-old boy cousin.
Besides being amusingly obese, this kid bears a striking resemblance to the President of the Republic of Zambia, Rupiah Banda. Go ahead and google image search this man, and then imagine that exact face on a two-year-old boy’s body. Yep. That’s what I see every morning when I look out my kitchen window.
To tell you the truth, I don’t even know what this kid’s name is. I only call him Rupiah. The name has really caught on, too. Everyone in his family even calls him Rupiah now. While I can’t take credit for first noticing the resemblance (it was pointed out to me by another Namumu child), I will take full credit for perpetuating the nickname. At first I thought his mom was pissed at me for comparing her baby boy to our overweight president, but now she always laughs at it. And she loves me, so it’s cool.
So, life is still good here at Namumu. It’s raining nearly every day now, but the rains should be ending soon. As soon as they do we’ll be doing some major winter planting around here. I’m sure there will be plenty of water-pump malfunctions and cow battles to blog about in the near future.
Until next time…
Zenzo and Clever are my guys, my star pupils. We recently had a few internet browsing lessons where they learned the finer points of google-ing. It’s been fun to see two guys, guys who come from an area and a culture where access to information is often very limited, start using a program that can give them access to just about any information they could want in a matter of seconds.
Although, I’m concerned that I may have created a monster. Now they want to get online all the time and I’m worried that their work-day productivity will take a hit. So far it hasn’t been too much of a problem. But I’m definitely NOT going to introduce them to Facebook. Lord. Namumu productivity would grind to a halt. We’ll keep it to google-ing, for now…
In other news, I celebrated my one-year anniversary of life in Mother Zambia last Tuesday. My celebration? I had my usual supper of bread and eggs, read with my girls for a while and went to bed at 9 pm. Ah, the wild and crazy life of a Siavonga bachelor...
Speaking of reading, the number of Namumu readers is shooting through the roof. In addition to my nightly girl readers, a good number of boys are reading consistently these days as well. I’ve been keeping most of the books in the sitting room at my house and there has been a steady stream of children checking out books on a daily basis.
And also, now that my hair is getting longer, while reading, every night, I get my hair braided by anywhere from one to five of the Namumu girls at once. Emasculating? Yes. Painful? Sometimes. But they seem to enjoy doing it and it makes everyone laugh, so I go with it. And you know what? Every now and then I think it looks pretty good. I’ve taken a number of pictures and will consider revealing them one day.
For your Junior update, my neighbors have a few new family members staying next door these days and I’m happy to report that Junior has a new little friend to play with, a fat little two-year-old boy cousin.
Besides being amusingly obese, this kid bears a striking resemblance to the President of the Republic of Zambia, Rupiah Banda. Go ahead and google image search this man, and then imagine that exact face on a two-year-old boy’s body. Yep. That’s what I see every morning when I look out my kitchen window.
To tell you the truth, I don’t even know what this kid’s name is. I only call him Rupiah. The name has really caught on, too. Everyone in his family even calls him Rupiah now. While I can’t take credit for first noticing the resemblance (it was pointed out to me by another Namumu child), I will take full credit for perpetuating the nickname. At first I thought his mom was pissed at me for comparing her baby boy to our overweight president, but now she always laughs at it. And she loves me, so it’s cool.
So, life is still good here at Namumu. It’s raining nearly every day now, but the rains should be ending soon. As soon as they do we’ll be doing some major winter planting around here. I’m sure there will be plenty of water-pump malfunctions and cow battles to blog about in the near future.
Until next time…
Friday, February 26, 2010
Clever
Back in my early days at Namumu I spent the majority of my time working and interacting with old men. Munjongo, Namumu’s former Executive Director, Edwin, Namumu’s Finance Manager, and Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager are all up there in age. Mubita, our fishing Rig Foreman is up there as well. Nearly all day every day these were my only workmates and friends around the office.
They’re all great. It’s been wonderful getting to know these guys. But sometimes you just need to be around people your own age.
Fortunately, these days I’ve got Clever.
Clever, 25, is Namumu’s young Accounts Assistant (not to be confused with Zenzo, Namumu’s other Accounts Assistant), and while he’s only worked at Namumu for a few months he’s been connected to Namumu for some time. Clever was never a Namumu resident, but as he was a bright student with limited funds, Namumu supported him financially and helped him to graduate from college with an Accounting Degree. So, in a sense, Clever is a product of Namumu.
With Clever’s grades and skill set he could have easily found a more prestigious, better paying job elsewhere in Zambia. But out of gratitude to Namumu for its assistance to him Clever has chosen to come back to Siavonga to work. It’s nice to see that kind of commitment and sacrifice. I’ve had a few conversations with Clever about his future plans and not once has he hesitated in his commitment to give back to Namumu by staying and working here. I believe the eventual plan is for him to take over the Finance Manager position when Mr. Luneta retires.
Clever’s commitment has had an impact on me, and I’m proud to say that I have had an impact on him as well. He’s started growing a beard as of late, and while he’s never come out and said it I know that I was his inspiration. That’s just what my beard does, folks. It inspires people.
So, today give a prayer of thanks that Clever is around and working hard for Namumu, and that he is committed to doing so in the future.
They’re all great. It’s been wonderful getting to know these guys. But sometimes you just need to be around people your own age.
Fortunately, these days I’ve got Clever.
Clever, 25, is Namumu’s young Accounts Assistant (not to be confused with Zenzo, Namumu’s other Accounts Assistant), and while he’s only worked at Namumu for a few months he’s been connected to Namumu for some time. Clever was never a Namumu resident, but as he was a bright student with limited funds, Namumu supported him financially and helped him to graduate from college with an Accounting Degree. So, in a sense, Clever is a product of Namumu.
With Clever’s grades and skill set he could have easily found a more prestigious, better paying job elsewhere in Zambia. But out of gratitude to Namumu for its assistance to him Clever has chosen to come back to Siavonga to work. It’s nice to see that kind of commitment and sacrifice. I’ve had a few conversations with Clever about his future plans and not once has he hesitated in his commitment to give back to Namumu by staying and working here. I believe the eventual plan is for him to take over the Finance Manager position when Mr. Luneta retires.
Clever’s commitment has had an impact on me, and I’m proud to say that I have had an impact on him as well. He’s started growing a beard as of late, and while he’s never come out and said it I know that I was his inspiration. That’s just what my beard does, folks. It inspires people.
So, today give a prayer of thanks that Clever is around and working hard for Namumu, and that he is committed to doing so in the future.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Tonga Insults
I had a breakthrough moment in terms of Tonga language acquisition the other day.
I was sitting in the Namumu office, crunching kapenta numbers, when Zenzo, Namumu’s Assistant Accountant, my good friend and co-worker, entered through the front door. As he was stepping through he shouted something to someone outside.
“Zenzo, you’re too loud, I’m trying to work here!” I yelled at him in Tonga, jokingly.
Just to be clear, Zenzo and I verbally abuse each other in both Tonga and English on a daily basis. So it was cool. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He quickly shot back in Tonga, “Shut your mouth! You are a dirty white man. Look at you! You are dirty like a dog. Get out of my office!”
And guess what? I understood every word of it! Every single word! I was so proud of myself. Usually I can just pick up bits and pieces, but in this case, for maybe the first time ever, I got the whole thing.
The moment has inspired me to step up my Tonga game, especially to learn more Tonga insults. Zenzo is in big, big trouble now.
I was sitting in the Namumu office, crunching kapenta numbers, when Zenzo, Namumu’s Assistant Accountant, my good friend and co-worker, entered through the front door. As he was stepping through he shouted something to someone outside.
“Zenzo, you’re too loud, I’m trying to work here!” I yelled at him in Tonga, jokingly.
Just to be clear, Zenzo and I verbally abuse each other in both Tonga and English on a daily basis. So it was cool. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He quickly shot back in Tonga, “Shut your mouth! You are a dirty white man. Look at you! You are dirty like a dog. Get out of my office!”
And guess what? I understood every word of it! Every single word! I was so proud of myself. Usually I can just pick up bits and pieces, but in this case, for maybe the first time ever, I got the whole thing.
The moment has inspired me to step up my Tonga game, especially to learn more Tonga insults. Zenzo is in big, big trouble now.
I Only Caught Five
Remember how back in September I posted a blog about how well fishing was going, about how we’d had a record-breaking month and made a truckload of loot for Namumu? Well, I totally jinxed us again. During the following months we saw a slow, steady decline in catches and a slow, steady incline in repair and maintenance costs. It was a disaster.
A combination of issues came into play.
We went through a period where the kapenta seemed to be hiding from us. Actually, all local fishing camps experienced extremely poor catches. A good friend of mine who runs one of the bigger companies in town and has been fishing for 29 years told me that January was very close to the worst month she’d seen in all her years in the business, and that October, November and December had not been much better. So, we were not the only ones catching poorly. The kapenta apparently decided to hide from everyone.
Around the end of October, Pierson, the captain of one of the boats and the outspoken leader of the group, resigned for unstated reasons. Pierson was my rock. He was the most experienced of the group and, more importantly, was always a happy, talkative, positive person who worked hard and whose attitude always seemed to rub off on everyone else around him. It hurt us when Pierson left. It hurt us badly.
Then, to top it all off, the generator on one of the boats kicked it in early January. It had fallen in the water some months ago and, despite a number of semi-successful efforts by a few local mechanics to bring it back to life it finally bit the big one, forcing us to buy a new one. And those things ain’t cheap around here.
To make it all worse, Mubita, the guys and I received quite a bit of criticism from certain members of the Namumu management team for the overall poor performance. I’ve made many mistakes here and am always willing to admit when I do, but in this case I felt then as I do now that we were being criticized for circumstances beyond our control, that we had worked as hard as we could work and had done as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Apparently others didn’t. It was tough to deal with.
Words cannot express the anger and frustration I experienced at numerous points during this period. All I really needed was someone to hug me and tell me everything was going to be alright. Unfortunately, Zambians aren’t particularly big on hugging, so I was out of luck. Oh, how I longed for the days of Nolan Doyle’s free hugs. I was really down. I tried expressing my inner anguish through the majesty of song, singing “Afternoon Delight” and making fart noises with my mouth, but even that didn’t help.
Fortunately, things have been looking up lately. Both boats have, despite experiencing a few intermittent problems, been up and running all February. Catches are good and we’re making some dough again. The overall mood of the group seems to be shifting towards the positive.
Let’s hope this continues. I’ll keep you posted.
A combination of issues came into play.
We went through a period where the kapenta seemed to be hiding from us. Actually, all local fishing camps experienced extremely poor catches. A good friend of mine who runs one of the bigger companies in town and has been fishing for 29 years told me that January was very close to the worst month she’d seen in all her years in the business, and that October, November and December had not been much better. So, we were not the only ones catching poorly. The kapenta apparently decided to hide from everyone.
Around the end of October, Pierson, the captain of one of the boats and the outspoken leader of the group, resigned for unstated reasons. Pierson was my rock. He was the most experienced of the group and, more importantly, was always a happy, talkative, positive person who worked hard and whose attitude always seemed to rub off on everyone else around him. It hurt us when Pierson left. It hurt us badly.
Then, to top it all off, the generator on one of the boats kicked it in early January. It had fallen in the water some months ago and, despite a number of semi-successful efforts by a few local mechanics to bring it back to life it finally bit the big one, forcing us to buy a new one. And those things ain’t cheap around here.
To make it all worse, Mubita, the guys and I received quite a bit of criticism from certain members of the Namumu management team for the overall poor performance. I’ve made many mistakes here and am always willing to admit when I do, but in this case I felt then as I do now that we were being criticized for circumstances beyond our control, that we had worked as hard as we could work and had done as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Apparently others didn’t. It was tough to deal with.
Words cannot express the anger and frustration I experienced at numerous points during this period. All I really needed was someone to hug me and tell me everything was going to be alright. Unfortunately, Zambians aren’t particularly big on hugging, so I was out of luck. Oh, how I longed for the days of Nolan Doyle’s free hugs. I was really down. I tried expressing my inner anguish through the majesty of song, singing “Afternoon Delight” and making fart noises with my mouth, but even that didn’t help.
Fortunately, things have been looking up lately. Both boats have, despite experiencing a few intermittent problems, been up and running all February. Catches are good and we’re making some dough again. The overall mood of the group seems to be shifting towards the positive.
Let’s hope this continues. I’ll keep you posted.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The White Man's Coming to Eat You!
(Today’s blog is children-based...enjoy)
Walking around Siavonga, especially when passing through out-of-the-way villages, I’ll often come across children who have obviously seen few whites before in their young lives. Some, more than likely, have never seen a single white man before. By now, most of the local kids know me and come to wave and say hello. Some are still a bit wary when I come around. And some are downright terrified.
They’re always the smallest ones. They start by staring and looking perplexed for just a moment. They begin to back-peddle and run towards the nearest friend or family member, holding on for protection. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I’d say a good 50 percent of them start crying. A lot.
And, keep in mind, in these cases all I’m doing is walking by.
It used to upset me, almost hurting my feelings. I didn’t like it at all. Sometime a few months ago, however, I turned a corner and started having a little fun.
Now, whenever I see a child in the initial perplexed stage, preparing to back-peddle and cry, I stop, turn towards them and start walking, faster and faster. I show my teeth and start growling, putting my hands up and showing my claws. Sometimes I yell out, in Tonga, “Here comes the white man!” or “I’m going to eat you!” or both. Man, do they freak.
It’s awesome and strangely satisfying. It always gets great reactions from the nearby parents, too. They think it’s hilarious. They’ve seen white people before and most of them know me by now, so it’s all cool. They always stand there chuckling while their children are screaming and crying in utter terror at their feet. It’s great.
I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. But, the way I see it, I’m working all day every day to support orphans and vulnerable children in southern Africa and I’ve earned the right to strike a little fear into certain children’s hearts every now and again.
That’s my rationalization and I’m sticking to it.
Speaking of children, my little man next door, Junior, continues to grow up right before my eyes. When I arrived in Siavonga last year all he did was crawl and cry and poop on everything. But my little man is really coming along. Now he’s running around and stirring up trouble on a daily basis. He talks all the time, speaking what appears to be a mixture of Tonga, English and Chinese, though none of us are exactly sure. He can say about ten actual words, and I’m happy to say that Sam is one of them. I’m happy not only because it feels good that he knows and likes me now, but also because he stopped calling me “Tata”, or father, before any rumors got started. Phew.
Finally, the other day I came about as close to using corporal punishment as I have in all my time here at Namumu.
I was walking back from church with three of my little Namumu minions, Clivert, Bickel and Shankister. We had gone out to St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church in Mitcho, about an hour’s walk from Namumu, so we had plenty of time to chat on the way home. It’s always a nice walk, providing me with plenty of time to shoot the breeze and catch up with my kids.
So, there I was, chatting it up with said minions. We drifted into a conversation about music. These kids know a good number of American artists, but for the most part they’re all into crappy Zambian pop music.
I asked Clivert if he was into this one youngish female singer who goes by the name “Mampi”. No, he said, he wasn’t. Why not? I inquired. Well, first off, it’s the way she dances...she’s too provocative (his exact words). And her clothes. She’s always showing too much skin. She should cover up more, he said.
I was really proud of ol’ Clivert. Here’s one boy with a good head on his shoulders, I thought, one who won’t be pulled in by temptations of the flesh. I gave him a pat on the back and told him that those were good reasons (though, ironically, her dancing and skimpy outfits are the primary reasons I am completely in love with Mampi, but whetever...).
That’s when things took a turn for the worse.
You know who else I don’t like? Clivert said out of nowhere. Michael Jackson.
Wait. What?
Yeah. Michael Jackson is not that great. I don’t know why everybody loves him so much.
Then, as my anger began to rise, he threw in the kicker.
You know who is much better? T-Pain!
I nearly lost it. Immediately I had visions of pulling Clivert off to the roadside and George Lyle-ing his behind with my leather belt for speaking such nonsense. I didn’t . I held myself together.
But I was close.
Walking around Siavonga, especially when passing through out-of-the-way villages, I’ll often come across children who have obviously seen few whites before in their young lives. Some, more than likely, have never seen a single white man before. By now, most of the local kids know me and come to wave and say hello. Some are still a bit wary when I come around. And some are downright terrified.
They’re always the smallest ones. They start by staring and looking perplexed for just a moment. They begin to back-peddle and run towards the nearest friend or family member, holding on for protection. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I’d say a good 50 percent of them start crying. A lot.
And, keep in mind, in these cases all I’m doing is walking by.
It used to upset me, almost hurting my feelings. I didn’t like it at all. Sometime a few months ago, however, I turned a corner and started having a little fun.
Now, whenever I see a child in the initial perplexed stage, preparing to back-peddle and cry, I stop, turn towards them and start walking, faster and faster. I show my teeth and start growling, putting my hands up and showing my claws. Sometimes I yell out, in Tonga, “Here comes the white man!” or “I’m going to eat you!” or both. Man, do they freak.
It’s awesome and strangely satisfying. It always gets great reactions from the nearby parents, too. They think it’s hilarious. They’ve seen white people before and most of them know me by now, so it’s all cool. They always stand there chuckling while their children are screaming and crying in utter terror at their feet. It’s great.
I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. But, the way I see it, I’m working all day every day to support orphans and vulnerable children in southern Africa and I’ve earned the right to strike a little fear into certain children’s hearts every now and again.
That’s my rationalization and I’m sticking to it.
Speaking of children, my little man next door, Junior, continues to grow up right before my eyes. When I arrived in Siavonga last year all he did was crawl and cry and poop on everything. But my little man is really coming along. Now he’s running around and stirring up trouble on a daily basis. He talks all the time, speaking what appears to be a mixture of Tonga, English and Chinese, though none of us are exactly sure. He can say about ten actual words, and I’m happy to say that Sam is one of them. I’m happy not only because it feels good that he knows and likes me now, but also because he stopped calling me “Tata”, or father, before any rumors got started. Phew.
Finally, the other day I came about as close to using corporal punishment as I have in all my time here at Namumu.
I was walking back from church with three of my little Namumu minions, Clivert, Bickel and Shankister. We had gone out to St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church in Mitcho, about an hour’s walk from Namumu, so we had plenty of time to chat on the way home. It’s always a nice walk, providing me with plenty of time to shoot the breeze and catch up with my kids.
So, there I was, chatting it up with said minions. We drifted into a conversation about music. These kids know a good number of American artists, but for the most part they’re all into crappy Zambian pop music.
I asked Clivert if he was into this one youngish female singer who goes by the name “Mampi”. No, he said, he wasn’t. Why not? I inquired. Well, first off, it’s the way she dances...she’s too provocative (his exact words). And her clothes. She’s always showing too much skin. She should cover up more, he said.
I was really proud of ol’ Clivert. Here’s one boy with a good head on his shoulders, I thought, one who won’t be pulled in by temptations of the flesh. I gave him a pat on the back and told him that those were good reasons (though, ironically, her dancing and skimpy outfits are the primary reasons I am completely in love with Mampi, but whetever...).
That’s when things took a turn for the worse.
You know who else I don’t like? Clivert said out of nowhere. Michael Jackson.
Wait. What?
Yeah. Michael Jackson is not that great. I don’t know why everybody loves him so much.
Then, as my anger began to rise, he threw in the kicker.
You know who is much better? T-Pain!
I nearly lost it. Immediately I had visions of pulling Clivert off to the roadside and George Lyle-ing his behind with my leather belt for speaking such nonsense. I didn’t . I held myself together.
But I was close.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Babies Everywhere!
Babies seem to be popping out everywhere around Namumu these days. In fact, two Namumu employees saw their wives give birth late Tuesday night around the same time.
First, my right hand kapenta man, Mubita, saw his wife give birth to a bouncing baby boy, their fourth child and fourth boy.
I felt bad because I had no idea that she was pregnant, even though I’d seen her a few times in the past few months. Whoops. I figured it was nsima weight. Apparently it was baby weight.
Mubita came into work as usual on Wednesday morning and was planning on working because, as I’ve said, that’s just what kind of guy he is, a hard-worker. I yelled at him and told him to go take care of his wife, which he did right away.
Then there’s Kanyama, Namumu’s poultry attendant, whose wife’s delivery was a bit more of an adventure.
Apparently she went into labor around midnight on Tuesday night. There are no ambulances in Siavonga, so Kanyama called Alfred, Namumu’s driver, and told him to bring the Namumu SUV (Namumu’s only functioning vehicle at the moment), the Toyota Surf. So, Alfred rushed to pick them up to drive them into town, usually a rocky, bumpy, 10 minute venture.
Well, the Surf must have rocked a bit too much, because before they had made it very far away from the Namumu complex that baby popped right out, right in the back seat, as they were driving. It’s by no means a big vehicle, so still I’m struggling to grasp the play-by-play of the incident. Fortunately, Mrs. Kanyama and the baby were both a-ok. Alfred brought them back to the Namumu clinic and Saviour, the Namumu girls’ caretaker and nursing assistant, took care of Mrs. Kanyama and baby Kanyama.
But you know what the most interesting thing about the whole thing was? I was talking with Alfred and Kanyama the next day about it and they were both so incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing. I kept asking them questions and saying how crazy the situation sounded and they just looked at me like I was a total idiot. It was just so not that big a deal for them. I guess it’s pretty common for babies in rural Zambia to just come out where they come out.
The next day the same Surf carried a number of Namumu employees to the bank as usual. Nobody seemed to mind sitting in a seat where a baby had been brought into the world just hours earlier. And you know what? I said to myself “When in Rome...” and hopped right on in too.
First, my right hand kapenta man, Mubita, saw his wife give birth to a bouncing baby boy, their fourth child and fourth boy.
I felt bad because I had no idea that she was pregnant, even though I’d seen her a few times in the past few months. Whoops. I figured it was nsima weight. Apparently it was baby weight.
Mubita came into work as usual on Wednesday morning and was planning on working because, as I’ve said, that’s just what kind of guy he is, a hard-worker. I yelled at him and told him to go take care of his wife, which he did right away.
Then there’s Kanyama, Namumu’s poultry attendant, whose wife’s delivery was a bit more of an adventure.
Apparently she went into labor around midnight on Tuesday night. There are no ambulances in Siavonga, so Kanyama called Alfred, Namumu’s driver, and told him to bring the Namumu SUV (Namumu’s only functioning vehicle at the moment), the Toyota Surf. So, Alfred rushed to pick them up to drive them into town, usually a rocky, bumpy, 10 minute venture.
Well, the Surf must have rocked a bit too much, because before they had made it very far away from the Namumu complex that baby popped right out, right in the back seat, as they were driving. It’s by no means a big vehicle, so still I’m struggling to grasp the play-by-play of the incident. Fortunately, Mrs. Kanyama and the baby were both a-ok. Alfred brought them back to the Namumu clinic and Saviour, the Namumu girls’ caretaker and nursing assistant, took care of Mrs. Kanyama and baby Kanyama.
But you know what the most interesting thing about the whole thing was? I was talking with Alfred and Kanyama the next day about it and they were both so incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing. I kept asking them questions and saying how crazy the situation sounded and they just looked at me like I was a total idiot. It was just so not that big a deal for them. I guess it’s pretty common for babies in rural Zambia to just come out where they come out.
The next day the same Surf carried a number of Namumu employees to the bank as usual. Nobody seemed to mind sitting in a seat where a baby had been brought into the world just hours earlier. And you know what? I said to myself “When in Rome...” and hopped right on in too.
A Week in Zimbabwe
Well, the travel bug done got me again. I’m finding it harder and harder to stay in one place these days.
The Man, the Myth, the Legend, Bill Warlick of Park Lake Presbyterian Church in Orlando came to Namumu two weeks ago to check up on things, one of a number of stops he was to make around southern Africa. He had told me some time before that he’d be coming to Siavonga for a night and that he would then be flying down to Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital city, to meet up with his wife, my homegirl, Nancy. He told me that if I could work out my own transportation I could join them in checking up on some of the Outreach Foundation’s projects there. So I did, and I did.
It was difficult to leave Namumu behind again so soon, on the heels of my most recent foray into Livingstone. Fortunately, these days the Namumu businesses are at the point where they can run on autopilot for a few days without close supervision. And my loyal readers assured me that they would continue reading by themselves in my absence. So, I once again packed my bags and headed out of Siavonga.
I was only in Zimbabwe for a few days, but I learned a good deal about the country. Nancy and Bill had lived in Harare for years, so they taught me a lot. We met up with a number of their friends who have lived there for years. They taught me a lot. And we visited a number of schools and organizations, chatting with social workers, teachers, students and street children. The taught me a lot too.
Let me tell you something. That country is in bad shape, and most anybody you talk to there will readily admit it. There’s massive unemployment, HIV rates through the roof, high crime rates and a great deal of hunger. It was difficult to witness. And keep in mind, this is coming from a guy who has spent the last eleven months living in one of the world’s poorest countries.
I know that God has a plan for Zimbabwe. Looking around Harare, though, it was at times difficult to know what that plan might be. Fortunately, there are still some good, good people there doing good, good things.
One of our first stops was at the Lovemore Home, an organization supported by the Outreach Foundation in which young boys are taken in off the streets, given a place to live and put through school. At the moment, Lovemore houses twelve boys and employees a number of Zimbabweans to support them, including a social worker, a caretaker for the boys and a general administrator, among others.
Bill and Nancy’s role with the Outreach Foundation is to consult with these various organizations, opening up communication and smoothing out problems that arise. During our visit, I was allowed to sit in on a meeting with Bill, Nancy and the Lovemore employees. I won’t go into the details, but it was helpful to find that many of Namumu’s problems are not Namumu’s problems alone, that Lovemore faced many of the same obstacles and issues. Still, while it had its obstacles, Lovemore sure seemed like a great operation.
Besides sitting in the meeting, I spent the majority of my time playing soccer with the boys and hitting on Helen, Lovemore’s social worker, and Loveness, Lovemore’s Administrator, two sweet middle aged African women. I love sweet middle aged African women.
And much to my surprise, Bill had informed me earlier that Loveness was, in fact, his second wife. Never would have pegged ol’ Bill as a polygamist, but there you go. I hit on Loveness anyway, and Bill didn’t seem to mind. Come to think of it, I hit on Nancy a lot, too. He doesn’t seem to mind that either. What a generous man.
Later on in the week we made it out to another Outreach Foundation-supported ministry called Home of Hope. Home of Hope, run by Joan Trevelyan and her son, Craig, provides meals and pays school fees for young boys living on the streets of Harare. And when I say living on the streets, I mean they are living on the streets, sleeping in parks and alleyways, no homes to go to. It’s terrible. Due to what Joan described as “Red Tape Issues” the boys can’t legally sleep at Home of Hope, but they come and get a good meal and a shower in the mornings, and a good meal in the early evenings as well. In addition, Home of Hope feeds a number of young adults living on the streets on certain afternoons.
You’d think that feeding poor street children would earn Home of Hope widespread praise within Zimbabwe. Actually, Joan told me that she had been harassed by the Zimbabwe police on numerous occasions. I never totally understood why. She seemed to think that those guys like to exert power in any way they can. Whatever the reason, I think it’s a pretty clear indicator of how things are run within the country. It’s a real shame.
We spent the rest of the week dropping in on a few other organizations and meeting up with a few of Bill and Nancy’s old friends from when they were living there.
There wasn’t too much going on at night in Harare. Not for me, at least. It’s a city full of desperate people and I was informed by everyone that roaming the streets at night would almost guarantee me a mugging. While I’m confident that no one in their right mind would try to mug a man bearing a striking resemblance to Chuck Norris, I played it safe and sat in my hotel room every night. It got a little boring. I actually sat and watched “Not Another Teen Movie” in its entirety on one of the few TV channels they provided and was very, very ashamed of myself afterwards. But what could I do?
So, after being in a beautiful but troubled country for a week, it was nice getting back to mother Zambia once again where the economy is pushing forward, the streets are safe (relatively speaking) and people are very, very friendly.
Although, I did experience one alarming incident while back in Lusaka, Zambia’s capital. As usual, my friend, Ndandula, let me crash on her couch for the night when I made it into town. And, as usual, I sat on my bum and watched music videos and movies all afternoon and evening.
“My Best Friend’s Wedding” came on and she said she’d never seen it. Well, that’s ridiculous, I said, it’s only the best romantic comedy ever made. Really? No way. she said. Oh yea, what would you say is the best romantic comedy you’ve ever seen? I inquired.
Her response?
“White Chicks” starring the Wayans brothers. And no, she wasn’t joking.
Man oh man, maybe there’s no hope for Zambia either...
On a serious note, go ahead and pray this week for those in Zimbabwe that are suffering, and pray that organizations such as the Lovemore Home and Home of Hope can keep on keepin’ on.
The Man, the Myth, the Legend, Bill Warlick of Park Lake Presbyterian Church in Orlando came to Namumu two weeks ago to check up on things, one of a number of stops he was to make around southern Africa. He had told me some time before that he’d be coming to Siavonga for a night and that he would then be flying down to Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital city, to meet up with his wife, my homegirl, Nancy. He told me that if I could work out my own transportation I could join them in checking up on some of the Outreach Foundation’s projects there. So I did, and I did.
It was difficult to leave Namumu behind again so soon, on the heels of my most recent foray into Livingstone. Fortunately, these days the Namumu businesses are at the point where they can run on autopilot for a few days without close supervision. And my loyal readers assured me that they would continue reading by themselves in my absence. So, I once again packed my bags and headed out of Siavonga.
I was only in Zimbabwe for a few days, but I learned a good deal about the country. Nancy and Bill had lived in Harare for years, so they taught me a lot. We met up with a number of their friends who have lived there for years. They taught me a lot. And we visited a number of schools and organizations, chatting with social workers, teachers, students and street children. The taught me a lot too.
Let me tell you something. That country is in bad shape, and most anybody you talk to there will readily admit it. There’s massive unemployment, HIV rates through the roof, high crime rates and a great deal of hunger. It was difficult to witness. And keep in mind, this is coming from a guy who has spent the last eleven months living in one of the world’s poorest countries.
I know that God has a plan for Zimbabwe. Looking around Harare, though, it was at times difficult to know what that plan might be. Fortunately, there are still some good, good people there doing good, good things.
One of our first stops was at the Lovemore Home, an organization supported by the Outreach Foundation in which young boys are taken in off the streets, given a place to live and put through school. At the moment, Lovemore houses twelve boys and employees a number of Zimbabweans to support them, including a social worker, a caretaker for the boys and a general administrator, among others.
Bill and Nancy’s role with the Outreach Foundation is to consult with these various organizations, opening up communication and smoothing out problems that arise. During our visit, I was allowed to sit in on a meeting with Bill, Nancy and the Lovemore employees. I won’t go into the details, but it was helpful to find that many of Namumu’s problems are not Namumu’s problems alone, that Lovemore faced many of the same obstacles and issues. Still, while it had its obstacles, Lovemore sure seemed like a great operation.
Besides sitting in the meeting, I spent the majority of my time playing soccer with the boys and hitting on Helen, Lovemore’s social worker, and Loveness, Lovemore’s Administrator, two sweet middle aged African women. I love sweet middle aged African women.
And much to my surprise, Bill had informed me earlier that Loveness was, in fact, his second wife. Never would have pegged ol’ Bill as a polygamist, but there you go. I hit on Loveness anyway, and Bill didn’t seem to mind. Come to think of it, I hit on Nancy a lot, too. He doesn’t seem to mind that either. What a generous man.
Later on in the week we made it out to another Outreach Foundation-supported ministry called Home of Hope. Home of Hope, run by Joan Trevelyan and her son, Craig, provides meals and pays school fees for young boys living on the streets of Harare. And when I say living on the streets, I mean they are living on the streets, sleeping in parks and alleyways, no homes to go to. It’s terrible. Due to what Joan described as “Red Tape Issues” the boys can’t legally sleep at Home of Hope, but they come and get a good meal and a shower in the mornings, and a good meal in the early evenings as well. In addition, Home of Hope feeds a number of young adults living on the streets on certain afternoons.
You’d think that feeding poor street children would earn Home of Hope widespread praise within Zimbabwe. Actually, Joan told me that she had been harassed by the Zimbabwe police on numerous occasions. I never totally understood why. She seemed to think that those guys like to exert power in any way they can. Whatever the reason, I think it’s a pretty clear indicator of how things are run within the country. It’s a real shame.
We spent the rest of the week dropping in on a few other organizations and meeting up with a few of Bill and Nancy’s old friends from when they were living there.
There wasn’t too much going on at night in Harare. Not for me, at least. It’s a city full of desperate people and I was informed by everyone that roaming the streets at night would almost guarantee me a mugging. While I’m confident that no one in their right mind would try to mug a man bearing a striking resemblance to Chuck Norris, I played it safe and sat in my hotel room every night. It got a little boring. I actually sat and watched “Not Another Teen Movie” in its entirety on one of the few TV channels they provided and was very, very ashamed of myself afterwards. But what could I do?
So, after being in a beautiful but troubled country for a week, it was nice getting back to mother Zambia once again where the economy is pushing forward, the streets are safe (relatively speaking) and people are very, very friendly.
Although, I did experience one alarming incident while back in Lusaka, Zambia’s capital. As usual, my friend, Ndandula, let me crash on her couch for the night when I made it into town. And, as usual, I sat on my bum and watched music videos and movies all afternoon and evening.
“My Best Friend’s Wedding” came on and she said she’d never seen it. Well, that’s ridiculous, I said, it’s only the best romantic comedy ever made. Really? No way. she said. Oh yea, what would you say is the best romantic comedy you’ve ever seen? I inquired.
Her response?
“White Chicks” starring the Wayans brothers. And no, she wasn’t joking.
Man oh man, maybe there’s no hope for Zambia either...
On a serious note, go ahead and pray this week for those in Zimbabwe that are suffering, and pray that organizations such as the Lovemore Home and Home of Hope can keep on keepin’ on.
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