Celebrating "Zam-style"

This past week everyone was very busy at the Mango Tree, preparing for Zambia’s Independence Day on October 24 (Wednesday). This year, Zambia is celebrating 43 years of freedom from British colonial rule. A few weeks ago I asked some people from the village what they normally did to celebrate this holiday and they shrugged their shoulders and said “nothing”. Since then, the staff at the Mango Tree and I have been planning a village-wide celebration. We wanted to have a time when the village could gather and enjoy themselves while also strengthening their national identity and pride, remembering the history of their country’s struggle for independence, and honoring the village’s “freedom fighters” (those who fought against the British) who are still living. We had many things planned, including a speech by the village headman (himself one of the “freedom fighters”), sharing his experience of the revolution of 1963-4. It was fascinating to hear his story of how the Zambian rebels fought against the British with bows and arrows whose tips were dipped in poison. After the speech, the Mango Tree’s preschool prepared some songs and short poems about Zambia and independence. I wanted our celebration to be a fun and carefree time for everyone so we planned a few games and competitions, including several traditional dance competitions, a few eating competitions, and an “apple bobbing” competition. After these festivities, we planned to invite the “freedom fighters” and several honored guests into the Mango Tree to serve them a traditional meal of nshima, cassava leaves, beans, and goat (yuck).

So, the morning of the celebration was full of preparation. We were scrambling to get everything set up before the 10am start time. Of course, in “Zam time”, this means an 11am start time J As the headman began to give his opening speech, dark clouds rolled in from over the mountains and drifted toward the Mango Tree. (You must know that it has been bone-dry since I got here - with one freak-incident of rain – so it didn’t even occur to me that rain could threaten our party). Keeping my eyes on the black clouds that were almost directly over the Mango Tree, I leaned over to my friend, ba Joyce, and nodded up at the sky. “Look at those clouds….do you think it will rain??” “Oh yes,” she replied, “it always rains on Independence Day. Every 24^th of October it rains”. Hmmm…..Why didn’t someone mention that to me while we were planning this party….. Before I knew it, big drops of rain started pelting my face and a large rumble of thunder drowned out the closing words of the headman’s speech. The crowds started to scatter. Most ran into the Mango Tree. I ran to the nearest open-air hut, hoping the rain would pass quickly. No such luck. The rain pounded the ground, quickly turning the dry, red earth to thick mud.

And if rain wasn’t enough to dampen our spirits, the hail was. Hail stones the size of marbles fell from the sky, bouncing off the ground like popping popcorn. “Are you kidding me?!?” I asked in disbelief. Ba Joyce confirmed my suspicion, “oh yes….the rainy season has started today.”

Well, despite the weather we still managed to have a lot of fun. After the rain showed no signs of letting up, we crammed as many as we could into the Mango Tree while the others stood on tiptoes to peek through the windows and watch as the competitions began inside. Just when I thought the Mango Tree might explode as a result of too many bodies packed into one building, the rain would fade to a drizzle we would move the party outside. We had to move indoors one more time but we were able to finish the celebration outside. The meal was a big success. The freedom fighters talked and laughed and ate together loudly. They all had big smiles on their faces – I think they felt proud and honored.

With a belly full of nshima I made the trek back to my place, exhausted from the long day. It was interesting to reflect on my own reaction to the day’s events. My first response was one of irritation that our party was going to be ruined by the weather. I asked God why it was so necessary to start Zambia’s rainy season on October 24^th. Even after we moved inside to continue the party I was still upset, annoyed that it was so crowded and hot, and worried that people were not having fun. But when I took a moment to really look around, I saw so many happy faces. We were packed like sardines into the small building, but everyone was laughing and enjoying each other. I was the only one that seemed bothered by the rain. I suddenly remembered that someone had told me that a normal Independence Day involved nothing special, and I realized that if we had not had this party everyone would just be sitting at their huts. Many of the men and some women would spend the day getting drunk on their home-brewed beer. And they would not be together as a community, enjoying each other. So, maybe God sent the rain to remind me that I am not in control, and also to bring the community even closer (way closer!) together. Maybe. Just a hunch….

Crocs (not the shoes)

Another week passed already. There are some good things to report about the Mango Tree. The restaurant more than doubled its income in food sales compared with last week. Also, we completed 6 interviews and selected a teacher for the Adult Literacy class that will begin next week. It was a difficult choice, but we are excited about Mr. Gula Thole, the man we selected to be the teacher. Mr. Thole survives on subsistence farming, as do about 95% of the people in the surrounding villages. It is exciting that now he will be able to use his skills to help the community, while also making some extra income for his family.

I also spent some time at the office of PVCW (program for vulnerable children and women) giving computer lessons to Joyce Ngoma, the program head. They have a computer at the office, but no one knows how to do much more than turn it on and off. So, I am giving some tutorials (with the little knowledge I have about computers!) on how to use the computer’s programs like Microsoft Word and Excel.

My Sundays are proving to be the day for new adventures. In church this week I noticed 3 other musungus in the pews across the aisle. After church we met and they invited me to join them on a day trip to Kapishya Hot Springs and a canoe trip down the Ishiba Ng'andu River. I accepted their invitation gladly, ran back to my room to pack a quick lunch and then jumped in their red land cruiser. We were off. It is about 1.5 hrs north of Chilonga, so we had plenty of time to get to know each other during the car ride. Vincent and Marie, a French couple, are working at the Chilonga Hospital for 2 years. Vincent is a doctor, and Marie helps with administrative matters. Luckily their English is excellent, because my French is definitely rusty! Anna, a friend of Vincent and Marie from Germany, had been visiting for a few weeks.

Vincent and Marie had already been to the River before, so they knew a place where we could launch our canoe about an hour and a half up the river from the Kapishya Hot Springs lodge. Since their canoe could only hold 3 people, Vincent offered to wait for us at the Lodge. As we are about to launch the canoe, I ask about the name of the river and Marie tells me it is "Ishiba Ng'andu", meaning "royal crocodile" in Bemba. “Oh yes? Now, why do you suppose it is named that?” I laugh nervously. Turns out there are quite a few crocs that live along the banks of the lake and adjoining river from which we are currently launching our canoe. In fact, Marie informs me casually, there was someone eaten by a croc in this river just last year. Anna and Marie don’t seem to be too bothered by this startling fact, so I shrug my shoulders as if to say “no big deal”. As we course gently down the river I am on the lookout for any movement in the water or on the banks. “So, uh guys….do you think we should have a plan of action in case we come across any crocodiles??” I ask nonchalantly. “I suppose we should just start paddling fast,” Marie calls from the back of the canoe. Great plan, I think to myself. “Anyway,” she continues, “I don’t think they will try to attack us because we have two paddles.” “Yeah, that’s true,” I say. Two plastic paddles and a rubber boat.

A half hour or so into our trip I was able to relax and enjoy the ride. It was a beautiful day and it was so good to be outside and get some exercise. I admit I was a bit relieved when we rounded a bend in the river and saw Vincent sitting on the patio outside of the Kapishya Hot Springs lodge. We got drinks on the patio and then took a dip in the hot springs. We loaded the boat into the car around 5pm and decided to drive through a neighboring game park before we headed home. We bumped along the dirt roads, dodging potholes, keeping our eyes peeled for any wildlife. It was a beautiful ride. The sun was just beginning to set and every bend in the road seemed to open up to a beautiful plain where we watched zebras roam with impalas, gnus, and antelope.

We reached the main road as the sun was low in the sky and dark was starting to roll in. Vincent went to switch the car headlights on, only to discover that they had randomly stopped working. An 1.5 hr drive on remote roads with about 20 minutes left of daylight, this was not a good situation. With a crisis looming, all conversation in English came to a halt and a torrent of rapid-fire French filled the car. It was difficult to see – and the many dangers of the road included deep potholes that threatened to pop our tires, and the many people riding bikes and walking along the roads (often in the middle of the road) who wouldn’t see us until we were almost upon them. Vincent turned on his turn signal, which was still working, so the dull pulses of light could help us to see what was ahead, and also warn people on the road that we were approaching. “Attention! Il y a un truc a droit!” Anna was in front trying to squint through the dark and warn Vincent of upcoming potholes. After a few close calls with some pedestrians, we knew it was too dangerous to continue all the way back home like this. Just then, we caught a glimpse of the red brake lights of a truck way ahead on the road. We accelerated and finally caught up to the truck. The back lights of the truck was just enough light for us to see the road in front of us, and it served to warn people we were approaching. It was a long drive but we got back safely! It was a good day.

Sunday

It is Sunday. I’m up early for the 7 am english-speaking service at the catholic church. The church building is beautiful – spacious and full of colorful rays of light that stream through the many pastel-colored stained-glass windows. The priest speaks about how the rich will go to hell if they don’t help the poor. I am the only musungu (white person) in the service and I feel many expectant eyes shift to my direction whenever the priest mentions the “rich”.

Take a short nap after the service and am awoken by my cell ringing. It is Foster, the sweet, smiling woman who cleans and cooks at the guest house. I have been glad to have her at the guest house most mornings. She is a petite woman- thin frame and one of the only females I have seen in Africa who does not have an enormous bust. Her skin is clear and smooth – a creamy chocolate-brown color. Her eyes are a slanted almond shape. Her teeth are bright white, very straight, and – amazingly – all there. Every morning I hear the keys rattling down the hall and I know Foster is here when I hear her voice, singing to herself high and sweet, almost childlike. Although she arrives between 7 and 8am every morning she comes to my door shortly after she arrives, knocks gently and sing-songs, “Eleezabet?” Luckily, she has never caught me sleeping late but sometimes I am still in a state of morning confusion – bed sheets tousled and twisted, my hair sticking up in all directions. She doesn’t seem to mind though, “Mashubukeni, mukwai! Goot morning, Eleezabet!” she exclaims cheerfully, flashing her bright smile. She doesn’t wait for my sleepy response before she brushes past me, broom in hand, and begins to sweep the dirt and dust I have tracked in on my flip-flops. I love when she cleans the bathroom in the morning before I am up because this means the toilet will be cleared of all the critters that gathered there during the night: spiders, cockroaches, lizards. There is nothing so annoying as having to perform the duties of a pest exterminator with a bladder that is ready to burst.

So, Foster is on the phone. She is coming to get me to have Sunday lunch at her hut with her family. I am excited to have something to do on a Sunday afternoon, and a chance to get to know this sweet lady better. We walk together through Chilonga, past the stores and marketplace, to the more “residential” section of the village. She leads me to her home – a small hut made of mud, with a grass roof. The yard out front is spacious and tidy, just swept. Her husband, Joseph, walks toward me with a big smile, kind eyes – the perfect mate for sweet Foster. They introduce me to their daughter, Patricia, a teenager, who is bent over the outdoor fire. She is shy, lowering her eyes when I greet her. Leaving Patricia to manage the cooking, Joseph and Foster lead me into their hut. The sitting room is small, but big enough for two small couches, facing each other with a coffee table between them. In the corner of the room is a shelf, loaded with pots and pans, dishes, glasses, mugs. On the walls, covering the rough mud plaster like a patchwork quilt are a 1978 Scotland-Argentina World Cup banner, several pictures of a musungu Jesus with a crown of thorns, a woven picture of Santa Claus’ rosy face with a snow-covered American house in the background. Off of the sitting room are 3 bedrooms. No electricity or running water, although the nice furniture and decorated sitting room tells me they are doing all-right compared to some of the other huts I’ve seen.

We sit and talk of easy things – the weather, my work at the Mango Tree, corrupt politicians, the Chinese who have recently descended on the country to build schools, roads, etc. in an effort to make good relations with the Zambian government. Joseph pours me a glass and assures me the water was boiled and is safe to drink. I thank him and take a tentative sip as he describes the contents: water, mealy-meal, and munkoyo root. It is the color of iced-coffee at Starbucks, with lots of cream. Tastes very sweet, and yet a bitter after-taste. Very grainy. I am not a big fan but I drink it down quickly to try to get it over with. Bad move. Foster jumps up and refills my glass to the brim before I can decline. Oh well, I’ve decided I won’t decline anything they offer. Please God – nothing too smelly, or slimey! Joseph’s older sister arrives and I listen as they talk in Bemba for a while.

Finally, Patricia brings in four covered dishes. I hold my breath and start to silently pray. First lid is lifted – it is nshima, the staple dish of every Zambian meal and I was expecting it – it is very bland (made of mealy-meal, kind of like flour, and water) but I kind of like it. Second lid is lifted: cassava leaves – whew, I like this dish a lot, it is similar to cooked spinach. Third lid is lifted: rice with tomatoes – wow, I’m all set, I think. Suddenly remember Foster asking me earlier if I was vegetarian (to which I said ‘no’ and immediately kicked myself) and I start to get nervous. The last lid is lifted and Joseph announces triumphantly “fresh game, killed at 3 hours (3am) this very morning!” In an effort to verify the fresh factor, Joseph darts into the bedroom and comes out with a plastic basin. “See?” He pushed the basin towards my face so I can see what he is very excited to show me. “Oh, wow” is all I can manage to get out as I look into the basin and see the bloody meat inside. Also in the basin are the legs – still untouched with hair and little hooves. Before I can recover and ask what exactly this was before it became our dinner, Joseph pulls something out of the basin that had previously been hidden underneath the meat. The decapitated head of what looks like a very small deer (without antlers), eyes wide and glassy, stare at me directly. I can almost see the fear in it’s eyes, and I realize the last thing this poor animal saw was Joseph as he prepared to take it’s life – in order to present this feast to me! I feel guilty and nauseous all at once. Everyone starts to serve themselves. Excellent, I think to myself as I select the tiniest and least-revolting piece of dark something from the Pot de Bambi. Joseph immediately starts clicking his tongue disapprovingly and grabs the spoon from my hand. “Eleezabet, you must have more! You are too thin – here, this is the tastiest part.” On to my plate flops two more spoonfuls of Bambi. I say thank you enthusiastically, trying to mask my panic. Lord, please help me to get through this. Upon a closer look, I discover that there actually is no meat on my plate. As it happens, the “tastiest” part of this animal, of which I am the lucky recipient, is in fact the innards. I wish I had been in a clear state of mind so I could have thought to snap a picture, but I was too concentrated on the plate before me to think of blogs and such. I can only describe it as best as I can. There are three large and lovely pieces on my plate and they all look very different. One is smooth, black and flat. I go for that first. Very dense, very black all the way through. Liver, possibly. The second piece closely resembles a human ear: smooth, curled and folded – and about the same chewy texture as I imagine an ear would be. At this point I am sweating. I keep thinking of Fear Factor – and how I probably would rather jump off a building than eat this right now. But I am determined. This will not beat me. I will not let my stomach reject this food. Images of me gagging, losing my dinner in the middle of their hut – the horror of offending and disappointing sweet Foster in such a way keeps my gut in check. I keep shoveling in the nshima, rice and cassava to help it all slide down easier. The final piece on my plate is seriously daunting. A perfectly round, grey, bubble-looking thing about the size of an eye (it isn’t, thank you Lord) is attached to a flat, bumpy piece with a few pieces of hair still attached….I can not even begin to identify and think better not to know. “So tasty,” comments Foster as I take a bite. “Mmmm,” I say. Lord, please.

I am pleased to say I cleaned my plate. As I hand Foster my empty dish I feel like I have just done something extraordinary – run a marathon or something. Still sweating, I lean back on the sofa and send my silent thanks to heaven. I am able to relax as we talk some more. Foster’s 2-year old grandson – completely adorable – waddles into the hut from out in the yard where he had been playing, takes one look at my white face, screeches in terror, and takes off running as fast as his toddler legs can take him. Joseph’s sister says her goodbyes, promising to have me over to her hut for dinner soon. I take pictures of Foster and Joseph and then say my thanks again and wave good-bye. Stop at the Storefront and grab a Coke, hoping that will normalize my slightly unsettled stomach.

All in all, a nice Sunday afternoon. Feeling pleased with myself, empowered. Maybe I am not such a wuss, after all.