Two days in one

I realise I haven’t been blogging much about my work. I write at the end of the day and the events that seem to stick with me are ones that occur out of work. When my housemate and I dish out the good and bad of the day, it occurred to us that everyday is broken down to two almost separate worlds – mine very much so because I work in an office. The getting to and from work includes interactions with a myriad of people. Whereas, I have a better grasp and control of my work environment. The out of work world includes random minibus scuffles, comment beings shouted, and people asking for something. With what feels like living two days in each day, no wonder it feels like I’ve been here longer than I have.

In Lusaka, I have rationalised that so many people come to the capital city for something - to find work, get medical care, earn money, get married, etc. So there is a general air of trying to get something. In the towns or villages I’ve visited outside of Lusaka, very rarely has someone asked me directly to give them something. I don’t mind if people ask, but it begins to bother me when people demand or expect me to give them something. On a surface level, people outside of Lusaka seem nicer. I feel less judged and there seems to be less commotion about a foreigner. Even children outside Lusaka seems friendlier. There are nice kids in Lusaka, but there are also those who feel that a foreigner is someone to mock and make fun of. Then again, I guess Lusaka is like any capital city with its conveniences and unfortunate things that follow.

How to drive – Zambia version

There is a highly evolved highway language that I am now only understanding because I asked for a full explanation. My own previous highway etiquette consists of driving at a reasonable speed over the speed limit, overtake quickly when the yellow line is dashed, and turn off high beams when approaching another vehicle. So, when cars are flashing their turning signals and hazard lights, all the while driving on straight highway, the message was lost on me until now.

When approaching another vehicle going the opposite direction, turn on right signal to indicate the width of your vehicle. This is particularly important for giant trucks whose headlights might be deceivingly in the centre of the vehicle. Signalling right also tells the person behind you that there is an approaching vehicle and they are not to overtake.

Once opposing traffic is clear, signal left to tell the vehicles behind that it is okay to pass.

If you are the vehicle that is overtaking, it is polite to flash the hazard lights to say thanks to the vehicle the slowed down to ease your overtaking. The other vehicle will then flash their headlights to acknowledge your thanks.

It might just be me, but that’s pretty cool highway speak.

Birthday in a castle

My organisation has an office in Lundazi, Eastern Province. I made the nine hour journey to meet the staff and visit some of the schools in the area. Six hours on decent roads and three on a gravel/clay road that felt like we were paying a game – dodge the pothole/crevasse. It was a last minute trip and I did not manage to make my own accommodation arrangements, so I really did not have a clue as to what to expect. To my surprise and confusion, I stayed at a castle.

So picture, a medieval castle, minus the moat, but complete with little balcony sections to fire a cannon or have a Rapunzzle hair moment. I thought for a second I had stumbled upon theme park in Zambia. This is certainly making it onto my odd and random things in Zambia. At one point in time maybe the hotel was nice, but I think now the only thing it has going for it is shock factor. People might just stay here just to say that the spend a night in a castle in Zambia.

On that note, Happy Birthday to me. Thanks E for the transatlantic text!

Social activites

I have not been blogging about my social activities because there is not much to say. Lusaka, for a capital city, does not have much in terms of exciting, fun, or interesting activities. The expat community does not mingle much with the local Zambian community – not that I was expecting any different. So far I’ve involved myself in a few sport leagues and spend my weekends alternating between going out dancing, house parties, and quieter dinners at home.

There are a number of sport activities such as football, volleyball, squash, and yoga, which are good ways to spend some weekday evenings. With the exception of yoga, the evening usually ends with beers at a backpacker’s lodge. Recently, I have come across book clubs and drumming circles, if exercise is not your thing. There are also a number of clubs that scare me including the Ambassador’s wives club, which I take to mean the wives of ambassadors and high commissioners in Zambia. As if that social circle needs to be any more exclusive.

On weekends, there are a few clubs that have earned okay reviews. In my experience, the music is unpredictable and sometimes it does not get good until very late. Then there is the issue of what a French friend calls sticky men… i.e. ones that just won’t go away. Nonetheless, it is nice to spend the night dancing away. The house parties thrown by expats with big houses are okay as well. Some are more cliquey and pretentious than others, but there are always hypocritical development workers who claim to shun such parties, but actually welcome the break from “dealing with Zambia”.

Socializing for me has come to finding a balance between mzungu functions and actually spending time to make Zambian friends.

A letter to minibus conductor

Dear minibus conductor at filling station,

Since our path will no doubt cross again, allow me to set a few things straight:

I am walking from the bus stop across the street from the filling station, so it would be fair for you to assume that I have just come from somewhere and will not be getting on your bus heading the opposite direction. I usually shake my head when you shout the name of your bus route at me. Perhaps, the gesture is not obvious to you, but as I approach, a verbal no should make clear that I have absolutely no interest in going your direction.

Making sounds as your attempt to speak Chinese does not earn you any points. Not every Asian looking person you see speaks Chinese and if they did, mocking the language will not motivate anyone to respond or help you learn. Though my grasp of the language is by no means good, if you are truly interested in learning Chinese, I will be more than happy to teach you a few basic phrases. Unfortunately, our interaction does not leave me wanting to do anything for you.

Contrary to the movies, not all Asian people break out in martial arts while walking about. As I try to walk around your minibus, I am not sure why you think I might be interested in a duel. I have just come from work, so I have my bag and sometimes a bag of vegetables. Do you really think I have any interest in setting my bags down and fighting you. For your information, martial arts is a little more than swinging your arms and prancing about.

So the next time we meet, I hope we can have a more pleasant interaction. I do not need to come home feeling that I have just experienced my most racist encounter to date. I know what you look like now, so the next time I am coming from town and your bus is at the corner, I will say hello and a hello back would be a more appropriate way to reciprocate.

Regards,
M

p.s. I also do not respond well to baby, hissing, or proclamations of love.

Please and thank you.

I never expected not saying please and thank you would so difficult. Who knows the last time anyone reminded me to say the words of politeness, yet if I don’t it feels like a voice inside gives me a little nudge. It’s fair to say that I like saying please and thank you and moreover, feel a need to say it.

There are wonderful people at work who cook and drive for the staff. In general, I struggle with having people do things for me, even if they are paid to provide that service. So, you may imagine how necessary I feel the need to say thank you after lunch and when I get picked up and dropped off. In Nyanja, thank you roughly translates to zikomo. There is no verb for to thank. Zikomo also functions as excuse me. Similarly, pepani is sorry and apparently can be used for please, though I have never heard it used. Some Zambians will use zikomo, but I am acutely aware that I use it in excess amounts. My colleagues definitely notice because sometimes they beat me to the punch, say it first, and then laugh.

Even if there are no direct translations for please and thank you per se, in observing people interact, I’ve come to a few conclusions. By saying, nakuta (I am full/satisfied) you are in fact showing gratitude to the person you has cooked you the food. And, to show respect to people when leaving, one can say, naenda (I am leaving) and musali bwino (stay well)/muende bwino (go well).

With my limited grasp of Nyanja, it doesn’t feel enough. That is, I want to say the equivalent of, I really, really appreciate it, thank you so much. It’s tough just to take something and walk away without saying something. Without the words of courtesy, actions are straightforward. I am still a little sensitive to the verb to want/give me. They seem too direct and abrupt when I translate it in my head. E.g. ndifuna manzi (I want water). I realise that please and thank you are constructs of Western social conduct. Still, a genuine and appreciative thank you is satisfying to say and hear.

New Year's recap

Livingstone (Victoria Falls) was the place to be for New Year’s Eve. We stopped at a restaurant on the Zambezi River when we first arrived and it was full of white teenager that we assumed were tourists, specifically the Abercrombie and Finch dressed kind that were eager to get away from their parents. After completely putting them down for being the kind of travellers we would never be, we learned that the majority of them were the kids of white Zambian farmers. So technically, we were more the tourists.

The white Zambian community is tight social circle with the kids going to private schools, sports clubs, and Livingstone parties. The expat community is hard to avoid in Lusaka and little did we know, they too migrate to Livingstone for New Year’s Eve. It seems that development workers either strive to be part of the expat community or else try (and usually fail) to avoid expat functions. I would like to think I can contently be part of both. This will be the topic of a future post, but getting to know and being friends with local black Zambians will take time.

Some British volunteer organised a sunset cruise on the Zambezi River. I initially resisted joining them, but an open bar, sightings of hippos and crocodiles, was worthwhile. In short, when the boat docked, we spent the night dancing away to everything from Zambian pop to reggae to Euro techno. I was happy there was a nice mix of local people, travellers, and expats. The best compliment I’ve received to date was from a Livingstone woman who said, “you Lusaka dweller, you can dance and you will steal our men away.” Hah! Someone probably told her I stay in Lusaka and her judgement of my dancing I’m sure was clouded. Nonetheless, I’ll take the compliments.

Christmas recap

My Christmas was spent with a street kids project in Lusaka. Although I had a few moments of missing snow, chocolate, and other Christmas comforts, it was refreshing to be far away from any signs of commercial Christmas. However, if one really wanted to see Santa Claus, mad shoppers, and Christmas carol, the two malls in Lusaka could definitely deliver. A friend working with street kids arranged a dinner for ten boys that stay in house not too far from me.

Upon arriving at the house, I immediately noticed how clean and tidy the boys’ clothes were. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw a number of the boys polishing their shoes. I doubt I would ever catch my brothers taking that much pride in their clothing, unless my mother threatened. While chatting with a few of the boys in the yard, I sat down on the grass – much to the horror of the boys. They probably thought I was crazy to sit on the ground, as none of them would dare risk a grass stain on their newly washed trousers.

The special dinner included salad, chips (French fries), sausage, chicken (I have not come across turkey in Zambia), rice, cake, and candy. When a usual meal consists of nshima (white carbohydrate paste made from maize), green vegetables, and maybe fish, this dinner was a feast. Even if it sounds like a cliché, it was very heart-warming to be in the company of people who truly appreciated each other’s company and the food they were able to have. The one Christmas that mattered to me was the one year when Dad was away and then he came back just in time for Christmas morning. Even if Christmas overtime became about the gifts and parties, the moments that stay are ones built on appreciating company and time spent together.

Africa Dumping Ground

“Africa is a dumping ground for what the rest of the world does not want,” a friend said to me as we get clouded by the black exhaust from a minibus with Chinese characters. There are the vehicles from China and Japan, the second hand clothes and shoes from North America and Europe, the appliances and electronics from everywhere else in the world. My guess is the products that do not pass quality control end up in countries like Zambia. There is a whole industry of second hand goods – products and by-products of globalisation for developing countries.

I blew a fuse and burned out a light bulb in my house last night. Those two insignificant happenings made me realise the extent to which all sorts of miscellaneous products end up in Zambia. It never occurred to me there could be many kinds of screw on 60W light bulbs: ones with threads and ones with two hooky things (I am obviously not an electrician). The same light fixtures in my house fit two different kinds of light bulbs. How strange. Similarly, I have not quite figured out my stove. Trial and error is not the safest method, but it seems that I can only have one burner or the oven on at one time, or else the fuse in the adapter blows and sometimes melts and emits toxic smoke (I obviously do not know anything about electricity).

Plug adapters and voltage converters must sell at a ridiculous rate in Zambia. All the various appliances in my house probably represent all the different plugs in the world. The sockets in the wall are the UK rectangular three prong, but rarely do products come with that plug. Most are the two skinny circular plugs or the three fatter circular plugs. A recently acquired cell phone charger has two slanted plugs. How did Zambia start receiving all sorts of devices that do not use the available sockets. Maybe dumping ground is too negative, seeing that the items that end up here actually get used.

New Year’s Reflection

I don’t make resolutions – except for the usual recommitment to losing weight. However, I do like the chance to reflect on the calendar year past and ponder the year ahead. I have been in Zambia for a month now, although it feels like much longer. A new job, new way of life, and constantly meeting new people adds exciting and usually comical commentary to day to day activities. Even a stroll down my street to pick up bread, usually means a chat with the women selling tomatoes, the taxi drivers, the guards in front of the compounds, and “hello, how are you? I’m fine, how are you?” routine with passing kids.

It is only a slight exaggeration to say that my daily interactions bring forth the issues of race, gender, and poverty. I am constantly made aware of my position as a foreign woman. “Madame, Happy New Year, give me something, your phone… take me to your home,” was my most recent interesting conversation. Of course, all this only happens if I am on my own, or in the company of other women. Walking down the street with a man, any man for that matter, makes me invisible. Questions or comments regarding me are always directed at the man. Even if I am in a group consisting of women and one man, he still by default becomes the spokesperson. While waiting for a bus, my male travelling companion was asked, “give me one of your women, you have three.” I didn’t hear his reply, but I would have loved if he said anything along the lines of, “they’re not mine to give; you’ll have to ask them.”

Since spending Christmas in the wonderful company of street kids, orphans, and those that work with them, and in contrast ringing in the New Year with expats and white Zambians, I wonder does it have to be one or the other. There is an ever growing number of questions tumbling around my head. Where do white Zambians fall into the picture of development? Can we truly ever put colonialism in the past? Does my position challenge gender stereotypes? Why don’t I get housekeeper? Why do I feel guilty if I have the luxury of warm showers? Why do I care?

I have no idea what Zambia holds for me or where I will be in one year. What I know is that this is a chance to learn. A chance to ask myself how I want to live my life. A chance to respect people around me. And, a chance to relish in the everyday.