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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Grade Seven Exams
In Zambian schools, in order for children to pass grade seven and move on to grade eight they are required to pass a standardized government examination. Being the first (and in some unfortunate cases, the last) big test these kids ever have to take, it’s a big deal.
For the children attending the Namumu Community School, passing means they get to attend grade eight at Siavonga Basic School, located in the main township, a 40-or-so minute walk away. They get to wear sharp new uniforms, different from the ones the children in grades one through seven wear. There’s clearly a certain status attached to moving on up to the Basic School in town.
Those who don’t pass must remain in grade seven for another year and then take the exam again.
Namumu had 19 of its resident children take the exam. Overall they did very, very well. Two, in fact, Christopher and Brenda, did so well that they were accepted into local boarding schools, a significant achievement.
Unfortunately, one of our girls didn’t pass and will be forced to repeat grade seven. Victoria (not her real name...I don’t think this girl would be happy about me throwing her name around and telling everyone she failed), a very sweet, slightly goofy 13 year old, just missed the cut off.
As you can imagine, it’s been a rough week for Victoria. It’s been obvious that she’s embarrassed, and to make matters worse all of her friends passed and are moving on. She’s bounced back over the past few days, but I have a feeling it will take her a while to fully get over her disappointment. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.
Still, while it’s unfortunate that Namumu’s children did not all make it through, 18 out of 19 ain’t too shabby. The others scored remarkably high. I would argue that this is further evidence of the advantages our kids have by staying here. They have stable adult influences in their lives that guide them and encourage them to work hard, and the test scores reflect that.
Just another reason why Namumu is so awesome...
For the children attending the Namumu Community School, passing means they get to attend grade eight at Siavonga Basic School, located in the main township, a 40-or-so minute walk away. They get to wear sharp new uniforms, different from the ones the children in grades one through seven wear. There’s clearly a certain status attached to moving on up to the Basic School in town.
Those who don’t pass must remain in grade seven for another year and then take the exam again.
Namumu had 19 of its resident children take the exam. Overall they did very, very well. Two, in fact, Christopher and Brenda, did so well that they were accepted into local boarding schools, a significant achievement.
Unfortunately, one of our girls didn’t pass and will be forced to repeat grade seven. Victoria (not her real name...I don’t think this girl would be happy about me throwing her name around and telling everyone she failed), a very sweet, slightly goofy 13 year old, just missed the cut off.
As you can imagine, it’s been a rough week for Victoria. It’s been obvious that she’s embarrassed, and to make matters worse all of her friends passed and are moving on. She’s bounced back over the past few days, but I have a feeling it will take her a while to fully get over her disappointment. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.
Still, while it’s unfortunate that Namumu’s children did not all make it through, 18 out of 19 ain’t too shabby. The others scored remarkably high. I would argue that this is further evidence of the advantages our kids have by staying here. They have stable adult influences in their lives that guide them and encourage them to work hard, and the test scores reflect that.
Just another reason why Namumu is so awesome...
Friday, January 8, 2010
Livingstone Shenanigans PART III
Towards the end of the week a wave of lethargy overtook us all simultaneously and we contented ourselves with lying around the lodge’s pool and doing a whole lotta nothing. It was wonderful. We didn’t make it over to Namibia or Zimbabwe, but I knew I’d make it over to them both eventually so I didn’t sweat it. Besides, it felt too good being lazy.
We did make it out on a boat cruise (of the Dunder Mifflin variety) on the Zambezi river on our last night in Livingstone, which was nice. Being the fisherman that I am and having been out on Lake Kariba with my crew for many-a-night it wasn’t so new and exciting, but it sure was pretty. And it was nice to be out on the water without a diesel-guzzling generator pumping noisily in the background for once.
Other than the members of our group there were mostly tourists on board, around 30 in all, I’d say. I spent the majority of my time chatting with a chain-smoking fat guy from Poland. He was very jolly and very cool and I couldn’t imagine anyone I’d rather be cruising on the Zambezi alongside. To be honest, I probably only understood around 35% of the words coming out of his mouth, but that 35% was hilarious. Good times.
We got back and docked just after the sun had gone down. The vacation was almost over and I was looking forward to it ending it with a nice, relaxing night with my good friends, Ndandula, Mwenya and Mucho.
Little did I know that I would soon find myself in the middle of a heated tribal dispute, or that I would be forced to play the role of mediator.
Ndandula had to run off to meet a friend in town, so, in the meantime, while we waited for her to return, Mwenya, Mucho and I decided to stick around at the outdoor bar of the hotel that provided the boat cruise. The Zambezi was well within view and the early evening weather was warm but comfortable. We planned to get some food and drinks and hang around for a bit.
By sheer coincidence, Mucho’s boss happened to be staying at that very same hotel and was sitting by the bar. He was staying with his family, but they were all off somewhere and he was at the bar alone. He was a nice older gentleman, outgoing and easy to talk to. He was, shall we say, a bit tipsy.
So, we sat around at the bar, Mwenya, Mucho, Mucho’s boss and I, chatting about this and that, enjoying the scenery, the weather and the frosty refreshments.
As we talked, I noticed that just down at the other end of the bar sat a group of Zambian women of all ages. They were all there together, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves as much as we were. They looked like fun. I, being a fan of fun women, started up a casual conversation with the few closest to us. It turned out my assessment had been correct. They were very fun.
So, at this point, it was basically like we were one big group. One big happy group. And I was right in the middle, one single white face in the middle of it all. I remember looking around and thinking, yeeeeah, I am so happy that my life has led me here. This is excellent.
At one point we settled into a pretty standard conversation. Where are you coming from? They’d asked. Siavonga. Oh, that’s nice, for how long have you stayed there? About 10 months. Have you learned any of the languages? Yeah, you know, I’m in a Tonga area so I’ve learned some of that. I dropped some Tonga on them and they just about lost their minds.
Then, in the midst of all our jovial laughter, one of these ladies, the Queen Bee of the group, in fact, decided it was a good moment to go on a tirade against Tonga men. I mean she went off. Tonga men are the scum of the earth, she said. They treat women poorly, they drink too much, etc. etc., she spouted. Clearly she had had a bit to drink as well. Suddenly the mood of the group began to turn.
And what tribe do Mucho and Mucho’s boss belong to, you might ask? You guessed it. Tonga.
So they start raising their voices a bit and defending their honor, so to speak. Who is this women to say such things? How can she look down on them like that? What tribe is she from? How are they any better? Blah blah blah.
She raised her voice and gave it right back to them, venom shooting from her mouth and fire from her eyes. I thought she was going to reach across me and scratch out their eyeballs.
So, there I am, stuck in the middle of a full-on Zambian tribal war of words. Right in the middle. What was I to do?
At first, I sat enjoyed the show. It was pretty funny. Then, as things got more and more heated, I knew I had to get out of there. I excused myself and walked over to the men’s room.
Something had to be done, I decided. I took a deep breath, pumped myself up, and headed back to the group. Things had calmed down a bit, but there was still tension in the air. I regained my place in the middle of the groups and prepared myself for the speech of a lifetime.
Listen up, everyone, I said loudly. I had their attention. You’re a Tonga, you’re a Bemba, you’re a Losi, so what? You’re a Zambian, you’re a Zambian, I’m a Zambian (for the purposes of my speech I didn’t go into the details by explaining that I am technically an American citizen in Zambia on a Business Visa). We’re all here tonight. We’re together now. So why don’t we forget all this crap and just have a good time?
I raised my glass in the air, looking around for affirmation.
I got it.
I heard shouts of approval from both sides as everyone raised their glasses. We all drank and continued with our merrymaking, the tension, for the most part, dissolved. While we never got back to our original state of glee, we all had a good time.
I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking there’s no way that this actually happened, that it was just a delusional daydream. I’m telling you, it happened exactly like that. Exactly.
I’ve failed many times and in many ways here in Zambia, but when it’s all said and done I’ll always have this moment, one that I will cherish forever. The day I stopped a Zambian tribal war.
The next day we packed it up, said goodbye to our lodge friends and headed out of Livingstone, none of us quite ready for the vacation to end.
I arrived back in Siavonga the next day, tired from the travel but glad to be back amongst my friends and Namumu family. That night I ate dinner, nsima and kapenta, on the ground and under the stars with my neighbors. The dogs howled in the background and the crickets chirped. Oh, and then one of my neighbor’s roaming cows peed on the ground right beside where I had placed my backpack, sprinkling it thoroughly.
Welcome back to the bush, Sam. Welcome back.
We did make it out on a boat cruise (of the Dunder Mifflin variety) on the Zambezi river on our last night in Livingstone, which was nice. Being the fisherman that I am and having been out on Lake Kariba with my crew for many-a-night it wasn’t so new and exciting, but it sure was pretty. And it was nice to be out on the water without a diesel-guzzling generator pumping noisily in the background for once.
Other than the members of our group there were mostly tourists on board, around 30 in all, I’d say. I spent the majority of my time chatting with a chain-smoking fat guy from Poland. He was very jolly and very cool and I couldn’t imagine anyone I’d rather be cruising on the Zambezi alongside. To be honest, I probably only understood around 35% of the words coming out of his mouth, but that 35% was hilarious. Good times.
We got back and docked just after the sun had gone down. The vacation was almost over and I was looking forward to it ending it with a nice, relaxing night with my good friends, Ndandula, Mwenya and Mucho.
Little did I know that I would soon find myself in the middle of a heated tribal dispute, or that I would be forced to play the role of mediator.
Ndandula had to run off to meet a friend in town, so, in the meantime, while we waited for her to return, Mwenya, Mucho and I decided to stick around at the outdoor bar of the hotel that provided the boat cruise. The Zambezi was well within view and the early evening weather was warm but comfortable. We planned to get some food and drinks and hang around for a bit.
By sheer coincidence, Mucho’s boss happened to be staying at that very same hotel and was sitting by the bar. He was staying with his family, but they were all off somewhere and he was at the bar alone. He was a nice older gentleman, outgoing and easy to talk to. He was, shall we say, a bit tipsy.
So, we sat around at the bar, Mwenya, Mucho, Mucho’s boss and I, chatting about this and that, enjoying the scenery, the weather and the frosty refreshments.
As we talked, I noticed that just down at the other end of the bar sat a group of Zambian women of all ages. They were all there together, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves as much as we were. They looked like fun. I, being a fan of fun women, started up a casual conversation with the few closest to us. It turned out my assessment had been correct. They were very fun.
So, at this point, it was basically like we were one big group. One big happy group. And I was right in the middle, one single white face in the middle of it all. I remember looking around and thinking, yeeeeah, I am so happy that my life has led me here. This is excellent.
At one point we settled into a pretty standard conversation. Where are you coming from? They’d asked. Siavonga. Oh, that’s nice, for how long have you stayed there? About 10 months. Have you learned any of the languages? Yeah, you know, I’m in a Tonga area so I’ve learned some of that. I dropped some Tonga on them and they just about lost their minds.
Then, in the midst of all our jovial laughter, one of these ladies, the Queen Bee of the group, in fact, decided it was a good moment to go on a tirade against Tonga men. I mean she went off. Tonga men are the scum of the earth, she said. They treat women poorly, they drink too much, etc. etc., she spouted. Clearly she had had a bit to drink as well. Suddenly the mood of the group began to turn.
And what tribe do Mucho and Mucho’s boss belong to, you might ask? You guessed it. Tonga.
So they start raising their voices a bit and defending their honor, so to speak. Who is this women to say such things? How can she look down on them like that? What tribe is she from? How are they any better? Blah blah blah.
She raised her voice and gave it right back to them, venom shooting from her mouth and fire from her eyes. I thought she was going to reach across me and scratch out their eyeballs.
So, there I am, stuck in the middle of a full-on Zambian tribal war of words. Right in the middle. What was I to do?
At first, I sat enjoyed the show. It was pretty funny. Then, as things got more and more heated, I knew I had to get out of there. I excused myself and walked over to the men’s room.
Something had to be done, I decided. I took a deep breath, pumped myself up, and headed back to the group. Things had calmed down a bit, but there was still tension in the air. I regained my place in the middle of the groups and prepared myself for the speech of a lifetime.
Listen up, everyone, I said loudly. I had their attention. You’re a Tonga, you’re a Bemba, you’re a Losi, so what? You’re a Zambian, you’re a Zambian, I’m a Zambian (for the purposes of my speech I didn’t go into the details by explaining that I am technically an American citizen in Zambia on a Business Visa). We’re all here tonight. We’re together now. So why don’t we forget all this crap and just have a good time?
I raised my glass in the air, looking around for affirmation.
I got it.
I heard shouts of approval from both sides as everyone raised their glasses. We all drank and continued with our merrymaking, the tension, for the most part, dissolved. While we never got back to our original state of glee, we all had a good time.
I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking there’s no way that this actually happened, that it was just a delusional daydream. I’m telling you, it happened exactly like that. Exactly.
I’ve failed many times and in many ways here in Zambia, but when it’s all said and done I’ll always have this moment, one that I will cherish forever. The day I stopped a Zambian tribal war.
The next day we packed it up, said goodbye to our lodge friends and headed out of Livingstone, none of us quite ready for the vacation to end.
I arrived back in Siavonga the next day, tired from the travel but glad to be back amongst my friends and Namumu family. That night I ate dinner, nsima and kapenta, on the ground and under the stars with my neighbors. The dogs howled in the background and the crickets chirped. Oh, and then one of my neighbor’s roaming cows peed on the ground right beside where I had placed my backpack, sprinkling it thoroughly.
Welcome back to the bush, Sam. Welcome back.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Livingstone Shenanigans PART II
In beginning Part II, I should probably throw in a few words about my travelling companions/partners in crime, Ndandula, Mwenya and Mucho, all of whom are around my age.
I’ve known Ndandula, Munjongo and Esther’s youngest daughter, for some time now, and she’s always been my main connection in Lusaka. Ndandula has a job with the UN in Zambia, working primarily with refugees coming to Zambia from surrounding countries such as Zimbabwe, Angola and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Ndandula is awesome. She’s fun and often outspoken and doesn’t take crap off of anybody, a far cry from the quiet, submissive women that I’ve been around for months in rural Zambia.
Mwenya, Ndandula’s best friend, works for the UN as well. She was without a doubt the spark plug of the group, always energetic and willing to go anywhere or do anything. Mwenya wears her hair in dread-locks, a style that is pretty uncommon for Zambian women. Having lived with Steven Lowry for three years of my life I of course know more than my fair share about the science of dread-locks and was thus able to connect with her right away. Man, I love this girl. She is very cool.
Mucho had somehow gotten hooked up with the two others a while back and had hit it off with them. He is, shall we say, a stout fellow who, like Mwenya, was basically down for whatever. I never really understood what Mucho does for a living. I guess I didn’t press it because hey, who wants to talk about work during a vacation, right? Mucho was a bad influence right from the start and was responsible for my involvement in a number of non-blog-postable shenanigans. For this I will always be grateful.
These three are from the city. They are very African but, in a way, have been westernized, I would say. They all have good office jobs. They like to eat pizza. They go to see movies at a movie theater. They’ve casually dated other people. They listen to Beyonce Knowles.
I’ll be honest, I don’t have many people in super-rural Siavonga that I would consider great friends. Don’t get me wrong. The people are kind and welcoming and very cool to be around. But there’s a cultural barrier there that, for the most part, seems to prevent me from reaching a deep understanding with anyone. It’s sad, but that’s the way it is. I’ve tried, and I’ve made a number of friends, but nobody that I would say that I can really connect with. Luckily, I connected with my three travelling companions right off the bat.
So, again, while I’ve got love for my homies in Siavonga, it was nice to be able to talk to and really relate to other people for a least a few days.
And now, back to the trip highlights...
Having survived the Victoria Falls monkey trap, the group carried on in high spirits. The next day we set off early on a trek across the border into Botswana. We exchanged some kwacha (Zambia’s currency) for pula (Botswana’s currency), hopped in a cab and rushed off on the 45 minute or so trip to the border. The border crossing was a breeze and we got on a bus to the nearby town of Kasene. We didn’t have any plans and, to be honest, there wasn’t much to do there, but it was cool to see a new country and there were still a few highlights.
As if it hasn’t been difficult enough trying to get around in a country with nine or so major languages, now I was hearing another completely different one in Kasene. I didn’t have much room in my brain for Swana, the local language, although I did learn how to say “That girl has a big butt”, a phrase that I now know how to say in four different southern African languages. I get really great responses whenever I drop that one on people who aren’t expecting it. I’m fully aware that one day I’m going to catch a beat down for it, but at this point it’s still a risk I’m willing to take.
We walked around the town for a good part of the day. For the most part it was similar to other towns I’ve been around in Zambia, although it was interesting to notice a few of the subtle differences. The roads were much better, for one. And so were most of the houses. Even in the areas of town that were clearly where the lower classes live, the houses were well built and better organized than many that I’ve seen in Zambia. Also, instead of cows and goats roaming around, I saw a number of what looked to be boars. That was weird.
And speaking of animals, I had my first African elephant sighting. We were traveling on a minibus going back to the border and spotted two very large elephants just hanging out by the road. Nobody else seemed too amazed. Ho hum, just another day in Botswana, I suppose. But it gave me a great sense of satisfaction knowing that people are coming into Zambia and paying exorbitant rates to take safaris and see elephants and that I got to see two close up for the price of a bus ticket.
So, that was about it for Botswana. We walked around and ate lunch and headed back for mother Zambia in the early evening.
We piddled around Livingstone for a few days and, before we knew it, Christmas Eve was upon us.
My Christmas Eve/Christmas routine has been unflinchingly rigid over the past few years in Richmond. I like it that way. This year, obviously, being thousands of miles away from friends and family forced me to deviate from this routine, but everything ended up working out just fine.
For Christmas Eve supper we got dressed up and went out to a nice little Livingstone restaurant where I slammed Coca Colas like it was my J-O-B. I treated myself to very large steak which, given the fact that I’ve been forced into a life of quasi-vegetarianism by circumstance in my new home of Siavonga, was just about the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life. They had a guy serenading everyone with a guitar who sang some Bob Marley songs, which of course my dread-locked friend, Mwenya, and I enjoyed a great deal.
During my typical Christmas Eve routine, the late evening is a time for worship at Crestwood’s 11 o’clock service. I really love worshipping at the service. The music is beautiful and you always get to see friends who have come back to Richmond for the holidays.
My Zambian Christmas Eve routine was a bit different, as the late evening was a time for bumping in a night club in downtown Livingstone. Hey, it’s where my group led me, and who was I to argue? Throughout the night I was surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad young Zambian women dancing and having a good ol’ time. It felt like I was right in the middle of a 50 Cent video. Merry Christmas to me. I danced/sweated quite a bit and had a good ol’ time myself. I feel pretty good about my dancing performance, and truly believe that if I can hold my own on a Zambian dance floor I can hold my own on any dance floor in the world. My goodness these people can move.
After such a fun, action-packed Christmas Eve the rest of the trip was pretty tame by comparison. Although, I did have another one of my life’s proudest moments when I was thrown into the middle of a Zambian tribal dispute. But I suppose I’ll save that one for the conclusion in Part III...
I’ve known Ndandula, Munjongo and Esther’s youngest daughter, for some time now, and she’s always been my main connection in Lusaka. Ndandula has a job with the UN in Zambia, working primarily with refugees coming to Zambia from surrounding countries such as Zimbabwe, Angola and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Ndandula is awesome. She’s fun and often outspoken and doesn’t take crap off of anybody, a far cry from the quiet, submissive women that I’ve been around for months in rural Zambia.
Mwenya, Ndandula’s best friend, works for the UN as well. She was without a doubt the spark plug of the group, always energetic and willing to go anywhere or do anything. Mwenya wears her hair in dread-locks, a style that is pretty uncommon for Zambian women. Having lived with Steven Lowry for three years of my life I of course know more than my fair share about the science of dread-locks and was thus able to connect with her right away. Man, I love this girl. She is very cool.
Mucho had somehow gotten hooked up with the two others a while back and had hit it off with them. He is, shall we say, a stout fellow who, like Mwenya, was basically down for whatever. I never really understood what Mucho does for a living. I guess I didn’t press it because hey, who wants to talk about work during a vacation, right? Mucho was a bad influence right from the start and was responsible for my involvement in a number of non-blog-postable shenanigans. For this I will always be grateful.
These three are from the city. They are very African but, in a way, have been westernized, I would say. They all have good office jobs. They like to eat pizza. They go to see movies at a movie theater. They’ve casually dated other people. They listen to Beyonce Knowles.
I’ll be honest, I don’t have many people in super-rural Siavonga that I would consider great friends. Don’t get me wrong. The people are kind and welcoming and very cool to be around. But there’s a cultural barrier there that, for the most part, seems to prevent me from reaching a deep understanding with anyone. It’s sad, but that’s the way it is. I’ve tried, and I’ve made a number of friends, but nobody that I would say that I can really connect with. Luckily, I connected with my three travelling companions right off the bat.
So, again, while I’ve got love for my homies in Siavonga, it was nice to be able to talk to and really relate to other people for a least a few days.
And now, back to the trip highlights...
Having survived the Victoria Falls monkey trap, the group carried on in high spirits. The next day we set off early on a trek across the border into Botswana. We exchanged some kwacha (Zambia’s currency) for pula (Botswana’s currency), hopped in a cab and rushed off on the 45 minute or so trip to the border. The border crossing was a breeze and we got on a bus to the nearby town of Kasene. We didn’t have any plans and, to be honest, there wasn’t much to do there, but it was cool to see a new country and there were still a few highlights.
As if it hasn’t been difficult enough trying to get around in a country with nine or so major languages, now I was hearing another completely different one in Kasene. I didn’t have much room in my brain for Swana, the local language, although I did learn how to say “That girl has a big butt”, a phrase that I now know how to say in four different southern African languages. I get really great responses whenever I drop that one on people who aren’t expecting it. I’m fully aware that one day I’m going to catch a beat down for it, but at this point it’s still a risk I’m willing to take.
We walked around the town for a good part of the day. For the most part it was similar to other towns I’ve been around in Zambia, although it was interesting to notice a few of the subtle differences. The roads were much better, for one. And so were most of the houses. Even in the areas of town that were clearly where the lower classes live, the houses were well built and better organized than many that I’ve seen in Zambia. Also, instead of cows and goats roaming around, I saw a number of what looked to be boars. That was weird.
And speaking of animals, I had my first African elephant sighting. We were traveling on a minibus going back to the border and spotted two very large elephants just hanging out by the road. Nobody else seemed too amazed. Ho hum, just another day in Botswana, I suppose. But it gave me a great sense of satisfaction knowing that people are coming into Zambia and paying exorbitant rates to take safaris and see elephants and that I got to see two close up for the price of a bus ticket.
So, that was about it for Botswana. We walked around and ate lunch and headed back for mother Zambia in the early evening.
We piddled around Livingstone for a few days and, before we knew it, Christmas Eve was upon us.
My Christmas Eve/Christmas routine has been unflinchingly rigid over the past few years in Richmond. I like it that way. This year, obviously, being thousands of miles away from friends and family forced me to deviate from this routine, but everything ended up working out just fine.
For Christmas Eve supper we got dressed up and went out to a nice little Livingstone restaurant where I slammed Coca Colas like it was my J-O-B. I treated myself to very large steak which, given the fact that I’ve been forced into a life of quasi-vegetarianism by circumstance in my new home of Siavonga, was just about the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life. They had a guy serenading everyone with a guitar who sang some Bob Marley songs, which of course my dread-locked friend, Mwenya, and I enjoyed a great deal.
During my typical Christmas Eve routine, the late evening is a time for worship at Crestwood’s 11 o’clock service. I really love worshipping at the service. The music is beautiful and you always get to see friends who have come back to Richmond for the holidays.
My Zambian Christmas Eve routine was a bit different, as the late evening was a time for bumping in a night club in downtown Livingstone. Hey, it’s where my group led me, and who was I to argue? Throughout the night I was surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad young Zambian women dancing and having a good ol’ time. It felt like I was right in the middle of a 50 Cent video. Merry Christmas to me. I danced/sweated quite a bit and had a good ol’ time myself. I feel pretty good about my dancing performance, and truly believe that if I can hold my own on a Zambian dance floor I can hold my own on any dance floor in the world. My goodness these people can move.
After such a fun, action-packed Christmas Eve the rest of the trip was pretty tame by comparison. Although, I did have another one of my life’s proudest moments when I was thrown into the middle of a Zambian tribal dispute. But I suppose I’ll save that one for the conclusion in Part III...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Livingstone Shenanigans PART I
I got a call from Ndandula, my good friend in Lusaka, earlier this month, during which she hit me with a proposition. She and two of her friends were making a road trip down to Livingstone, Zambia, over the week of Christmas, where they planned to bounce around to Botswana, Namibia and Zimbabwe (all three countries border Zambia near Livingstone). She wanted to know if I wanted to join them, thus posing somewhat of a dilemma for me.
You see, I am the biggest fan that road trips ever had. It’s great to move around, see new places and experience new things. I hadn’t been able to travel around as much as I would have liked to since arriving, so the opportunity to jump a few borders was appealing. And the day to day grind of running multiple businesses in sub-Saharan Africa had led me to the brink of insanity, so getting out of Siavonga would surely be beneficial to my mental health. Finally, as it’s been all work and very little play for me for some time I felt the strong need to engage in shenanigans of some type.
On the downside, if I went on the trip I wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas with my Namumu family, and something about ditching orphans on Christmas made me feel pretty terrible. I’d miss the Namumu Christmas Feast and the worship services.
I tossed and turned over this one for a few nights, believe me, but in the end I decided to hit the road. I packed my bags, told all my Namumu nieces and nephews that I loved them very much and that I’d miss them, and hopped a bus to meet the group in Lusaka. And, despite the occasional pangs of guilt I’ve felt during the week, I haven’t looked back. It was a very, very good week.
Shenanigans did indeed ensue. Some occurrences were funny, some were scary, and some are certainly not suitable for public consumption. Here are some of the highlights:
In order to get down to Livingstone from Siavonga, you have to take a minibus up to Lusaka, Zambia’s capital, first. Lusaka is where Ndandula (girl), Mwenya (girl) and Mucho (boy), my fellow road-trippers, live and work, so I headed up on a Saturday morning to spend the day and night there with them before setting off on Sunday for Livingstone. The vacation kicked off quite well as that night we hit up a Zambian karaoke bar in the city. I wish I had more time to delve into this mind-blowing experience, but I will say that performing Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” in front of a packed house in a dingy Lusaka bar and receiving an incredible crowd response may have been one of the proudest moments of my life.
The next day we hopped on a big chartered bus to get to Livingstone, which, luckily, unlike the minibuses, don’t require you to ride in the fetal position for hours on end while listening to crappy bootlegged African pop music that the drivers like to blast full volume. It was a pleasant seven hour journey. Plus, they played “Blood Diamond”, starring Leo Dicaprio, on the overhead TVs, a good (albeit violent) movie that I would recommend checking out. You know, I’ve spent a lot of time with some of these white fishing camp owners around Siavonga, some of whom were pushed out of Zimbabwe (like Leo in the movie) or have come up from South Africa. Let me tell you something, they got Leo’s character down perfectly. From the accent to the brash demeanor to the chain smoking, most of these guys are exactly like that. Way to go on that one, Leo. So anyway, again, it’s pretty violent, but it poses some interesting questions about Africa and what we in the US can or can’t do to help, so check it out.
Once in Livingstone, we set up shop at a small, relatively inexpensive lodge in the city that primarily caters to back-packer types moving about in southern Africa. The rooms were tiny and there was a central courtyard with a large grassy area, trees and a pool, so it was easy to make friends as everybody usually just hung out in the courtyard. I sure met some characters at this place. There was Dennis, a middle-aged man from the UK who has bicycled all over Africa, competes in triathalons on a regular basis and did yoga in the lodge’s courtyard daily. There was Carolla, a German woman living in Canada who is looking into setting up an orphanage in Zambia somewhere. There were a few Peace Corp volunteers and your average vacationers.
But, I’d have to say that the coolest people I met were Josh and Nicole, a young married couple from the US of A. Nicole was in the Peace Corp in Ethiopia and Josh, a carpenter, lived there with her for a year. They met on the Appalachian Trail, as Josh was hiking the entire thing and Nicole was hiking a short stretch with some friends. Now, though, they’ve bicycled down from Ethiopia and are on their way to Cape Town, South Africa. What a couple of maniacs. They were kind and friendly and fun to be around. I got to chat with them about life, love and Africa. Josh inspired me to hike the AT when I get back to the US and to grow a longer beard like his was (saw a picture, it was large and in-charge, and Nicole still fell in love with him anyways...it brings joy to my heart to know that such women are indeed out there). They both inspired me to travel around Africa a bit more.
So, we ended up spending all of our nights at this lodge and just moved around during the day.
I’ll end Part I with an animal encounter I experienced at the beautiful Victoria Falls on day one.
Livingstone is home to Victoria Falls, a very large, very powerful, very beautiful group of waterfalls. The Falls are a very popular tourist destination, one of the biggest draws to Livingstone, Zambia’s tourism capital. Rightfully so. The size of the Falls is unbelievable. I’d had the opportunity to see them the last time I was in Zambia, but they are without a doubt worth seeing again and again.
Our group went to see the Falls on our first morning in Livingstone. It was a warm, sunny day and the mist from the Falls felt wonderful. We walked along the narrow path to all the small viewing areas. We sat and stared, took pictures and engaged in other such touristy activities. Down beneath the Falls there’s an area known as the Boiling Point, where the water rushes down and churns as though it’s boiling, before it flows away down the river. I had heard it was nice and convinced our group to head down the long path to check it out.
So, we meandered down the narrow, steep path, surrounded by trees and bushes on either side. The path is set a ways away from the other viewing areas and I’m not sure everyone who comes to the Falls knows about it, so we were the only ones there. We made it to the bottom, sat and watched the water for a while, and then headed back up the hill.
As we continued trudging up the path we began to spot a number of baboons of all shapes and sizes, roaming around nearby, no less than 10 or 12, I’d say. Hmm, I thought. That’s interesting. I didn’t see any baboons around the last time I was here. They were running around and making very, very loud monkey noises. Maybe they’re fighting, maybe they’re having sex, maybe we’re in their territory and they’re pissed off, who knows? I thought.
As we got a little higher we noticed a baboon of medium build laying down and staring off into space, smack dab in the middle of the path. Ok, I thought. Let’s not annoy this guy. Let’s just wait for a hot second until he moves, I told my group. So we waited.
Shortly thereafter, a group of around 5 large baboons started convening around 20 meters down the hill, right around the path below us, thus cutting off our only means of escape (at this point on the path there were rock faces to either side of us). It felt like we had been led into their clever little monkey trap and that they were going to pounce on and eat us.
Now, Victoria Falls is a touristy area. Part of me said, you know what, this is ridiculous. These animals have to be tame and peaceful. There’s no way that the people running this place would let wild and crazy animals run around near tourists. We should just walk right up to it and go around it or shoo it away, this part said. After all, I’ve gone out for long periods of time into the bush around Namumu. I’ve been pretty close to baboons out there. I can handle myself.
But you know what? I’d seen/heard of so many ridiculous things happening in southern Africa that the other part of me realized that a brutal monkey attack would not be outside the realm of possibility.
So we stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.
Around 30 minutes later a group of young girls came bouncing around the corner, down the path. The baboon in the path hopped up and immediately ran away. We looked back and the monkeys at the bottom of the hill had gone too. Just like that. No noise. No animosity. Nothing. Our fears were thus proven completely and totally baseless. By young girls.
In order to live with myself I’ve convinced myself that the girls never saw any of the baboons, that if they had they would have done exactly what we had been doing, that they were in fact no braver than we were.
Please don’t try to convince me otherwise.
You see, I am the biggest fan that road trips ever had. It’s great to move around, see new places and experience new things. I hadn’t been able to travel around as much as I would have liked to since arriving, so the opportunity to jump a few borders was appealing. And the day to day grind of running multiple businesses in sub-Saharan Africa had led me to the brink of insanity, so getting out of Siavonga would surely be beneficial to my mental health. Finally, as it’s been all work and very little play for me for some time I felt the strong need to engage in shenanigans of some type.
On the downside, if I went on the trip I wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas with my Namumu family, and something about ditching orphans on Christmas made me feel pretty terrible. I’d miss the Namumu Christmas Feast and the worship services.
I tossed and turned over this one for a few nights, believe me, but in the end I decided to hit the road. I packed my bags, told all my Namumu nieces and nephews that I loved them very much and that I’d miss them, and hopped a bus to meet the group in Lusaka. And, despite the occasional pangs of guilt I’ve felt during the week, I haven’t looked back. It was a very, very good week.
Shenanigans did indeed ensue. Some occurrences were funny, some were scary, and some are certainly not suitable for public consumption. Here are some of the highlights:
In order to get down to Livingstone from Siavonga, you have to take a minibus up to Lusaka, Zambia’s capital, first. Lusaka is where Ndandula (girl), Mwenya (girl) and Mucho (boy), my fellow road-trippers, live and work, so I headed up on a Saturday morning to spend the day and night there with them before setting off on Sunday for Livingstone. The vacation kicked off quite well as that night we hit up a Zambian karaoke bar in the city. I wish I had more time to delve into this mind-blowing experience, but I will say that performing Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” in front of a packed house in a dingy Lusaka bar and receiving an incredible crowd response may have been one of the proudest moments of my life.
The next day we hopped on a big chartered bus to get to Livingstone, which, luckily, unlike the minibuses, don’t require you to ride in the fetal position for hours on end while listening to crappy bootlegged African pop music that the drivers like to blast full volume. It was a pleasant seven hour journey. Plus, they played “Blood Diamond”, starring Leo Dicaprio, on the overhead TVs, a good (albeit violent) movie that I would recommend checking out. You know, I’ve spent a lot of time with some of these white fishing camp owners around Siavonga, some of whom were pushed out of Zimbabwe (like Leo in the movie) or have come up from South Africa. Let me tell you something, they got Leo’s character down perfectly. From the accent to the brash demeanor to the chain smoking, most of these guys are exactly like that. Way to go on that one, Leo. So anyway, again, it’s pretty violent, but it poses some interesting questions about Africa and what we in the US can or can’t do to help, so check it out.
Once in Livingstone, we set up shop at a small, relatively inexpensive lodge in the city that primarily caters to back-packer types moving about in southern Africa. The rooms were tiny and there was a central courtyard with a large grassy area, trees and a pool, so it was easy to make friends as everybody usually just hung out in the courtyard. I sure met some characters at this place. There was Dennis, a middle-aged man from the UK who has bicycled all over Africa, competes in triathalons on a regular basis and did yoga in the lodge’s courtyard daily. There was Carolla, a German woman living in Canada who is looking into setting up an orphanage in Zambia somewhere. There were a few Peace Corp volunteers and your average vacationers.
But, I’d have to say that the coolest people I met were Josh and Nicole, a young married couple from the US of A. Nicole was in the Peace Corp in Ethiopia and Josh, a carpenter, lived there with her for a year. They met on the Appalachian Trail, as Josh was hiking the entire thing and Nicole was hiking a short stretch with some friends. Now, though, they’ve bicycled down from Ethiopia and are on their way to Cape Town, South Africa. What a couple of maniacs. They were kind and friendly and fun to be around. I got to chat with them about life, love and Africa. Josh inspired me to hike the AT when I get back to the US and to grow a longer beard like his was (saw a picture, it was large and in-charge, and Nicole still fell in love with him anyways...it brings joy to my heart to know that such women are indeed out there). They both inspired me to travel around Africa a bit more.
So, we ended up spending all of our nights at this lodge and just moved around during the day.
I’ll end Part I with an animal encounter I experienced at the beautiful Victoria Falls on day one.
Livingstone is home to Victoria Falls, a very large, very powerful, very beautiful group of waterfalls. The Falls are a very popular tourist destination, one of the biggest draws to Livingstone, Zambia’s tourism capital. Rightfully so. The size of the Falls is unbelievable. I’d had the opportunity to see them the last time I was in Zambia, but they are without a doubt worth seeing again and again.
Our group went to see the Falls on our first morning in Livingstone. It was a warm, sunny day and the mist from the Falls felt wonderful. We walked along the narrow path to all the small viewing areas. We sat and stared, took pictures and engaged in other such touristy activities. Down beneath the Falls there’s an area known as the Boiling Point, where the water rushes down and churns as though it’s boiling, before it flows away down the river. I had heard it was nice and convinced our group to head down the long path to check it out.
So, we meandered down the narrow, steep path, surrounded by trees and bushes on either side. The path is set a ways away from the other viewing areas and I’m not sure everyone who comes to the Falls knows about it, so we were the only ones there. We made it to the bottom, sat and watched the water for a while, and then headed back up the hill.
As we continued trudging up the path we began to spot a number of baboons of all shapes and sizes, roaming around nearby, no less than 10 or 12, I’d say. Hmm, I thought. That’s interesting. I didn’t see any baboons around the last time I was here. They were running around and making very, very loud monkey noises. Maybe they’re fighting, maybe they’re having sex, maybe we’re in their territory and they’re pissed off, who knows? I thought.
As we got a little higher we noticed a baboon of medium build laying down and staring off into space, smack dab in the middle of the path. Ok, I thought. Let’s not annoy this guy. Let’s just wait for a hot second until he moves, I told my group. So we waited.
Shortly thereafter, a group of around 5 large baboons started convening around 20 meters down the hill, right around the path below us, thus cutting off our only means of escape (at this point on the path there were rock faces to either side of us). It felt like we had been led into their clever little monkey trap and that they were going to pounce on and eat us.
Now, Victoria Falls is a touristy area. Part of me said, you know what, this is ridiculous. These animals have to be tame and peaceful. There’s no way that the people running this place would let wild and crazy animals run around near tourists. We should just walk right up to it and go around it or shoo it away, this part said. After all, I’ve gone out for long periods of time into the bush around Namumu. I’ve been pretty close to baboons out there. I can handle myself.
But you know what? I’d seen/heard of so many ridiculous things happening in southern Africa that the other part of me realized that a brutal monkey attack would not be outside the realm of possibility.
So we stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.
Around 30 minutes later a group of young girls came bouncing around the corner, down the path. The baboon in the path hopped up and immediately ran away. We looked back and the monkeys at the bottom of the hill had gone too. Just like that. No noise. No animosity. Nothing. Our fears were thus proven completely and totally baseless. By young girls.
In order to live with myself I’ve convinced myself that the girls never saw any of the baboons, that if they had they would have done exactly what we had been doing, that they were in fact no braver than we were.
Please don’t try to convince me otherwise.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Siavonga Christmas
The Christmas Season is upon us, but not much has changed here in Siavonga. There aren’t too many preparations going on that I can see.
But I did watch “Love Actually” the other day to get myself into a Christmas mood, and now I’m happy to say that I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
Though I did have to watch it alone...and cried to myself when Colin Firth proposed to Just-In-Cases girl...and in no way is that depressing. Ah, I really need to get out more.
Schools have been on break for the past few weeks and won’t be opening again until January. During these breaks, a number of Namumu’s resident children go off to stay with other relatives in the surrounding villages for a while. A few stick around. Right now, there are around 20 boys and 10 girls staying at Namumu over the break. With the numbers down it’s a lot quieter than usual around here.
I’ve been asking around, trying to get an idea of how people typically celebrate Christmas here and have gotten some interesting responses.
There’s a significant Seventh Day Adventist population here, and as they choose not to celebrate Jesus’ birthday on the 25th that whole group does absolutely nothing. What a bummer that must be.
As for the rest, there isn’t a great deal of gift-giving on Christmas day, as most are living in abject poverty and are struggling to get by. Also a bummer.
Most people do upgrade their meals at least, splurging on chicken or beef to go along with the ever-popular nsima, feasting together as families. So that’s nice.
Besides feasting, most non-SDA church goers spend much of the season worshipping in their respective churches. They sing and dance and eat and have a good ol’ time. Many congregations stay up all night Christmas Eve and worship all the way through Christmas day. So that’s nice, too.
As for my little Namumu nieces and nephews remaining here for the holiday, they’ll be getting a nice little Christmas feast, as is their usual custom. They’ll eat some beef, chicken, nice bread and lots and lots of cookies.
And a local fishing company owner contacted me the other day and informed me that the Siavonga Rotary Club, of which he is a member, would like to make a contribution to Namumu by buying small gifts for the children. It’s nice to know that even in Siavonga there are people looking after these children.
So there’s your Christmas update from Siavonga. I hope it finds you well and in the holiday spirit and that you all have a wonderful Christmas.
But I did watch “Love Actually” the other day to get myself into a Christmas mood, and now I’m happy to say that I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
Though I did have to watch it alone...and cried to myself when Colin Firth proposed to Just-In-Cases girl...and in no way is that depressing. Ah, I really need to get out more.
Schools have been on break for the past few weeks and won’t be opening again until January. During these breaks, a number of Namumu’s resident children go off to stay with other relatives in the surrounding villages for a while. A few stick around. Right now, there are around 20 boys and 10 girls staying at Namumu over the break. With the numbers down it’s a lot quieter than usual around here.
I’ve been asking around, trying to get an idea of how people typically celebrate Christmas here and have gotten some interesting responses.
There’s a significant Seventh Day Adventist population here, and as they choose not to celebrate Jesus’ birthday on the 25th that whole group does absolutely nothing. What a bummer that must be.
As for the rest, there isn’t a great deal of gift-giving on Christmas day, as most are living in abject poverty and are struggling to get by. Also a bummer.
Most people do upgrade their meals at least, splurging on chicken or beef to go along with the ever-popular nsima, feasting together as families. So that’s nice.
Besides feasting, most non-SDA church goers spend much of the season worshipping in their respective churches. They sing and dance and eat and have a good ol’ time. Many congregations stay up all night Christmas Eve and worship all the way through Christmas day. So that’s nice, too.
As for my little Namumu nieces and nephews remaining here for the holiday, they’ll be getting a nice little Christmas feast, as is their usual custom. They’ll eat some beef, chicken, nice bread and lots and lots of cookies.
And a local fishing company owner contacted me the other day and informed me that the Siavonga Rotary Club, of which he is a member, would like to make a contribution to Namumu by buying small gifts for the children. It’s nice to know that even in Siavonga there are people looking after these children.
So there’s your Christmas update from Siavonga. I hope it finds you well and in the holiday spirit and that you all have a wonderful Christmas.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The King of Kapenta
I’ve given my right-hand kapenta fishing man, Mubita, a shout out here and there, but I certainly haven’t given enough credit where credit is due. This guy is indispensible.
Jobs in the kapenta fishing industry are rarely 5 day/40 hour a week jobs. Mubita’s is no exception. When we are fishing locally and parking our boats at the nearby harbor, Mubita is there every single afternoon to see the boats off, making sure they are ready to go, and he’s there every single morning when the boats come in, weighing and selling the catches, recording the sales and inspecting both boats.
When our guys are camped out at Chirundundike Island, Mubita is there, supervising it all and keeping our fishermen in line.
During the full moon breaks, while our fishermen are all off duty, Mubita is working with me nearly every day, planning for the coming month, arranging maintenance work and making reports.
It’s not uncommon for us to work together every day of the month without a single day off.
And you know what’s interesting? He has never complained. He loves to work. I’ve even tried to force him to take a few days off recently and he’s flat out refused, because there’s work to be done.
And still, for all his efforts, Mubita’s salary remains well below the average industry wage for his position. And, on top of that, he doesn’t get the respect he deserves from the Namumu Management Team. He’s more or less treated like a second class citizen. It’s a real shame.
But don’t worry, I tell him how awesome he is from time to time to keep his spirits afloat. If you want to tell him how awesome he is just drop a comment and I’ll deliver the message.
Mubita lives in a small, one-room home with burned brick walls and a grass roof. He’s got a cute little wife who cooks for him every night. He has an “I Love Jesus” baseball cap that he wears nearly every day. Obviously, Mubita doesn’t live a lavish lifestyle, but I still think he’s doing alright.
In his spare time Mubita really likes to read. I’m proud to say that, in addition to his daily Bible reading he is a member of the Namumu Book Club. He’s getting really into the Hardy Boys series. Thanks to my friend, Sylvia, the Namumu library contains around a bazillion Hardy Boys books (was that guy Dixon writing all day every day of his life?), so Mubita should be busy with that for a while. The other day, while we were working on the boats, he gave me a full on play by play of “The Hardy Boys: Camp Death” or something like that, which took over an hour. Can’t say it sounded like my cup of tea, but I’m glad he’s enjoying it.
I’ve fielded a number of requests for prayer requests. Today, pray that God will give Mubita the strength to carry on under the present conditions, because Namumu got more than they bargained for with him. Let’s hope he sticks around.
Jobs in the kapenta fishing industry are rarely 5 day/40 hour a week jobs. Mubita’s is no exception. When we are fishing locally and parking our boats at the nearby harbor, Mubita is there every single afternoon to see the boats off, making sure they are ready to go, and he’s there every single morning when the boats come in, weighing and selling the catches, recording the sales and inspecting both boats.
When our guys are camped out at Chirundundike Island, Mubita is there, supervising it all and keeping our fishermen in line.
During the full moon breaks, while our fishermen are all off duty, Mubita is working with me nearly every day, planning for the coming month, arranging maintenance work and making reports.
It’s not uncommon for us to work together every day of the month without a single day off.
And you know what’s interesting? He has never complained. He loves to work. I’ve even tried to force him to take a few days off recently and he’s flat out refused, because there’s work to be done.
And still, for all his efforts, Mubita’s salary remains well below the average industry wage for his position. And, on top of that, he doesn’t get the respect he deserves from the Namumu Management Team. He’s more or less treated like a second class citizen. It’s a real shame.
But don’t worry, I tell him how awesome he is from time to time to keep his spirits afloat. If you want to tell him how awesome he is just drop a comment and I’ll deliver the message.
Mubita lives in a small, one-room home with burned brick walls and a grass roof. He’s got a cute little wife who cooks for him every night. He has an “I Love Jesus” baseball cap that he wears nearly every day. Obviously, Mubita doesn’t live a lavish lifestyle, but I still think he’s doing alright.
In his spare time Mubita really likes to read. I’m proud to say that, in addition to his daily Bible reading he is a member of the Namumu Book Club. He’s getting really into the Hardy Boys series. Thanks to my friend, Sylvia, the Namumu library contains around a bazillion Hardy Boys books (was that guy Dixon writing all day every day of his life?), so Mubita should be busy with that for a while. The other day, while we were working on the boats, he gave me a full on play by play of “The Hardy Boys: Camp Death” or something like that, which took over an hour. Can’t say it sounded like my cup of tea, but I’m glad he’s enjoying it.
I’ve fielded a number of requests for prayer requests. Today, pray that God will give Mubita the strength to carry on under the present conditions, because Namumu got more than they bargained for with him. Let’s hope he sticks around.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Chicken Slayer
Remember way back in July, when Tom from Texas guest-posted about his stay here and the curse of Pedro the Chicken?
Well, meet Pedro, my first African kill and the cause of a number of subsequent misfortunes for the crew from Texas.
Man, I love this picture. A number of people from church and elsewhere have asked me to send back a picture of me in Africa. Even though this was taken a while back and I look much more skuzzy/Chuck Norrisy/different now, this is how I’d like to be thought of and remembered back home in the US. Sam the Chicken Slayer.
Well, meet Pedro, my first African kill and the cause of a number of subsequent misfortunes for the crew from Texas.
Man, I love this picture. A number of people from church and elsewhere have asked me to send back a picture of me in Africa. Even though this was taken a while back and I look much more skuzzy/Chuck Norrisy/different now, this is how I’d like to be thought of and remembered back home in the US. Sam the Chicken Slayer.
Kapenta Camp
Here is a scene from the Namumu Kapenta Fishing Team’s home away from home, the camp at Chirundundike Island.
This was taken in the early morning as the boats were just arriving. Here the kapenta catches are being weighed before they are taken to the drying racks.
Each blue crate you see can hold around 50 kgs of fresh kapenta. Back in September, Namumu’s record-breaking month of fishing, these guys would come back with as many as 10 or 11 crates filled to the brim on each rig. During a bad month, there are times when both boats combined might come back with less than one crate between them. It’s a business with a good deal of variation and there ain’t much you can do about it. Every single fishing company on Lake Kariba is at the mercy of the weather and kapenta breeding habits.
Still, even during the worst months Namumu’s Fishing Team has squeezed out a comfortable profit.
Kapenta fishing is Namumu’s big money-maker, so pray that the work can continue to operate successfully and support the institution as a whole.
Oh, and Chuck, do you see that net in the background? That’s my boat.
Hurray, Pictures! Part II
Meet Owen, one of the boys currently enrolled in our Carpentry Training Program.
Owen got off to a rough start at the beginning of his training. At first it took a bit of prodding to get him out to the workshop every day. He received his fair share of George Lyle ear-flicks. On what was supposed to be the first day of his training I found him in the boys’ dormitory laying out on his bed in the early afternoon spread out, face down, out cold, asleep. What a lazy bum. This was a common theme for his first week of training.
Fortunately, the George Lyle Tough Love School of Discipline paid off and Owen’s attendance has improved. In fact, in November, it was near perfect. I think he only missed one afternoon for some school activity. He’s doing well and seems to be genuinely enjoying his work. He even seemed upset when I recently explained to him that this phase of his training would be ending at the end of the month of December.
Here he is at the beginning of his training working on a small bench, one of his initial, simple projects. Since this time he has made major contributions to the production of bed frames, tables and chairs.
We’ll be sure to keep on Owen so that he doesn’t relapse into his lazy ways...
Owen got off to a rough start at the beginning of his training. At first it took a bit of prodding to get him out to the workshop every day. He received his fair share of George Lyle ear-flicks. On what was supposed to be the first day of his training I found him in the boys’ dormitory laying out on his bed in the early afternoon spread out, face down, out cold, asleep. What a lazy bum. This was a common theme for his first week of training.
Fortunately, the George Lyle Tough Love School of Discipline paid off and Owen’s attendance has improved. In fact, in November, it was near perfect. I think he only missed one afternoon for some school activity. He’s doing well and seems to be genuinely enjoying his work. He even seemed upset when I recently explained to him that this phase of his training would be ending at the end of the month of December.
Here he is at the beginning of his training working on a small bench, one of his initial, simple projects. Since this time he has made major contributions to the production of bed frames, tables and chairs.
We’ll be sure to keep on Owen so that he doesn’t relapse into his lazy ways...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Hurray, Pictures! Part I
Well folks, I figured it was time to mix things up a bit this week, but after battling it out with my camera, my computer and the Namumu Internet connection I only have two photos to share. I’d post more but my goodness these took a long time to load. I’ll try to get you some more soon. Enjoy:
I faced a real dilemma in getting you a picture of my little next-door neighbor, Junior. Now, I can’t very well go around posting pictures of naked children on the internet. However, in order to capture one of the rare moments when he’s actually wearing pants I’d probably have to stake out his house for weeks.
My solution? This tasteful little number here. Here’s Junior, on the right, next to Royd, his older cousin who also lives next door, sitting on my front porch, a place where I’ve spent hours upon hours sitting, eating, sleeping, reading and day-dreaming. I think I had just finished reading the ever-popular “Berenstein Bears” with Royd, though here he’s holding some other children’s book. Here you see Junior trying to get a handle on Ernest Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro”. He had a tough time with it, so I think we’ll wait a few years and then get him started with the “Berenstein Bears”, too.
Speaking of Junior, I had an interesting realization the other day.
His mother and other relatives often call him “Tata”, the literal Tonga translation of which is “Father”. It’s actually a pretty common nickname for little guys like him. So, naturally, I started calling him “Tata” as well from time to time.
These days, Junior is doing his fair share of talking, and one of the first things he’s learned to say is “Tata”. Whenever I’d say “Tata” to him he’d say it back to me. Then, not long thereafter, he’d start yelling “Tata” at me all the time to get my attention.
For a while I just figured he was yelling that out at me because he didn’t know any other words to yell, but then I started to really think about it...
I think it’s quite possible that Junior thinks I’m his actual father. Yikes.
It actually make sense. His real father, the brother to Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager that lives next door, is enrolled in some schooling program in another part of the country and hasn’t been around much for the first months of Junior’s life. I’ve spent a fair amount of time with the family next door and therefore with Junior as well. I’ve helped feed him and put him to bed. When I come home from work one of the first things I do is throw down my bag and play around with him. He may very well be calling my “Father” on purpose.
Man, oh man, I don’t know how I’ll handle this one. I suppose I should take care of it soon before it becomes a major point of confusion in his life. I wouldn’t want his mother to eventually have to deal with his inevitable question of, “You mean I’m gonna stay this color?”
In the meantime, let me clear up any rumors before they get out. Even though he may say that I am the one, the kid is not my son.
My solution? This tasteful little number here. Here’s Junior, on the right, next to Royd, his older cousin who also lives next door, sitting on my front porch, a place where I’ve spent hours upon hours sitting, eating, sleeping, reading and day-dreaming. I think I had just finished reading the ever-popular “Berenstein Bears” with Royd, though here he’s holding some other children’s book. Here you see Junior trying to get a handle on Ernest Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro”. He had a tough time with it, so I think we’ll wait a few years and then get him started with the “Berenstein Bears”, too.
Speaking of Junior, I had an interesting realization the other day.
His mother and other relatives often call him “Tata”, the literal Tonga translation of which is “Father”. It’s actually a pretty common nickname for little guys like him. So, naturally, I started calling him “Tata” as well from time to time.
These days, Junior is doing his fair share of talking, and one of the first things he’s learned to say is “Tata”. Whenever I’d say “Tata” to him he’d say it back to me. Then, not long thereafter, he’d start yelling “Tata” at me all the time to get my attention.
For a while I just figured he was yelling that out at me because he didn’t know any other words to yell, but then I started to really think about it...
I think it’s quite possible that Junior thinks I’m his actual father. Yikes.
It actually make sense. His real father, the brother to Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager that lives next door, is enrolled in some schooling program in another part of the country and hasn’t been around much for the first months of Junior’s life. I’ve spent a fair amount of time with the family next door and therefore with Junior as well. I’ve helped feed him and put him to bed. When I come home from work one of the first things I do is throw down my bag and play around with him. He may very well be calling my “Father” on purpose.
Man, oh man, I don’t know how I’ll handle this one. I suppose I should take care of it soon before it becomes a major point of confusion in his life. I wouldn’t want his mother to eventually have to deal with his inevitable question of, “You mean I’m gonna stay this color?”
In the meantime, let me clear up any rumors before they get out. Even though he may say that I am the one, the kid is not my son.
Taken way back in April, this photo documents one of our first bean harvests at Namumu (the handfuls of beans here are just a sample).
From left to right you see Chuck Norris, Clivert aka the Sweater, Kabuba aka Mabboli aka Eye Booger, Lucky (yes, that’s his real name) aka Mabisi aka Sour Milk, Nancy aka Mrs. Jealousy and Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager, who appears to be taking a nap.
Yes, I’m proud to say that I contributed to the nick-naming of every child just mentioned.
Ahhh, these were the good ol’ days, before cows and water pipe failures destroyed our beautiful gardens. Hopefully soon we’ll get them back soon...
From left to right you see Chuck Norris, Clivert aka the Sweater, Kabuba aka Mabboli aka Eye Booger, Lucky (yes, that’s his real name) aka Mabisi aka Sour Milk, Nancy aka Mrs. Jealousy and Jailas, Namumu’s Administration Manager, who appears to be taking a nap.
Yes, I’m proud to say that I contributed to the nick-naming of every child just mentioned.
Ahhh, these were the good ol’ days, before cows and water pipe failures destroyed our beautiful gardens. Hopefully soon we’ll get them back soon...
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