Dinner parties in Lusaka

Last night, a Jordanian friend cooked up an amazing meal consisting of rice with toasted almonds and pine nuts (need to inquire where he found pine nuts in Zambia), hummus, greek salad, roasted chicken, warm pita bread, and a pudding like dessert. Damn, it was good; I’m salivating as I type this. More than the great food was the interesting company of about twenty people from at least ten different countries. I never know what kind of crowd to expect. Sometimes, it’s a lot of UN people, other times the crowd is mostly Dutch, but sometimes like tonight the crowd was interestingly diverse. Some notable conversations included a debate about the movie Paradise Now with a Palestinian guy, an interesting chat in French with a woman who worked in Cameroon (I considered doing a placement there), and an odd discussion on the interior decorating industry in Lusaka with a Greek-Zambian woman. I’m a becoming a huge fan of dinner gatherings in Lusaka. Let’s hope I’m interesting enough for people to continue having me over.

Welcome to Zambia (officially)

For the past five days, I’ve been attending my official in-country induction i.e. Welcome to Zambia, we will tell you everything you need to know about security, health issues, culture, history, politics, gender, and HIV/AIDS in a nice five day package. Some of the sessions were interesting, but my brain is feeling a little numb from information overload.

In a way, I’m glad that I didn’t get an official introduction when I arrived in December. It is nearly impossible to get a grasp of what happens on a day to day basis from a lecture, even if it gives some people comfort to have a gist of what is going on. It is appropriate to address issues like safe ways to travel at night and how to assemble the water filter. However, many other questions will be answered by experience. I am all for being well informed, but the right attitude will go much further than knowing how everything works. Someone in the cultural session asked about greetings. I suppose a fair question as it’s good to know what to expect when meeting someone for the first time. The Zambian handshake involves a thumb pivot (i.e. clasp like a Western handshake, thumb pivot, and clasp). No explained this to me, but it is possible to figure out the first time it happens. I can’t imagine someone being continuously puzzled by the handshake after experiencing it a few times. Admittedly, it took me a few tries to fully get it. I think a learning-as-you-go attitude has served me well. I can’t say too much fazes me. Although, I was nervous I would not be able to follow the kneel/bow and clap a few times greeting in one community. So much of what I know does not come from a guidebook, but from day to day conversations with people, Zambians and non-Zambians.

Being told some do’s and don’ts now is kind of funny:

1. Don’t go into the shanty compounds
Well, maybe don’t walk through a compound alone at night. Not a lot of foreigners walk in compounds, but in Lusaka, people living in compounds need the most assistance and many NGOs have projects with communities in compounds. There are seven schools in Lusaka that I work with – all of them are in compounds. So, it is essential and beneficial for me to spend time getting to know the teachers and parents. I understand the warning because it is inevitable that everyone will notice you, but that would happen anywhere. I wouldn’t go looking like I had anything valuable on me. And, I wouldn’t walk through at night, but I would never have a reason to do so. Plus, I would be afraid of falling into a ditch. I think when the facilitator said flat out don’t go into compounds, it took too much of a big, bad Africa tone for my liking.

2. Only take official taxis
Official taxis are painted blue. Many other cars are also taxis. I’m not entirely clear on what makes a taxi official (aside from being blue), but there is probably some kind of registration system that involves a fee. In my opinion, a better suggestion would be to only take taxis that look to be in good condition with sober drivers. My preferred taxi guy is super religious, listen to sermons on the radio, and tells me about his children, and his car isn’t blue.

3. Wash your veggies with boiled/filtered water.
In Lusaka, I really can’t be bothered, since in most areas it is perfectly fine to drink tap water. If I lived closer to an area with a Cholera outbreak, I might actually heed the advice. The real issue is that I am too lazy to make sure I have enough filtered water to waste on washing veggies. I will continue drinking filtered water because when I took the filter out to clean, it was covered in yellowish slime. I guess it was filtering something out. And, someone recently told me that once in a while the water treatment plant runs out of chemical, so another reason to boil and filter water.

New clothes

I have new clothes! Until today, my work wardrobe was a rotation of three skirts and one pairs of trousers (thanks to the influence of my British housemate, I no longer say pants, which to her means underwear). Bold patterned fabric called chitenge is widely available here. There are some great designs, but inevitably, there will always be someone else with clothing in the same fabric or worse, curtains and cushions. Since January, I’ve been buying pieces of fabric in hopes of new skirts. Last week, I finally got a tailor to come to my house, measure me, and interpret my bad drawings. And today, three skirts were delivered! I have practically doubled my wardrobe. Hurrah!

Tailors are everywhere here. Since all government, private, and mission schools require uniforms, tailoring is a good income generating activity. This is the first time I’ve had clothes made for me. It’s feels a little strange to have a skirt made exactly to fit me. The tailor made a few tops with the excess fabric. They fit, but are nearly impossible to get one because the zipper only goes up to the smallest part of the shirt… the small part of my rib cage. This is hard to describe, but to get the shirt on means squeezing my shoulders and chest through the circumference of my ribs. Needless to say, I had to enlist some help getting the shirt off… seems rather Victorian, needing someone to help get dressed/undressed.

This might be my most boring post yet. Sorry. Honestly, new clothes made my day!

Building a community school teacher training package

I am currently involved in a workshop to build a community school training package. There is a wealth of teacher training materials in Zambia. The training manuals are rich with methods, techniques, and support for teachers. The acronyms still boggle my mind, but I uncovered a few:

CHANGES – Community Health and Nutrition, Gender and Education Support
REX – Read on Express
SPRINT – School Program In-service Training
GEMS – Gender in Math and Science
SHN (pronounced shin) – School Health and Nutrition
HIMs – Head Teacher In-service Meetings
ZATEC – Zambia Teacher Education Curriculum

I was sceptical with what another training package would do, but in the last few days I am encouraged with the focus on how community teachers can actually use the materials… sort of a guide to existing materials. Perhaps, maybe the manual developed help get materials and support to schools on the ground. It is easy to fall back to theory, but having community teachers in the workshop is keeping people grounded to making materials practical and useable. Sweet (or so I think).

A nod to B

B, previously referred to as the fabulous travelling companion and fellow Canadian in Lusaka pointed out that we are now on week 12 in Zambia… whew! Three months! Where did January go? I must have stopped counting after the first month because I can’t seem to recall marking two month in country. With people on placements, there are those who count up and those who count down – 21 months to go for me (okay… so a countdown is a tad premature). Since B and I arrived at the same time, it’s nice on touch bases on our experiences so far.

I think we’re both settled in our houses. Mine came with housemates and their input on minibus routes, work issues, and life in Lusaka have been invaluable. I initially wrote about my house being too nice and too far out of town, but I must admit that I appreciate having a quiet place to come home to at the end of the day. I just need to get rid of the kids and/or the trampoline next door – Saturday, 7am trampolining is unacceptable. B’s house is even further out of town. It is a relatively new community with nameless streets. Getting a taxi means going to find one on the major road off the roundabout because directing one to the house is practically impossible.

My house and office are on opposite sides of the city. Luckily, most days I get a ride. The times that I’ve taken public transport to work took me an hour and a half for what is normally a 10 minutes journey by car. It is possible that walking might takes less time than catching a bus into town and then back out the other side of town. However, I should not complain because B has been dealing with a 45 minute bike ride or a two hour minibus journey. B riding his shiny bike through a compound stirs up all sorts of attention. Literally, people come to a complete stop and stare. I suppose white men on bicycles don’t come through compounds too often. If there weren’t enough hazards on the road, the people who get so distracted by B almost cause accidents themselves.

In terms of work, we both work with organisations that specifically work to meet the needs of orphans and vulnerable children. I work with a network of community schools: teachers, student, parents, and community leaders. B’s organisation comprises of a community school, health centre, drop in centre, and orphanage that provides for street kids and orphans in Lusaka. In one way or another we are both supposed to be build the capacity of the organisation. The question is whether the organisation and our colleagues are actually receptive to building their own capacity. I think everyone has expectation for their external advisor, but unfortunately most people focus on how B and I can bring in money to our respective organisations. Even with the issues of management and accountability, I will say that B unapologetically works for the children.

B, I’ll try to keep up your superstar status in this blog ;)

Motivations

Volleyball is my Thursday night activity. Seeing that the last time I played a real volleyball game was almost ten years ago, I never expected to find myself regularly showing up for games and making a concerted effort to improve my limited skills. There are a few very competitive players, but I think most come out because it is a social activity that draws a nice mix of people.

In fact, the group of people really could not be any more diverse. There is the crew of people who own some sort of business in Zambia ranging from toys to cement. Some work for the many international schools in Lusaka. Of course, there is the bunch that fall into the development sector: Peace Corps, development agencies of various countries, UN, and other NGOs. In amidst the group there are a few Zambians, US marines (as far as I know their sole job is to guard the embassy), family members of diplomats, a professional hunter (!), and a few other people who call Zambia home. Since everyone comes from such varied backgrounds, where you come from and who you are really does not matter as long as you can more or less play volleyball.

However, people do wonder what brought you to Zambia. A while back I read Helen Fielding’s satirical novel about humanitarian aid workers, Cause Celeb. One character wears a T-shirt printed with a multiple choice test – An aid worker is a: (a) missionary? (b) mercenary? (c) misfit? (d) broken heart? (sorry, don’t have the book on me, so not an exact quote). I was reminded of the book because every time I meet someone new, the standard questions asked include how long have you been in Zambia? Where are you from? What do you do? How long are you staying? That is, something must have brought you to Zambia because you can’t just be here. Why want to live and work in a developing country, when you could be in a developed country with all of the modern day conveniences. I don’t think I fall into any of the four categories, but my motivations probably include some part of each. Missionary – believing in a more just world. Mercenary – wanting to do something good. Misfit – not wanting the suburban life. Broken heart – who knows. I suppose knowing one’s motivation depends on how honest you are willing to be, but I think most people I’ve met here have in common curiosity, adventure, and a desire for something more.

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In case you are wondering, my hair is awesome… side swept, flippy ends and all. Now I think I am supposed to return the favour, but I’m not sure if I want to be responsible for someone’s hair.

Training untrained teachers

The majority of community school teachers are not formally trained. Some teachers have only completed grade nine. The majority complete grade twelve, but do not meet the requirements for college. Various NGOs and development agencies have developed training packages and manuals to build basic teaching skills in untrained teachers. In the confusing world of acronyms, some of these training programmes include SPARK, SPRINT, REX, CHANGES, QUESTT, AIMES, and GEMS. I would share what the acronyms stand for, but I barely know myself. Most programmes produced are in collaboration with the Ministry of Education, but it seems every international agency promotes its own package.

Some of the programmes focus on increasing literacy levels and others try to integrate gender, HIV/AIDS, life skills, health and nutrition programmes, etc. into basic school curriculum. There is also an interactive radio instruction programme where the teacher tunes into a radio programme that provides the lesson plan and content for a class. Aside from turning on the radio and keeping the class in order, the teacher does very little (actually, the teacher probably does a lot seeing that some classes have over 100 kids). With the plethora of materials, it is a difficult choice to decide which to promote. Then again, the community school teacher uses the materials, which are available to him or her and not all programmes have been equally promoted. Not surprisingly, schools within a three-hour drive radius from Lusaka benefit the most. Although each district or at least each province in Zambia has a teacher resource centre, individual teachers have very little access to the resources.

As a supporting organisation to community schools, one of our roles is to link and facilitate teacher training programmes to reach teachers on ground level. At a stakeholders’ meeting today, the Ministry of Education with funding from USAID announced that it will put together a comprehensive training tool kit specifically geared to build the skills of community teachers who may never formally upgrade their qualifications. I was encouraged when various ministry people recognized that manuals were being produced, only to be abandoned and then reproduced with a different name. Under an initiative called CHANGES2, the Ministry of Education will somehow work with partners and community stakeholders to bring together the various training programmes into a Community School Toolkit.

Aside from being somewhat sceptical whether this toolkit will be anymore usable than any previous programmes, it was a cool meeting be a part of where people including some working for the ministry were critical about previous initiatives. If I had my way, I would stop making manuals with only words in them. Or, stop doing training in the form of manuals. In most schools I’ve visited so far, those manuals just hold open doors, collect dust, or worse get used as toilet paper.

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In other news, my housemate cut my hair! I am somewhat afraid as to what I will look like tomorrow…

The little minibus that could

It started out as a typical minibus ride home. I was squashed somewhere in the middle of a bus with a door that barely closed and the man sitting next to me wanted my phone number. Up until now, I thought I had experienced everything possible on a minibus: 50 kg bag of maize under my feet, a child sitting on me, two marriage proposals in the span of one block, someone trying to sell me a scrabble board, a very lively conversation about kicking Chinese people out of Zambia (thank goodness I looked Japanese that day), and the list continues.

I was one stop away from home and when I thought this journey might not have a notable moment, the bus ran out of gas. The logical thing to do would be for someone to run to the nearest filling station and get gas. Seeing that people would most likely get off and catch any number of passing minibuses, the conductor’s logical solution was to jump out and push. Imagine a little blue van packed with 15-18 people and one skinny-legged conductor pushing. He took a few running starts and then we were off. Luckily for him it was a slight downward slope to the filling station. We must have picked up some speed because he soon broke into a full run. However, in the end his plan failed because everyone on the bus got off.

It was probably quite a sight. The picture I have in my head is that of clowns jumping out of a tiny red car at a circus. Or, the commercial where a NASCAR team pops out the back of a hatchback. When I got out of the bus, I overheard a bunch of taxi drivers shouting a Chinyanja word and laughing. I learned from a colleague that the word means to vomit. That is, the minibus vomited. It might be a while before I experience a minibus ride to top that.

Blood Diamonds to snap out of it

You may have noticed my blogging absence. I don’t have any excuses, well a few sort of excuses: blackouts, no internet access outside of Lusaka, a bad week with nothing nice to say. I have uploaded a number of posts from the last few weeks. There is always stuff happening, but at the end of the day I have no desire to rethink the things I’ve been thinking all day. It seems that days are either really good or really bad – sometimes both in one day. To break out of my manic-depressive work trance I went to a movie tonight. A movie! In a theatre!

After overcoming the initial shock of sitting in a typical North American movie theatre complete with big cushy seats, overpriced junk food, and people on first dates, I realised that a big screen and thematic music was just what my brain needed. I’m not sure what this says about me, but it took a Hollywood movie with Leonardo DiCaprio set in the diamond fuelled Sierra Leone civil war to snap out of constantly dwelling on everything going on around me. It’s funny how I needed something as artificial as a movie to remind me that there will always be things happening, whether I am here or not. Leonardo DiCaprio’s characters says something to the effect of ”Peace Corps come to Africa and only stay long enough (two years) to learn that they can’t make a difference.” I don’t see myself getting to the point of being so disillusioned that I don’t bother doing anything, but I can understand how it happens. For the most part, I can still find some purpose in organising a meeting or facilitating on one workshop at a time. However, it is distressing to learn of how many people have come before me to do what they can, but ultimately they leave and nothing really becomes of it. People create manuals and hold workshops, but ten years later people are more or else still producing the same manuals and workshops. It’s unfair to say that small improvements are not made, but I make my own head spin wondering if there is a better way.

Side note: someone I know here, who used to trade gems in Angola says the diamond industry really is as insane as portrayed in the film. I am curious how this movie will affect diamond sales and how many people will let go of the diamond ring engagement fairytale.

Black and white

“My Zambian neighbours gave me avocadoes the other day,” I say on the drive to volleyball. “Black Zambian or white Zambian?” he asks. “Oh, ah, um, black.”

I am starting to realise that I am more uncomfortable with the mention of race than I care to admit. I lay blame on an overly politically correct upbringing. Part of me want to believe that when referring to someone it isn’t necessary to refer to their race, but I know in context a black Zambian is a different person and has a different story than a white Zambian. I don’t think of race as an essential descriptor and the mention of race inevitably brings up stereotypes. Then again, I suppose it never really is a choice whether you’re labelled and what label people attach.

My label the past week has been the Chinese president. Since the newspapers started writing about his visit to Zambia, I have literally been called Hu Jintao. Apparently, I look like him. It was somewhat amusing the first day, but now I am ready to call it racism. In being open-minded and culturally sensitive, I was trying to be understanding that I look different and people can only base reaction on previous experience. But, I really have no idea what to do when people make a dead stop in front of me, stare, point, and say, “Chinese! Korean! Japanese!” (I get all three about equally). Not wanting to be impolite or stir up any more attention, I usually ignore and keep walking. What can I really do? Do I point back and say Zambian. One particularly bad day, I turned around and told a guy he was being rude (okay, not exactly the perfect comeback), but I couldn’t believe how dumbfounded he was. He kept saying, “Forgive me madame.” I guess his stereotype of me was that he could call me anything and I was not going to say anything back.

Community ownership

My organisation does not own nor operate any community schools. Promoting community ownership encourages community investment and responsibility. Naturally, a community that has burned the bricks to build their school will more likely ensure the maintenance of the school than a school completely built by external resources. I am happy my boss is passionate and understands the meaning of sustainable development. He encourages people to think about how much pride they will feel when they say they contributed to something completely their own instead of the instant gratification of just receiving something. For example, when a community decides it want to improve its school infrastructure, my organisation will provide harder to obtain materials including concrete, doors, and roofing sheets as long as the community agrees to provide labour and locally available materials such gravel. Similarly, the community finds way to pay their teacher through income generating activities, which can range from tuck shops to a piggery. The operation of the school is completely in the hands of the community. In addition to providing material support, my organisation provides skill training to build the capacity of community member in the management and operation of their school. I think this is precisely why I wanted to work with a local organisation – direct investment in community.

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.