One of my favorite stories of the year is eight words long, half of them the same word, and comes from a ten year old kid from Kalabwe, the village where the Project Manager for Mwange lived. Being young and from a Bemba speaking region, he speaks limited English, but he can convey an incredible amount of information with one of the most unique communication styles I have heard. He is very animated, really only uses nouns and verbs and thinks almost every English word is preceded by the word “to”. Having conversations with him is awesome. This is the story he told the Mwange Project Manager one day when her cat got in a fight with a snake. (Note that “push” is my approximation of the variation on “puss” that people use here, and “bush” is the forest/woods.) Here is the story:
To push. To bush. To snake. To fighting.
I'm convinced he's the Bemba Homer.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wedding in Zambia
We went to a wedding the day after Christmas. It was our first Zambian Christian wedding, so we looked forward to the cultural experience. We have also been here long enough that we braced for the inevitable cultural frustrations.
We should note here that we didn't know the couple getting married (but we were invited). We were going to the function with our former neighbors, a husband and wife. We arrived at their house to pick them up, and they were not there. However, the wife’s sister and two of the couple’s children were there, so we took them to the church. The other child was a flower girl and was already there. We were a half an hour late and to our shock, the service had already started.
In many ways, this was the most familiar wedding service we have been to here. We went to a Zambian Muslim wedding, and Nick went to a Congolese Christian wedding Meheba, both of which felt very different from the American weddings we are used to. The ceremony for this one was very familiar. (It probably helped that it was a Catholic mass, so it was pretty standardized.) If you took away the young man wearing the Confederate flag t-shirt with “The South Shall Rise Again” across the front, it almost felt normal.
The ceremony ended around 12:30, and the reception did not start until 15:00, so we killed some time buying snacks for our upcoming trip with Nick’s sister to Namibia. Nick also got a haircut. We found his barber asleep on two chairs. We asked if he had partied too much on Christmas, but he said no. He was on medication. Nick still let him cut his hair.
We went back to our former neighbor’s house to pick them up for the reception. The wife was ready, but the husband decided not to go. The wife’s brother took his place. The wife’s sister also came. We’re pretty sure neither she nor the brother were invited, but our neighbor talked/pushed her way through the bouncers at the reception venue. We arrived at the reception at around 15:30 and waited a good two hours for it to start because the bridal party and the bride and groom were not there. They finally did arrive in a few cars with people sitting out the windows and a lot of honking. The bridal party proceeded to dance up and down the aisle a few times provocatively to much enthusiasm from the crowd. Everything much be danced. The knife must be very slowly danced in to cut the cake. The cakes must then be danced out to be cut and served. Most of the reception seemed to involve things being danced up and down the aisle. The food was good, though, and luckily did not have to be danced anywhere. In fact, it was very orderly distributed. There was a line, people respected it, and it moved fast.
Finally, it was time for the speeches. Each side of the family had a representative give a speech. One of the groom’s relatives spoke for his side of the family. He was about our age (30ish), and he started off by saying that he knew many people were wondering how someone so young can speak for the family. He said he would explain. His explanation dealt with his relationship to the groom and was as follows: “Not only is he my brother, he is also my grandson.” This did not clarify a thing. In fact, it raised many more questions in my mind. But, alas, these went unanswered. He did not elaborate further.
We left a little early because it was getting dark, but a lot of people were also leaving. We drove away as the fireworks that explode all over the city these festive days began their nightly assault. Ahh, Christmas time in Zambia.
We should note here that we didn't know the couple getting married (but we were invited). We were going to the function with our former neighbors, a husband and wife. We arrived at their house to pick them up, and they were not there. However, the wife’s sister and two of the couple’s children were there, so we took them to the church. The other child was a flower girl and was already there. We were a half an hour late and to our shock, the service had already started.
In many ways, this was the most familiar wedding service we have been to here. We went to a Zambian Muslim wedding, and Nick went to a Congolese Christian wedding Meheba, both of which felt very different from the American weddings we are used to. The ceremony for this one was very familiar. (It probably helped that it was a Catholic mass, so it was pretty standardized.) If you took away the young man wearing the Confederate flag t-shirt with “The South Shall Rise Again” across the front, it almost felt normal.
The ceremony ended around 12:30, and the reception did not start until 15:00, so we killed some time buying snacks for our upcoming trip with Nick’s sister to Namibia. Nick also got a haircut. We found his barber asleep on two chairs. We asked if he had partied too much on Christmas, but he said no. He was on medication. Nick still let him cut his hair.
We went back to our former neighbor’s house to pick them up for the reception. The wife was ready, but the husband decided not to go. The wife’s brother took his place. The wife’s sister also came. We’re pretty sure neither she nor the brother were invited, but our neighbor talked/pushed her way through the bouncers at the reception venue. We arrived at the reception at around 15:30 and waited a good two hours for it to start because the bridal party and the bride and groom were not there. They finally did arrive in a few cars with people sitting out the windows and a lot of honking. The bridal party proceeded to dance up and down the aisle a few times provocatively to much enthusiasm from the crowd. Everything much be danced. The knife must be very slowly danced in to cut the cake. The cakes must then be danced out to be cut and served. Most of the reception seemed to involve things being danced up and down the aisle. The food was good, though, and luckily did not have to be danced anywhere. In fact, it was very orderly distributed. There was a line, people respected it, and it moved fast.
Finally, it was time for the speeches. Each side of the family had a representative give a speech. One of the groom’s relatives spoke for his side of the family. He was about our age (30ish), and he started off by saying that he knew many people were wondering how someone so young can speak for the family. He said he would explain. His explanation dealt with his relationship to the groom and was as follows: “Not only is he my brother, he is also my grandson.” This did not clarify a thing. In fact, it raised many more questions in my mind. But, alas, these went unanswered. He did not elaborate further.
We left a little early because it was getting dark, but a lot of people were also leaving. We drove away as the fireworks that explode all over the city these festive days began their nightly assault. Ahh, Christmas time in Zambia.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Gilbert Part II
...Continued from the previous post
When the car came to a stop there was a brief second where everyone kind of sat there, but it didn't last long. We were all okay, and I got out of the car. The whole village had already gathered around. They seemed angry at Gilbert, and I was a little worried some of that anger would be projected onto me. I took out my phone immediately and saw that I had no service. I usually carry other SIM cards with me, but I had lost my MTN card earlier in the trip. All I had was Zain, which is the company that usually has the most widespread coverage. I asked the children who were pressing in if there was any coverage. “Zain?” They all shook their heads. “Only MTN.” Visions of spending the night by the road or in this village danced in my head. Then a man tapped me on the shoulder and said there was an anthill nearby. We climbed to the top and I started looking for service.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Turned the phone off and on again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then, miraculously (maybe you wondered why I'm writing this on Christmas), bars of reception. I immediately called Stan and told him to send his driver. He couldn't really understand me. The call ended. He called back and asked where I was. I told him right outside town, still on the tarmac. The call ended.
When I got back down to the car, it was clear that all the anger of the villagers was directed at Gilbert. He still looked dazed, like he was shocked that this could have happened. He came up to me and said, “I have a problem.” No shit, Gilbert! Your car is in a ditch, your steering column is locked up and the whole village, especially the owner of that tomato stand, is sending bad juju your way. He wanted money to help him get out of his problem, and I told him absolutely not. I told him that he owed me money. The older Zambian woman who had been his passenger voiced her solidarity with that statement. I felt emboldened, so I started pushing him to give me my money back. On some level I knew it was a lost cause.
Just then, Stan's driver drove up fast and stopped hard in a solid, fully functioning vehicle. Gilbert and I argued for awhile more. He didn't have money to refund me (it was in the gas tank). He wanted to refund it to Stan's driver once he had it. That way I wouldn't pay Stan's driver for gas. Intelligently, Stan's driver refused. Finally I made Gilbert sign a receipt for the fuel and also sign a scrap of paper promising to pay the money to the Kala Project Manager on my behalf. When I got home, I stamped it with the FORGE stamp to make it official.
The older Zambian woman and I got into Stan's driver's car, and we sped off. We left Gilbert in the dust with that dazed expression still on his face. It was getting late. If everything went perfectly we would reach Mwange just as the sun was going down. I wasn't sure how long Audrey and Laura would wait.
The older Zambian woman spent half the ride praying her rosary and the other half with her hands in a devotional pose, palms open to the sky. I think it kind of freaked the driver out. He kept looking over at her, but I guess she was just thanking God that she had survived Gilbert. When our driver deftly navigated the famous Bweupe bad spot, I started to believe that we actually might make it. I watched the sun and my watch the entire journey.
We pulled into the Mwange police station during that period after the sun has set but there is still some light in the sky. Audrey and Laura were just about to go home after arranging with the police for me to spend the night there if I arrived. The older Zambian woman got out of the car and hugged Audrey like she was a long lost relative. She was traveling on to Mporokoso, so she and the driver left pretty much right away, she praising Jesus the whole way.
Every time I passed through Kawambwa after that (which was often), I looked for Gilbert. I never found him.
Epilogue
On my last trip to Mwange and Kala, I found myself again looking for a ride from Kawambwa to Mwange. Someone at UNHCR recommended that I call Kwame. I called him and he said he would come. I assumed Kwame was a driver, but it turns out he is just a guy who arranges rides. He arrived and called me to tell me he was outside of the UNHCR offices. I grabbed my bag and went outside.
There sat Gilbert. He was with another man who turned out to be Kwame. They were in a car that looked only semi-crappy. Gilbert pretended not to remember me. I reminded him. We argued for awhile. I actually put my bag in his trunk before I was like “What am I doing?” I demanded my money back. He told me the fuel was still in his old car which was still in the shop. I told him to go get it. Realizing he wasn't going to get this fare, he said okay, gave me what I assume is a fake phone number (I never even tried it), and told me to call him in 15 minutes. Realizing I wasn't going to get my money back, I said okay and walked away.
When the car came to a stop there was a brief second where everyone kind of sat there, but it didn't last long. We were all okay, and I got out of the car. The whole village had already gathered around. They seemed angry at Gilbert, and I was a little worried some of that anger would be projected onto me. I took out my phone immediately and saw that I had no service. I usually carry other SIM cards with me, but I had lost my MTN card earlier in the trip. All I had was Zain, which is the company that usually has the most widespread coverage. I asked the children who were pressing in if there was any coverage. “Zain?” They all shook their heads. “Only MTN.” Visions of spending the night by the road or in this village danced in my head. Then a man tapped me on the shoulder and said there was an anthill nearby. We climbed to the top and I started looking for service.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Turned the phone off and on again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then, miraculously (maybe you wondered why I'm writing this on Christmas), bars of reception. I immediately called Stan and told him to send his driver. He couldn't really understand me. The call ended. He called back and asked where I was. I told him right outside town, still on the tarmac. The call ended.
When I got back down to the car, it was clear that all the anger of the villagers was directed at Gilbert. He still looked dazed, like he was shocked that this could have happened. He came up to me and said, “I have a problem.” No shit, Gilbert! Your car is in a ditch, your steering column is locked up and the whole village, especially the owner of that tomato stand, is sending bad juju your way. He wanted money to help him get out of his problem, and I told him absolutely not. I told him that he owed me money. The older Zambian woman who had been his passenger voiced her solidarity with that statement. I felt emboldened, so I started pushing him to give me my money back. On some level I knew it was a lost cause.
Just then, Stan's driver drove up fast and stopped hard in a solid, fully functioning vehicle. Gilbert and I argued for awhile more. He didn't have money to refund me (it was in the gas tank). He wanted to refund it to Stan's driver once he had it. That way I wouldn't pay Stan's driver for gas. Intelligently, Stan's driver refused. Finally I made Gilbert sign a receipt for the fuel and also sign a scrap of paper promising to pay the money to the Kala Project Manager on my behalf. When I got home, I stamped it with the FORGE stamp to make it official.
The older Zambian woman and I got into Stan's driver's car, and we sped off. We left Gilbert in the dust with that dazed expression still on his face. It was getting late. If everything went perfectly we would reach Mwange just as the sun was going down. I wasn't sure how long Audrey and Laura would wait.
The older Zambian woman spent half the ride praying her rosary and the other half with her hands in a devotional pose, palms open to the sky. I think it kind of freaked the driver out. He kept looking over at her, but I guess she was just thanking God that she had survived Gilbert. When our driver deftly navigated the famous Bweupe bad spot, I started to believe that we actually might make it. I watched the sun and my watch the entire journey.
We pulled into the Mwange police station during that period after the sun has set but there is still some light in the sky. Audrey and Laura were just about to go home after arranging with the police for me to spend the night there if I arrived. The older Zambian woman got out of the car and hugged Audrey like she was a long lost relative. She was traveling on to Mporokoso, so she and the driver left pretty much right away, she praising Jesus the whole way.
Every time I passed through Kawambwa after that (which was often), I looked for Gilbert. I never found him.
Epilogue
On my last trip to Mwange and Kala, I found myself again looking for a ride from Kawambwa to Mwange. Someone at UNHCR recommended that I call Kwame. I called him and he said he would come. I assumed Kwame was a driver, but it turns out he is just a guy who arranges rides. He arrived and called me to tell me he was outside of the UNHCR offices. I grabbed my bag and went outside.
There sat Gilbert. He was with another man who turned out to be Kwame. They were in a car that looked only semi-crappy. Gilbert pretended not to remember me. I reminded him. We argued for awhile. I actually put my bag in his trunk before I was like “What am I doing?” I demanded my money back. He told me the fuel was still in his old car which was still in the shop. I told him to go get it. Realizing he wasn't going to get this fare, he said okay, gave me what I assume is a fake phone number (I never even tried it), and told me to call him in 15 minutes. Realizing I wasn't going to get my money back, I said okay and walked away.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Gilbert Part I
In the last post I wrote, I alluded to a minor car crash I was involved in earlier this year. There's a longer story there, and I was not going to write about it because it felt like the time had passed, but on my last trip to Kala and Mwange part of it came back around. So, in the interest of reflecting back on the year that is coming to an end, here is one of the more ridiculous episodes I have experienced in the past twelve months...
This was all back in May. I was in Kawambwa, where I often found myself in those days, trying to find a ride to Mwange to meet up with Audrey, who was there doing a training, and Laura, our Project Manager in the camp. I was with the most talkative person in the world, a refugee from Kala who is a good friend. (I one time saw him literally talk Audrey under a table.) He was trying to help me find transport, but we were failing, and he was lamenting the lack of trade between Kawambwa and Mporokoso, which he saw as the root cause of our inability to find me a ride. Out of cheap options, we started asking around for taxi drivers. Stan, our usual go to guy, couldn't do it himself. (He was probably thinking about the last time he took me that direction. Also, this was before we had really established him as our go to guy.) He did have a friend who could take me. Unfortunately, the price was higher than I was willing to pay. We wandered over to another nice looking car. Some kids hanging around it told us the driver could take us for less. We asked to talk to him.
That's when I met Gilbert. He had what I took as a friendly smile. I was wrong. It was the smile of a jackass, someone who is a moron and tickled to death about it. He said he could take me for the lower price, but he had to find one more passenger. We waited and waited, and I really had no time because it was starting to get late. Finally, I told him I would pay for the other passenger's fare if we could leave right away. Right away is a much broader concept in Zambia than it is in America. There's “just now,” which means no time soon. There's “now now,” which can mean sooner but still nowhere near what we understand as right away. After he screwed around for what I took to be too long, I told Gilbert we needed to leave “now now now now now”.
He led me to a very crappy car, not the relatively nice one we had negotiated in front of. He had to open the trunk with a screw driver. This should have been the end of it. I should have walked away. Stan was there with his friend and looked skeptical. I mentioned that I could go with him instead, but he said no – I think some kind of taxi driver's code of honor about not stealing customers. I asked if he thought the car could make it, and he said yes. My friend from Kala also said it should be okay, but he too looked skeptical. I got in the car and, as always, had to pay for the fuel up front. In Kawambwa, at the time, there was no gas station, so you just had guys with containers of gas that they siphoned into your tank. No taxi in town ever has enough gas in it for a long journey when you get in, so you have to give the driver part of your fare for fuel. So I forked over a good portion of my fare, and then in my mind there was no turning back.
Gilbert had one older Zambian woman as a passenger, and she sat in the front. He had a friend who sat next to me. Then there was this kid who I am not sure what his deal was who sat in the back seat with us as well. Gilbert and the friend had to stop and buy cigarettes and packets (small plastic pouches of alcohol) as “supplies” for the journey. They were wasting a lot of time, and I was getting angrier. Then we stopped at Gilbert's village. He had to pick up a bicycle pump because “no one can help us out there.” It is true that the Kawambwa-Mporokoso road is remote. It is false that a bike pump would do you any good.
Finally, we got on our way. Gilbert's friend had already started drinking packets and wanted to show me his driver's license. I did not care because he was not driving and would not be driving because of the packets issue. Also, if Gilbert tried to start drinking packets, I would have to forbid it. It never came to that, though.
We had been driving about five minutes. We were still on tarmac, which doesn't last very far outside of Kawambwa. Ahead, there was a bend in the road. The road turned. Gilbert did not.
As we went flying off the road toward the ditch where we would finally come to rest, I thought about how stupid I was and about the utter impossibility that this journey could have ended well. I paused to take note of the tomato stand we destroyed on our way to the ditch. It was little more than a bunch of sticks precariously balanced on top of each other, a typical roadside stand here. I took a mental picture when the sticks were suspended in the air for a split second, framed by the front windshield. I realized I was not at all surprised that this was happening, and I didn't really feel engaged in the action. I think the woman was screaming, but I felt like I was watching this happen to some other group of people. Maybe it was because anyone could have called this ending from the moment he opened that trunk with a screw driver. There has to be a lesson here somewhere.
(To be continued in the next post...)
This was all back in May. I was in Kawambwa, where I often found myself in those days, trying to find a ride to Mwange to meet up with Audrey, who was there doing a training, and Laura, our Project Manager in the camp. I was with the most talkative person in the world, a refugee from Kala who is a good friend. (I one time saw him literally talk Audrey under a table.) He was trying to help me find transport, but we were failing, and he was lamenting the lack of trade between Kawambwa and Mporokoso, which he saw as the root cause of our inability to find me a ride. Out of cheap options, we started asking around for taxi drivers. Stan, our usual go to guy, couldn't do it himself. (He was probably thinking about the last time he took me that direction. Also, this was before we had really established him as our go to guy.) He did have a friend who could take me. Unfortunately, the price was higher than I was willing to pay. We wandered over to another nice looking car. Some kids hanging around it told us the driver could take us for less. We asked to talk to him.
That's when I met Gilbert. He had what I took as a friendly smile. I was wrong. It was the smile of a jackass, someone who is a moron and tickled to death about it. He said he could take me for the lower price, but he had to find one more passenger. We waited and waited, and I really had no time because it was starting to get late. Finally, I told him I would pay for the other passenger's fare if we could leave right away. Right away is a much broader concept in Zambia than it is in America. There's “just now,” which means no time soon. There's “now now,” which can mean sooner but still nowhere near what we understand as right away. After he screwed around for what I took to be too long, I told Gilbert we needed to leave “now now now now now”.
He led me to a very crappy car, not the relatively nice one we had negotiated in front of. He had to open the trunk with a screw driver. This should have been the end of it. I should have walked away. Stan was there with his friend and looked skeptical. I mentioned that I could go with him instead, but he said no – I think some kind of taxi driver's code of honor about not stealing customers. I asked if he thought the car could make it, and he said yes. My friend from Kala also said it should be okay, but he too looked skeptical. I got in the car and, as always, had to pay for the fuel up front. In Kawambwa, at the time, there was no gas station, so you just had guys with containers of gas that they siphoned into your tank. No taxi in town ever has enough gas in it for a long journey when you get in, so you have to give the driver part of your fare for fuel. So I forked over a good portion of my fare, and then in my mind there was no turning back.
Gilbert had one older Zambian woman as a passenger, and she sat in the front. He had a friend who sat next to me. Then there was this kid who I am not sure what his deal was who sat in the back seat with us as well. Gilbert and the friend had to stop and buy cigarettes and packets (small plastic pouches of alcohol) as “supplies” for the journey. They were wasting a lot of time, and I was getting angrier. Then we stopped at Gilbert's village. He had to pick up a bicycle pump because “no one can help us out there.” It is true that the Kawambwa-Mporokoso road is remote. It is false that a bike pump would do you any good.
Finally, we got on our way. Gilbert's friend had already started drinking packets and wanted to show me his driver's license. I did not care because he was not driving and would not be driving because of the packets issue. Also, if Gilbert tried to start drinking packets, I would have to forbid it. It never came to that, though.
We had been driving about five minutes. We were still on tarmac, which doesn't last very far outside of Kawambwa. Ahead, there was a bend in the road. The road turned. Gilbert did not.
As we went flying off the road toward the ditch where we would finally come to rest, I thought about how stupid I was and about the utter impossibility that this journey could have ended well. I paused to take note of the tomato stand we destroyed on our way to the ditch. It was little more than a bunch of sticks precariously balanced on top of each other, a typical roadside stand here. I took a mental picture when the sticks were suspended in the air for a split second, framed by the front windshield. I realized I was not at all surprised that this was happening, and I didn't really feel engaged in the action. I think the woman was screaming, but I felt like I was watching this happen to some other group of people. Maybe it was because anyone could have called this ending from the moment he opened that trunk with a screw driver. There has to be a lesson here somewhere.
(To be continued in the next post...)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Last Kala/Mwange Trip
I have been to all three camps in the past two weeks. I left the day after Thanksgiving for Mwange and Kala to finish up FORGE's phase out there, and I continued on to Meheba after two short days in Lusaka.
The Mwange and Kala trip was hectic and in keeping with how these trips normally go, only more so. It featured one day in which I biked 40 miles from Mwange to Mporokoso, the nearest town, and back on very little food. The same day, our life saving taxi driver Stan drove me from Mwange to Kala after all other transport options fell through. During each trip up this direction, Stan has stepped up and saved the day. He is the one who drove us on our adventure to the waterfalls back in March. He sent a rescue car for me when the one I was in crashed a couple months later (more on that in the next blog). This latest and last trip with him involved some very difficult driving. We got stuck in the mud once but managed to push our way out. Then he ran out of gas on a desolate stretch of the desolate Mporokoso/Kawambwa road. He had more gas in the trunk, but, after he put it in, the car wouldn't start and we had to push again. We did eventually get to Kala pretty late and pretty hungry, and we left a bike seat in the trunk (we later got it back). But one last adventure with Stan fishtailing around on a muddy road brought things full circle.
The next day we loaded a Canter truck with all of FORGE Kala and Mwange's remaining possessions, drove into Kawambwa and spent the night. We left the next morning for Lusaka at 5:00. At about 7:30, I heard what sounded like a muffled backfire and glanced at the driver's side mirror to see smoke pouring out of the bottom of the truck. We spent the next two hours on the side of the road trying to find the proper replacement piece and, when that failed, trying to fashion a solution that would hold until we reached the next town. At one point, some men built a fire and tried to “stretch out” an iron pipe using heat and a big stick. Finally a solution was arrived at, but it only lasted about one kilometer before failing. We bussed into the next town and hung around for four hours until the driver bought the correct part, returned to the broken Canter, fixed it, and drove back into town to pick us up. We got to Lusaka at 8:00 the next morning after stopping a few times to pour water on the overheating engine and perform various other tasks that would allow us to reach the destination. When all was said and done, the trip lasted 27 hours.
So that was my last trip to Kala and Mwange. It couldn't have ended any other way.
Here's the view out the back of the Canter as we left the infamous Kala kids behind forever...
The Mwange and Kala trip was hectic and in keeping with how these trips normally go, only more so. It featured one day in which I biked 40 miles from Mwange to Mporokoso, the nearest town, and back on very little food. The same day, our life saving taxi driver Stan drove me from Mwange to Kala after all other transport options fell through. During each trip up this direction, Stan has stepped up and saved the day. He is the one who drove us on our adventure to the waterfalls back in March. He sent a rescue car for me when the one I was in crashed a couple months later (more on that in the next blog). This latest and last trip with him involved some very difficult driving. We got stuck in the mud once but managed to push our way out. Then he ran out of gas on a desolate stretch of the desolate Mporokoso/Kawambwa road. He had more gas in the trunk, but, after he put it in, the car wouldn't start and we had to push again. We did eventually get to Kala pretty late and pretty hungry, and we left a bike seat in the trunk (we later got it back). But one last adventure with Stan fishtailing around on a muddy road brought things full circle.
The next day we loaded a Canter truck with all of FORGE Kala and Mwange's remaining possessions, drove into Kawambwa and spent the night. We left the next morning for Lusaka at 5:00. At about 7:30, I heard what sounded like a muffled backfire and glanced at the driver's side mirror to see smoke pouring out of the bottom of the truck. We spent the next two hours on the side of the road trying to find the proper replacement piece and, when that failed, trying to fashion a solution that would hold until we reached the next town. At one point, some men built a fire and tried to “stretch out” an iron pipe using heat and a big stick. Finally a solution was arrived at, but it only lasted about one kilometer before failing. We bussed into the next town and hung around for four hours until the driver bought the correct part, returned to the broken Canter, fixed it, and drove back into town to pick us up. We got to Lusaka at 8:00 the next morning after stopping a few times to pour water on the overheating engine and perform various other tasks that would allow us to reach the destination. When all was said and done, the trip lasted 27 hours.
So that was my last trip to Kala and Mwange. It couldn't have ended any other way.
Here's the view out the back of the Canter as we left the infamous Kala kids behind forever...
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Honesty
People here are brutally honest. I don't appreciate this when people say, "You look fat today" or "What's wrong with your face?" (both have happened) but today it worked in my favor.
I was out walking around our new neighborhood and the sky looked ominous. I wanted to make a few stops before it rained. First I went into an internet cafe to ask if their connection is fast enough for Skype. The woman working there flat out told me that it is not fast without beating around the bush. I am happy that I didn't waste time or money trying it out.
I then stopped to buy some veggies at a roadside stand. The tomatoes I first spotted didn't look fresh so I asked the vendor if he had better ones. He told me that he didn't, again with no sales pitch or excuses. I moved on without wasting any time and made it home before it rained.
-Audrey
I was out walking around our new neighborhood and the sky looked ominous. I wanted to make a few stops before it rained. First I went into an internet cafe to ask if their connection is fast enough for Skype. The woman working there flat out told me that it is not fast without beating around the bush. I am happy that I didn't waste time or money trying it out.
I then stopped to buy some veggies at a roadside stand. The tomatoes I first spotted didn't look fresh so I asked the vendor if he had better ones. He told me that he didn't, again with no sales pitch or excuses. I moved on without wasting any time and made it home before it rained.
-Audrey
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