Wonder Woman, Lion King, and bit of Rupiah. (2 November 2009)

Wonder Woman, a Safari Guide, the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island, Charlie Chaplin, a random roll of toilet paper, circus performer, and of course the obligatory witch… all showed up to celebrate Halloween. Which is undeniably the greatest holiday of the year.

But here in Zambia, it’s never a party without the wildlife.

Elephant… check.

Lion (albeit vegetarian)… check.

Dragon (not of the Komodo variety)… check.

I’ve seen Walt Disney’s Lion King. Isn’t that what Africa is all about? A cleric monkey blessing the new born king high on a cliff while the animal masses sing and bow to his glory. Well Mr. Disney, I have news for you… warthogs and hyenas do not speak English. (Unless, that’s one stellar Halloween costume.)

I was brought to this devastating revaluation while getting up close (and luckily not so personal) while on safari at South Luangwa National Park. Jaimy, a fellow VSO volunteer from the Netherlands, and I had a fascinating excursion… A truly African Adventure. I wish I had the balls (or the ovaries) to request a refund from the lodge. Not because it wasn’t a well run and fascinating excursion but rather because I didn’t sleep a wink in my tent. Even with a spacious, comfy bed… shouldn’t all camping be so luxurious? However, seriously what would stop a lumbering elephant or a grazing hippo from trampling my tent? Or a prowling lion and scavenging hyena from pouncing as I sprint to the toilet in the dark night? I prayed that our distant relations in the Great Ape family didn’t sniff out the banana I had stashed in my bag. This is camping on a whole other level.

Up before the sun, we sleepily climbed aboard the open top jeep. Wrapping up in blankets to catch the wind that blew across the open fields of brown. (Breakfast would be served later as we hypnotically gazed at the hippos that would peak their heads above the river, let out a load laugh, and re-submerge their massive bodies… South Luangwa is home to something like 20,000 hippos!)

Warthogs… Impala… Elephants…

Giraffes… Buffalo… Kudu…

Water buck… Antelope… Crocodiles…

Hippopotamuses… Zebras… Leggy birds

We nibbled on lunch with vistas of free roaming wildlife. As if sitting in an IMAX theater watching an African feature film… only better.

Little white butterflies and emerald birds…

Baboon… Guinea fowl… Genets…

Civets… Honey Badgers… Leopards… Hyena

A pride of lions feasting on a newly killed buffalo, crunching on bones, licking their lips

The sun transformed into a fiery red ball as we watched it sink behind the river bed. We toasted our glasses of Amarula (made from the fruit of the Marula tree, it’s a sweet creamy alcohol much like Bailey’s).

But the thrill of the day, of the night, was on the prowl. Spying a massive herd of buffalos in the dark, moonless night, we stop to watch them. The baboons screech out a warning. And then as if oblivious to our presence, a lioness stalks from behind the jeep. Another one to the right. And on the left. One in front. Two in front. On the hunt… and we were between them and their buffalo meal. We sat in silence for 45 minutes. Waiting. Then the attack. The buffalo racing around our vehicle. The lions close enough to touch. Protectively the buffalo form a mob and drop their horns, tossing lions into the air. The lions lunging at the weak stragglers of the stampede, claws and teeth lashing at the gray leathery hides. The energy. The hunger. The primal instinct that laced the breezeless night air. I cannot grasp the proper vernacular… but it was way better than anything the Discovery channel or Animal Planet or National Geographic dishes out.

Later safe in my tent, I’m still reeling from the excursion. A hyena passes directly in front of the mesh tent door… what a fantastic world.

Mother Nature and Elton John rock on.

The next morning we were up again to catch the sun rise. This time breakfast was served at a nearby salt-flat. Complete English style. Toast, beans, eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, coffee, juice… all cooked on an open fire by our two local guides. If you ever find yourself in the wilds or on Survivor, elephant dung is apparently great for making cooking fires. Although, I tried not to notice the absence of handwashing facilities after the cooks collected the dried elephant dung. A whole new meaning to green eggs and ham… yum!

Does it get any better than that? Not really.

At least I thought so, and then l I met my newest acquaintance, El Presidente himself, Mr. Rupiah Banda. The Zambian President and I moments ago had a bit of a conversation out front of the local radio station, owned by my mango-stealing neighbor. I had skillfully stalked him (the President not the neighbor) for a good portion of the day. I regrettably had sought refuge from the torrential downpour under a mere sapling when a helpful stranger gave me a lift home. Racing up to the house, I grabbed my garden boy, Moses… and an umbrella. However, if I had known that we were going to actually have a face-to-face audience with the Zambian leader, I might have also have changed my wet and dirty clothes into something more appropriate for meeting Presidents! Or at least put on a clean shirt. Nevertheless, I’m feeling pretty cool…

Almost as cool as I felt (after we drained the 12 bottles of South African wine and copious bottles of Mosi and Castle… there may have also been a bottle or two of gin) dancing on stage at a Zambian pop concert in my Halloween costume to a crowded club of cheering fans. Surely they were cheering for my style-riffic dance moves and not the Zambian superstar… surely.

Lake of Stars. (26 October 2009)

Anna had been telling us about the festival during dinner at Lazeez’s (the best fish n’ chips in Chipata and a killer garlic sauce too!). Later in the night I was reading a-not-so recent issue of TIME magazine, when the festival reappeared in an article. Two independent sources. One night. I instantly felt the need to go. Plus, the notion of music, beach, exotic location in Africa, and the proceeds go to help development projects in Malawi. Fun, frolic, and a good cause.

Lake of Stars Music Festival here I come.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to convince anyone else to take up the adventure. Flying solo… no problemo. Despite only meeting her the previous weekend, I called Anna in route and arranged to meet her in Lilongwe.

Getting there was the first adventure.

Hitchhiking in Africa for some reason doesn’t have the same ominous overtones as you find in the rest of the world. Or perhaps I am just oblivious to them. Anyway, if the Lonely Planet Bible says it’s ok, I’ll believe it’s ok. The first hitch was easy. A friend of a friend of a friend who was going to the boarder for some dubious reason with a carcass of a goat in the back of the truck. Luckily, I got the front seat. As I passed through the boarder I eyed up the vehicle registration window. There was a man who I recognized from doing grocery shopping at Shoprite and had heard he was one of the long term Catholic Priest from Europe. He stopped to let several Africans climb into the bed of the pick-up truck and nodded when I asked for a lift too. The next phases wasn’t as smooth as I waited for sometime with a roadside plant seller for the next vehicle. Everything that passed was exploding with passengers or hitchers. Finally a lift.

After a bit of miscommunication, I met Anna and another former VSO volunteer, Nilesh. Nilesh would be my host for the evening and I’d meet Anna the next afternoon for a lift with yet another volunteer. The volunteering network is amazing. Not only had I managed to make it all the way to Mangochi on the south banks of Lake Malawi, I had done it cheaply, and happily discovered that one of the volunteers in Malawi works with a person who has a house DIRECTLY ON the site on the festival. We could cheaply camp here and the extra money would go to the orphanage. Win-win.

The next three days were sans shoes as we lazily made our way between the camp and the two stages. White sand and palm trees. Tempting waters (albeit infested with bilharzias) for mid-afternoon cool down swims. Although vigilant security made sure there was no swimming after dusk. Hippos and crocodiles… enough said.

The music was a mix of international and African artists. The Maccabees and SWAY. Local reggae set the atmosphere with the Black Missionaries and others performances. During the day, as people slept off hangovers beachside, theater troops and small musicians entertained the wary. A string of Deejays played dance music until well after the sun came up. It’s one of those things… you might as well be one of the ones enjoying it because you sure as hell can’t sleep through it.

Most mornings I’d seek a couple hour refuge in my hammock after watching the sun paint the sky pink and unveil the mountains of Mozambique across the lake. Except one morning. A rather gianormous baboon was investigating my sleeping spot… I might have been hallucinating from lack of sleep. But to be safe I decided to go for a nap on the beach. I really have no desire to get that close with the African wildlife.

Anna and Nilesh were skipping the last day and heading back to Lilongwe. I, however, wasn’t quite ready to leave, rationalizing that since I came all this way missing one day of work would be ok, so found an alternative ride. At every speedy bump, every hole in the road, we had to get out of the car so that it wouldn’t drag. I didn’t say I had a luxury ride.

Luke used to work in the north of Malawi and was extending his trip to go back to check out the projects. They were exciting sounding… to a farming nerd. And seriously what is another couple of days off work if I’m going to go see something that is somewhat-relevant to what I’m working on. So the next morning we set off for Usisya.

You can only get to Usisya two ways. The treacherous road or the weekly ferry. Time was not on our side so we were left to travel via the former. Through the hilly mountainous landscape. The way car ‘road’ gave way to a menacingly steep slope. What would happen if two cars tried to pass??? Usisya is a village of brick houses with thatched roofs. ‘Streets’ of white sand. Mammoth balboa trees. Brahma cattle that the walking ‘cowboys’ would wrangle into stick enclosures at the water’s edge. Fisherman’s nets lay on the sand or strewn across the handmade canoes that appear ready to tip at the slightest fraction of movement.

I check out the clinic with the local Peacecorps volunteer, a school, and community gardens. But mostly I just soak in the atmosphere. After all, I am on vacation.

The after-festival party was happening all week in Nkhata Bay. Crystal blue waters that could easily be mistaken for the sea. Not only was there a reunion of festival co-conspirators but I happen into a troop of VSO vols from Zambia. Crazy world… how does it all seem to come together???

Nevertheless, all good things must come to an end.

I opt for public transport for the return trip to Chipata. As it would be dark soon this seemed the safest option. Seemed. The taxi loaded 7 people into the car… plus the driver… and 4 people in the trunk. Good thing I only packed a bag big enough for a 3 days. Night had set and there was no electricity along the road. The car stopped. But this was not the boarder. Where were we? The driver said I’d have to walk the last kilometer as we was out of gas. However, he wasn’t so happy when I refused to way the full fare. This was not the boarder. Two tomato sellers escorted me safely to immigration. I was the only person attempting the border crossing. 30-day tourist visas to Malawi are free. However, the immigration fellows where seeking a ‘rich’ tourist to give them a bit of extra cash. I was not going to fall victim to corruption. They said I had overstayed my visa… I was not in Malawi for 30 days. I’d have to return to Lilongwe to immigration… impossible at this time of night. But they could help me for a mere $50 US. No thank you, I’ll sit here until morning. After nearly 30 minutes the border guards realized I was A. not going back to Lilongwe and B. not going to pay them. Passport stamped.

Seems my luck had run out. The shared taxi waiting on the other side in Zambia wasn’t so willing to take a single passenger for the same cost as a car full. As we wait I try not to notice the numerous cracks in the front window and the lack of one headlight. Again, not a luxury ride. After 30 minutes of waiting I venture to suggest that it would be better to make some money than nothing at all. Anyway I’m 100% certain he’d squeezed in a few extra passengers over the course of the day. I bargain hard, the speedometer sores, and we’re off to Chipata. I’m looking forward to home…

***

A couple weeks later…

Spontaneously I decided to meet John and Betty in Lilongwe (they are proud owners of a 4-wheel drive vehicle) and then travel with them (and John’s brother and an America guy) to Nkhata Bay for a long weekend. I was feeling a bit under-appreciated at work as the boss seems not to understand why his cross-boarder trading idea is not good for the economy or the farmers in the long run (besides slightly illegal… as if anything completely legal goes down on the ‘Dark Continent’). So off to Malawi for the weekend… again.

Less stress… equally enjoyable.

Opting to go back to Lundazi (north of Chipata) with John and Betty to try my luck at meeting a local marketing effort called “It’s Wild”. I had heard that it was a similar business modal as the one I was trying to set up with CDFA. Interesting project to say the least. I spent the day with a personal guide seeing the processing of rice, peanut butter, honey, and high-energy-protein-supplements.

Met a group of VSO’s for pre-dinner drinks at the Lundazi ‘Castle’. Really a mini-castle from colonial times (not-so-long-ago) on a mini lake home to two random and famously out of place hippos.

3 am bus back to Chipata… just in time to head straight to the office. Yeah.

People on the bus. (23 September 2009)

For one quarter during undergrad, I would jump on the number 2 bus to downtown Columbus. Sometimes, I’d wait for the next bus transfer to Columbus State but most times, I’d walk from High Street because this seemed like A.) a long wait B.) a long ride. However, in retrospect, I now can say that was one of the speediest buses I’ve ever taken.

Last Sunday morning I tiptoed around the cabin, collecting my few belongings by light of my headlamp. Stopping by the camp kitchen for my food stash. A loaf of bread, guava juice, and a drinkable butterscotch flavored yoghurt. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’d been advised the day before to be at the station at 4:30 am… uh, no thank you. I wasn’t that eager to make the trip home to Chipata. Thus, I made the mile plus walk from the hostel at a lazy 6:15 am.

Bombarded by a flood of bus boys wanting me to board their coaches, I waved my pre-purchased ticket. And was, literally, shoved on to the furthest bus labeled ‘Malawi’. Fact is, when a bus is tagged for another country, it does nothing to wane the anticipation of a freaking long trip ahead. The bus was half full. The empty seats filled with random hand luggage to give the appearance of a full bus, thus nearly ready to depart as buses only do when FULLY loaded. I squeezed to the back past the merchants selling cooking pots, colorful fabrics, flashing hologram Barak Obama belt buckles, pastel suckers, Coca-cola and Fanta, fake Gucci purple crocodile wallets, sporting shoes and loafers.

Now start the math.

6:30 am

I plopped into a seat, rolling up a sarong against the dirt streaked window for a pillow. Sleep.

7:00

I woke up from pressure against my knees as someone pressed into the seat in front of me. What do tall people do, if my knees knock the seat? Still no movement. More sleep.

9:00

A woman asks if anyone is sitting beside me. No. She leaves her bag.

9:30

Woman returns, retrieves the bag and selects another seat

9:40

A man sits beside me. Sleep is still a good idea.

10:30

I’m sweating profusely. Still at the bus station. I spy two empty seats… remaining pessimistic I sleep.

11:10

We make movement.

Brushing up on my arithmetic, that’s just over 4 hours on the bus and the journey has yet to begin. Thankfully, I made two trips to the toilet at the hostel in the morning, squeezing every drop out of the bladder. Trust me, no one wants to be the one who makes the bus stop along the side of the road. Squatting in snake invested brush with no real cover for privacy while the other riders peep at your awkwardness. Or wait for the next toilet stop… which is 12 hours away.

8:30 pm

Arrive home in Chipata.

What had I done to deserve this trip? I was summonsed to Immigration in Lusaka to retrieve my work permit. That took 2 hours. I compensated myself with 4 days of laying poolside (albeit at a cheap-o hostel where I shared a cabin with 7 other poverty stricken travelers), drinking cold beer, eating ice cream, and going dancing. Life was good… then I boarded the bus back to reality.

****

I’m typing up flip charts this evening. Products of group work activities from a workshop I helped to facilitate earlier today… thought I’d share a bit of the farmers’ thoughts written in the local language, Nanja.

- Maindedwe opita kumsika akhala obvuta

- Kubyala mbeu zosayenelelana ndi nyengo

- Misika lzi khala pafupi ndi alimi

- Miseu ikhale yokonzedwa bwino

I have absolutely noooooo idea what that says. I’ve become accustomed to thunderous laughter at my meager attempts at pronunciation of foreign languages. Some people are linguistically gift. I am not. Indeed, life would be so much easier in English… but would it be as interesting?

La-la-la… Kulamba! (14 September 2009)

Sitting out in the garden earlier today soaking in the warm sunshine over lunch, our garden boy, Moses and I chatted about the previous volunteers that he has ‘gardened’ for. (Notably Moses knows quite little about actual gardening… and working. But he at least makes an attempt to pretend to be working hard when we come home for lunch. And I find him humorous… so we continue to gently remind him each day what to do.)

“She was mean.”

“She had a lot of boyfriends.”

“She was a drunkard.”

So, Moses, what will you say about me when I leave!

Only good things he replied… surely like the flowery remembrances of my predecessors. He adds, “You are my sunshine.” Picking up a carrot stick from the veggie plate with a wrinkle of his nose and click of his tongue, I think he will probably complain about of how I feed him ‘rabbit food’.

Moses has also told me on numerous occasions that he will give me his last name and build me house if I stay in Chipata… this may or may not be some kind of marriage proposal.

********

Engulfed in a constant haze of dust. So much Maria and Malombo wore face masks and my photos are blurred in a sea of floating debris. Kulamba is the thanksgiving ceremony for the Chewa people. It pays tribute (“giving gifts” ie. $$$$) to Paramount Chief Kalonga Gawa Undi by his subordinate chiefs and subjects of the Chewa kingdom. “Kalonga is a Chewa word meaning ‘the one who enthrones or installs subordinate chiefs’ while Gawa means ‘the one who gives out land. Undi means the one who protects his subjects.” The Paramount Chief is head of something like over 11 million Chewa people, encompassing parts of Zambia, Malawi and Mozambique. The Presidents of each of these countries also swoops in by helicopter for the big event. As do numerous ‘subordinate’ chiefs. And royalty of the Ngoni tribe.

Kulamba is held annually in late August (although this year was the beginning of September to accommodate the Presidents and special guests) just west of Chipata outside the town of Katete at the ‘Mkaika Palace’ (although it notably has more in common with a barren drought-ridden corn field than it does with Buckingham Palace).

Was it from the dancers? The rhythmic drummers? Or the throngs of people who came from Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique by the truck load? What makes this so special? Undeniably it’s the combination and a traditional culture that has remained unchanged for centuries (except perhaps for the means of transportation).

“The ceremony exhibits a variety of more than 30 different types of ‘Nyau’ dances with different masks, each being performed at specific occasions.” Young teen and pre-teen girls on the banks of the River of Womanhood are paraded in under cloth. They kneel topless and shake as if consumed. An interpretation of adulthood and marriage are taught and expressed via dance. But it is ‘Gule Wamkulu’ that steals the spot light. A highly celebrated event performed by men. Said to involve witchcraft, the dance is only open to members of a secret society. Men disguise their identities by donning masks of feathers, long noses, werewolf-esque features, and various other forbidding sorts are led into the circles of people by shakers to announce their arrival. Men in funky attire and masks walk on stilts through the crowds of people. Dancers contort their bodies and confront possible death atop high wooden poles that are haphazardly placed into dug out holes in the red dirt. The climax of the event takes place as one of the Nyau dancers shimmies across a sort of wire ‘tightrope’. It’s like a super cool circus minus the lion tamer… hopefully.

During a practice session at the Chipata Arts Center I was tipped to go the night prior to the big event. This proved a wise move. While we missed the main celebration, the presentation of the Royal/Presidential, guests and the endless speeches, we were rewarded by actually being able to see the dancing. Not only see… but Rosie and I found ourselves pushed dangerously close to the kicking dancers and entranced drummers. Scary, mesmerizing, thrilling… spectacular.

A trip to the clinic. (16 August 2009)

3 days straight. I’ve done nothing but sleep. Thus, I heeded Rosie’s (my housemates) instruction and went to the clinic. The ‘medical advisor’ (what exactly does qualify one to be a medical advisor??) put down his newspaper as he invited me to sit… he was obviously oblivious to the long line of patients seeking his advice as he skims through The Post.

How are you feeling today? He asked with a smile. Well, sir that’s why I have come to see you…

He read down a list of symptoms. No. No. No. No. No. Just tired. He looks at the palms of my hands and proclaims that I have ‘enough blood’. Ok, at this point I’m fairly confident that a medical advisor and doctor are not one in the same.

He appeases me by issuing several blood tests and sends me down the hall to sit on the wooden bench outside of the ‘lab’. The lab technician has dreadlocks swept under a Rastafarian-style hat. He pricks my finger and squeezes the tip with one hand as he rummages around the cluttered countertop for a clean slide. Yes, it does seem like a blood lab should have those in readily available supply. One hand is not enough for the search so he collects the deep red drop of blood on a piece of scrap paper and continues with a two-handed search. Success. He scraps the blood drop from the paper onto the slide. Totally contaminate free no-doubt.

Blood test results in hand, I’m sent back to the medical advisor to decipher the scribbles. Negative.

Mr. Medical Advisor asks “when was the last time you were de-wormed?” Hmmmm… never.

As I walk home, I vividly recall the results of de-worming a puppy we once had when I was a kid. It wasn’t pretty. And we didn’t eat spaghetti for quite some time after that. I really hope that my de-worming process won’t be quite as memorable…

Globalization (8 August 2009).

12 people. 7 nationalities. Indian. Spanish. Kenyan. American. British. German. Dutch. All sitting down together in Zambia for a dinner of Mexican food and South African wine. Conversation in 5 languages. Swahili. Spanish. English. German. Dutch.

A picture of globalization? Perhaps. Freaking cool? Definitely.