Rosie and I road our bicycles out to Marco’s school. Marco is an Italian guy who started the Magazine Christian Mission School a number of years ago for orphaned children. It was the last day of class and reason for celebration! Who can argue with that!? The recognition of attendance and scholarship had already begun (yes, it seems to be a universal school-thing!) as we arrived dripping sweat and with dirty red feet from the off-road, up-hill biking. The students formed navy blue lines under the shade of a mango tree. The smallest and most squirmy stood nearest the ‘authorities’; the older students in more practiced rows. The awards? Bars of soap. Can you imagine giving 7 or 9 year olds soap for prizes at home? I think it might go down just as well as getting clothes for a birthday or Christmas. But these kids were excited!
As if a wall had been dislodged the children feel from their straight lines into a clump of broad white smiles and scrawny limbs. A few pre-teen girls took turns on the microphone, belting out with ceaseless self-assurance songs in their native tongue. The enthusiasm was viral as the tiny crowd cheered, clapped, and joined in on the chorus. And as quickly as it had all begun, the smiles and limbs dashed off to play the games that Matthias and Verena (volunteers at the school) had prepared.
Sack races,
Jump rope contests,
Stilt walking,
Volleyball (with a rope in lieu of a net),
Obstacle course races.
Laughter and smiles.
And then I cycled downhill watching out for rogue golf balls as I took the short cut through the golf course.
****
Uniting the nations. It very well may have been the most special party I have ever had the good fortune of hosting. I was the lucky one this evening. Friends from around the globe gathered, enjoyed Zambian music, shared in conversation and laughter. It was closure. It was the end of this chapter in life’s adventure. Not a cheerless occasion. On contrary, a joyous party in celebration of new friends, of new experiences, of new perspectives.
I’d been gathering, peeling, and blending mangos from our mango tree in the garden all week. An orange sticky mess that made me reconsider my party plans with each fly that buzzed into through the open door next to the kitchen. A cocktail party… something different! Tomatoes from our garden for the bloody mary’s. Mangos from the shade tree mixed with our prolific basil for sweet twist. Lemons, Spanish apples, and oranges gathered from our yard and neighbors fruit-ified the sangria. Baskets of local spirits glammed up the clear plastic sachets I bought from a man sitting on a wooden bench in the market. Nibbles by the handful from big bowls of freshly popped popcorn. Friends. Friends of friends. New acquaintances. People I’d met earlier at the Magazine School’s (for orphans) last day fun day. North Americans. Europeans. Asians. Africans. I had not invited people under the pretext that this was a leaving do… I was the first performance, the coming-out, for my rasta friends’ reggae band. It just so happened to also be my last weekend in Chipata. Manyon and Dubay had been disappointed a jam session at the Art’s Center when I had said that I wouldn’t be around for their first show. Admittedly, I too was disappointed. So sprung forth the idea of a pre-show party!
The classy wine boxes exhausted and the band packed up… the party rolled down to the street to the night club. Once again we found ourselves dancing away at center stage. Literally. When it is blatantly obvious that you are strange, why try in vain to bend in??? Rock out.
****
I blended the remaining tomatoes that missed their fate in the Bloody Mary mix. Verena and Matthias had invited several of us over for an authentic pizza making event. Matthias, missing his native Italia, built an oven from bricks and scrapes of metal roofing. We sat around a heaving floured table working our little lobes of dough into something resembling a pizza. Except for Albert who fashioned his into a work of art resembling Africa… complete with countries of cheese and ham! Zambia never tasted so good…
****
Giving thanks for my princess-esque lifestyle, I invited Efraim (night security guard), Brenda (housekeeper), and Moses (garden-boy who does very little gardening) for a goodbye lunch in our garden. Zambian cooking to be done by yours truly! Thankfully Brenda and Moses came to the rescue… stirring nshima takes muscle!! Under the purple flowers of the Flamboyant tree, we licked our fingers clean. Two lumps of nshima and a plate full of gooey snot-esque cooked okra.
Over the past several weeks, I have typically always prepared lunch for Brenda, Moses, Rosie and myself as we sit together in the garden. So this lunch didn’t seem so out of the ordinary. However, for Efraim (who eats dinner out in the shelter by the gate door) it was something special. He shared that was happy to be sitting down for a meal for the first time with a ‘muzungu’ (white person). Efraim’s new wife added something in the local language. As she grinned broadly as she put on my sunglasses, Brenda assured me that the woman was impolite and should be ignored. I will miss these friends.
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