Favorites

It may seem that my stories of Z revolve around the difficulties and frustrations. I write about the things that left me scratching my head since those most easily show the culture hiccups and clashes I experienced. I mean them not, per se, as a comment on all of Zambian society. They are merely a recounted story of how I got through my days and what bizarre things I met along the way.

However, now that I'm back in Americaland and seeing it as a foreigner, I'm feeling nostalgic for what I can't find here. So, here are some of my favorite things, minus the people. (By the way, you should know I miss you). Without further qualification:

Harvey Tile advertisements. For example, "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a baby without nappies. It might be leaking." "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a hospital without doctors. There might be deaths."

Houses painted with actual colors, instead of shades of grey, brown, and black.

Walking as a common means of transportation.

The excitement of a good hitch.

Laughter, as long as it's with and not at.

Nshima. Yes, I actually enjoyed it. Well, as long as meat wasn't involved. Along with this, I must add softies in glass bottles, avocados, and mangos.

Students who sacrifice and save for their education.

Zampop and singing in general.

The interesting man who worked at the ice-cream shop in Kamwala market.

Kamwala market.

Chitenges.

The post-rain smell, if not the post-rain mud.

Landscapes and skies that defy description.

Laughing with the elderly women I passed on the way to work as I tried to spin the "I love you"s coming from random guys as being pointed at them.

Eavesdropping on Chinese construction workers, to the degree that I was able.

Cairo Road. Love it or hate it, it's a defining feature of life in Lusaka. If you haven't walked down Cairo road lately, you haven't really been living.

Ghandi's.

Laundry on the line.

Names

Zambia taught me to lie, at least a little. I think most people who have known me for some time would consider me a somewhat guarded, private person. But, somewhere along the way (probably in China), that changed. So, I moved to a country where there's no such thing as "strangers" and where conversation and making friends is a perfectly fine hobby to have. That's just great, except when I don't get to choose who my friends are and when they show up. I learned the hard way that being honest with strangers, especially about where you work and live or what your address or phone number is, is a very stupid thing to do. I'm not really in the habit of giving out my personal data so easily, but I'm also not accustomed to being asked point blank, "Where do you stay?" "Where do you work?" "What's your name?" Especially when the asker is clearly drunk or old and of addled brain.

There are some good stories to go along with my stupid mistakes of telling the truth after being caught off guard by a personal question, but those will have to wait.

Instead, here are some of the lies I managed to come up with.

Name? Mwape, Faith, Charity, Marie, or whatever popped into my brain most recently. Ever wanted to get a whole bus to roar with laughter? Let the white girl on the bus say her name is "Mwape". That gets them going.

Do you stay this side? No, no, I'm visiting a friend.

Where do you stay? Other side. (Apparently, this completely unclear response is perfectly acceptable and understandable to a Zambian. I, however, didn't even understand it when I gave it.)

Where do you work? Oh, I work at ZNBC. Oh, I work for a bank. I don't have a job. I'm a volunteer (the one word that people seem to understand and will accept quickly. Thanks PC Zambia!)

Are you married? Yes.

How long? For three years.

Do you have children? No. (Well, that's true. Sometimes the truth is just easier.)

They aren't so creative to say the least, but I learned to quickly and confidently respond with anything BUT my real information!

The Trip That Wasn't

Back to storytelling...

I had been in the country for something close to 6 months. I was getting stir-crazy. People all around me, Zambians and expats alike, were telling stories of adventures across international borders. I hadn't been this country-locked in quite a while, thanks to former employment that provided a month-long winter holiday (in exchange for giving up Christmas, we got New Years) and an ample selection of nearby vacation spots on the cheap. So, what's a girl to do? Normally, I'd talk to coworker-friends and try to arrange something, but that wasn't possible in the current situation.

So, I decided to venture out alone. Zimbabwe being the nearest country, it was chosen as the weekend destination. I had a long weekend coming up (some holiday or protest or election or something; it slips my memory now), and I was determined not to waste it doing laundry and visiting Pick-N-Pay. I sorted through guide-book suggestions of lodging and decided to book the cheapest available (stupidity part 2. Part 1? See "Hong Kong Travel"). There wasn't much to choose from, and the cheapest available wasn't so cheap. But, since I'd be taking a bus, it would all even out. As a world-wise international traveler, I wasn't stupid enough to attempt to book a bus ticket a week in advance or to try to get one the same day. I made my way to the Intercity Bus Terminus the day before I hoped to travel in order to buy a ticket. I kept my shoulders back and my eyes averted. Still, a number of people insisted on helping the Muzungu. I sincerely wonder if there's a "white girl" alarm that someone at that bus station sounds on sight. I decided to stop fighting the system and see if it could work. I let one nice-enough guy lead me to the Harare bus area. We approached the counter. Could I buy a ticket for tomorrow? No, go see the men at the buses. Excuse me, could I please buy a ticket for the bus to Harare tomorrow? No, you just need to come a couple of hours before the bus leaves. Are you sure? Sure. (Back to the window) Is there any way I can buy a seat today for a bus to Harare tomorrow? No, come back tomorrow. Somewhat dejected, I shook my new friend's hand, secretly passed him 10 pin, and went on my way.

The following day after work, I headed back to Intercity. My bag was packed, my hostel was booked, and I was completely ready for a long, hot ride and whatever adventures lay along the way. This time I didn't accept the offers for help and found the correct bus all on my own. As I asked for a seat, I was informed they were all sold out. "Why didn't you buy a ticket yesterday?" the thoughtful gentleman kindly asked.

Oswald, Part 2

(The story begins a few months after "Oswald, Part1")

Me: "Hello?"

Him: "Hi Jenica."

Me: "I'm sorry, who is this?"

Him (w/whiny, wounded tone of voice): "What, you don't remember me?"

Me: "No, I'm sorry. Could you please tell me who you are?"

Him: "It's Oswald."

Me: "I'm sorry, Oswald who? I don't think I know an Oswald."

Him: "Oswald, from the Woodlands Post Office."

Me: "Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

Him: "You have a parcel here. Can you come get it?"

Me: "Well, I'm at work right now."

Him: "So, when will you come get it?"

Me: "I'm not sure, but I'll try to make it this week."

Oswald, Part 1

This is my story of Oswald, the world's worst post office worker who still has a job. First, a few explanations of the Zambia Post Office are needed. In Lusaka, there aren't really individual mail boxes. No, scratch that. There are no individual mail boxes at houses. There are post office boxes at, as one might guess, the Post Office. I inquired into the cost of renting one such box. I am old fashioned in some ways, and I still enjoy sending and, especially while living the expat life, receiving snail mail. So, how much would it be to rent one? Exactly correct. 500,000 kwacha for the year, or, roughly $100 USD. I love letters, but really? $100? I just couldn't see any cost-benefit in that hefty price. However, one doesn't need to rent anything to receive packages. When I told my friends that I could receive parcel post but not letters, it wasn't a joke.

To receive such a package, I first had to visit the Main Post Office, at the corner of Cairo and Church Roads. One day before work, I went early and lined up. I explained the situation (I'd like to receive a package from the U.S. How do I do that?), and I was given the correct mailing address for my home. Interestingly, part of that address included my personal cell phone number. I laughed at my triumph, actually accomplishing what I set out to do, and walked to work.

The package receiving process works this way. Presumably, a package arrives with my name and address. The postal worker sees it, reads the phone number, and calls to inform me that I've received a package. Some time within the next two weeks, I search for a day when I can make it to my neighborhood post office before 4:30 p.m. and pick it up. I arrive, give my name, fake an NRC number, show I.D., sign 5 different lines, and pay a fee. At this point, the package is mine. Alternatively, there is also a delivery service, but I must be home at the time for the delivery boy to drop off the item. This only worked one time. Inexplicably, the delivery service does not include any fees.

Receiving a package from home is, for the foreign teacher, a way to get through the rough times. Just the fact that someone cares enough to go through the hassle of picking out items, carefully packing them, and paying to ship them to across the ocean makes you feel like your life matters to someone, even if it's not to anyone in your immediate vicinity. My sister is the best package sender ever. She deserves an award. She sent great boxes that included a glass jar of salsa, sheets, tortillas, magazines so I can pretend to keep up with fashion trends and celebrity gossip, art, scarves, and the essentials that couldn't make it into my 2-bag limit. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my first package from home in Zambia.

Enter Oswald.

Ah Oswald. Sometimes, life is too easy, so an instigator is sent to mess with you. This is the only explanation possible for the presence of Oswald in my Zamlife. Oswald's job, from what I gather, is searching the back room for parcels and handing the parcels to the customer. He also seems to be the one who is meant to call customers when a parcel has arrived for them. Additionally, he delivers parcels, on occasion.

I left work and walked home - a bounce in my step on the 1.5 hour walk down Church Road and Independence Avenue. I was going to the Woodlands Post Office to pick up my first package. Excitement hurried me on. I got there. I gave my name. The young guy went to the back to get the package. He put it on the counter. He didn't speak. What was I supposed to do? Could I just take it? "No, you have to sign for it," he said with sarcasm, a hint of a smile...perhaps a challenge? He gave me a look, a knowing look, as if he knew me. As if he ever could. My skin crawled. Give me my box already. I signed the line where he indicated. I waited. He stared. I waited longer. I had been in Zambia long enough to know how to play this game without getting frustrated, but I was still wary of his intentions. Could I take my box and leave? Slowly, he flipped through the pages and showed that I needed to sign some more lines. Good. Was it really that hard being a postal worker? Couldn't he have just showed me that to begin with? I promised myself not to show any outward signs of impatience, then wondered if he'd even be able to read them on a muzungu. I was finally granted ownership of the box, and I hurriedly carried it home. I forgot the strange encounter at the post office as I went through the box's contents. I sent a thank-you email, text, and facebook post. There is no such thing as superfluity when a sister mails a box to a foreign country. Oswald didn't dampen my happiness that day, but soon my dealings at the post-office would carry the twin emotions of excitment and dread.

"Opportunity", or, The Sour Taste of Promises Unkept

In case you happen to be unfamiliar with Sir Edward Rowland Sill's poem "Opportunity" (which is nearly impossible should you have been lucky enough to sit through Mrs. Well's 7th and 8th grade English classes at the academy), the opening line begins thus: "This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream, there spread a cloud of dust along a plain. And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged a furious battle." As I memorized and chanted these lines along with fellow classmates, I hardly expected the words to come back to me nearly 16 years later as I walked to my bus stop on the way to work in Zambia. If NMA was good for nothing else, it was good for our powers of memorization.

So it was, memorization powers refined, that I found myself reciting Sir Edward Rowland Sill's known work on a 15-minute walk down a dusty road that lead to my bus stop. Each morning began with this walk or with the long 1.5-hour walk all the way to school, depending on weather. Either way, I began to carefully watch my step. I plotted in advance the street crossings I would need to make. No goats? Safe to cross. No speeding trucks? Safe to cross. No people who will accost me on the other side while I wait for the bus? Safe to cross. No large puddles or patches of mud? Safe to cross. The walk wasn't that easy. One had to be cognizant of everything, if one wanted to arrive on time for her 8 a.m. class still somewhat professionally dressed and clean.

I somehow managed the trek to work through muddy season and learned to stay dry and clean, mostly. However, it was the 2011 Zambian presidential elections that foiled my newly-honed skill. Dear President Banda, may he rest in retirement, thought the way to win the elections, in addition to accepting bribes, probably, and selling out all of the country's natural resources to China, probably, was to build roads. Zambia does need roads, good ones, ones that last more than one season. And so, the Roads Commission got busy. In their haste (rare for the country) and excitement, old, decrepit, pot-hole strewn asphalt was torn up left and right through the capital. One such road was the small side street I took on my way to the Mosi-O-Tunya bus stop.

A person might wonder, and indeed, I heard many frequently wonder aloud, "Isn't this one of the reasons government exists?" Don't we give them a portion of our hard-earned, over-the-table earnings just so that we can drive and, or, walk down decent roads, and the like? Perhaps it was the intelligence of the Zambian electorate that they didn't buy into the roads-for-votes scheme, or perhaps it was the magnitude of Banda's failure to follow through on what he began that lead to his electoral demise. The Roads Commission, you see, did a brilliant job of tearing up old roads and grading them for future paving. However, at least on the many streets I walked, that paving never occurred. And so, I ventured to my daily bus-stop on a newly created dirt path. Since the old potholes had been done away with, the Zambians wealthy enough to afford vehicles took pleasure in powering down the dirt road without the need to touch the brake. The effect was eery to behold. Where there was blue sky just moments before, all I saw was brown swirl of earth in sky. I tried to avoid becoming drenched, but it simply wasn't possible. The other walkers and I would exchange sour looks, shake our heads, and continue on...dreaming of the day we too might enjoy the luxury of racing, windows-up, past the foot traffic.

All I can say, in retrospect, is thanks to the individual who taught me I didn't need to show up to work clean. Mr. Banda, it was a good lesson. Learning can happen, even when you're covered in dirt. But battles will rage on, as you found. Perhaps keeping promises is important after all. Here's to Sata - may he learn from his predecessor's mistakes, for the sake of all Zambians, especially the majority who travel on foot.