Its Been a While

It has been quite some time since I updated my blog. I stayed true to my word, as when I set out on this online journey of self discovery, I asserted "I will not update the blog if I am doing nothing but sitting on my thumb". Well, that has been the Lions share of my activity here since I got home. The other 5 % has been occupied by my tireless efforts to find employ. 

All joking aside, I enjoyed my time in the states since Africa. The comfort of technology is not to be underestimated. The comfort of good food is not to be underestimated. The comfort of good friends is not to be underestimated. I miss the beer though. They had some fine lagers over there. 

Minnesota has already begun to get cold. The latter portion of the summer , which I experienced , was immaculate. The weather couldn't have been better, and Minnesotans take advantage of good weather unlike any other people in the world. Fall has been a different story. I would even venture to say that fall has been non-existent. We slipped straight from September to November. October didn't happen, at least not as it is supposed to. A string of weeks of 40 degree days (and rain), with the capper of a half-handful of snowstorms, has given us a friendly reminder of just how idiotic it is to live where we do. And there are no mountains. The prospect of a winter here, after avoiding them for 6 straight years... makes me borderline suicidal... but I digress. 

I am at a cross roads now, deciding between another winter in the rockies and sticking it out here with the hopes of finding a better job. There have been some promising leads but nothing concrete. 

I will close this blog because I have a training session for ski season (if that gives you any indication of where I am leaning). The reason is my Dad and I may finally sack up and heli - ski this year. For that once in a lifetime experience, I will be in the best shape of my life. I would never forgive myself if I wasnt.

Danno

Pics and Proof

The Group.

The River.

Proof that Jack pushed me in.

Seventh Wonder of the World

We arrived at the falls around 4 oclock in the afternoon after a taxing day. We strode up to the gate.... and were astonished to find that entry would cost us 50000 kwacha! Or 10 dollars. You know you have been in Zambia for too long when you are getting out right fired up over 50000 kwacha. We grudgingly paid our dues and entered the park. We were absolutely brought back to life. The minute we entered the gate we noticed the moisture in the air... it was literally the first form of precipitation I had felt since setting foot in Zambia. See in their winter, there is no rain. But as we got closer to the falls, the air became dense with water... When we finally were able to see it, it felt as though rain was coming down from the heavens. Along with thunder. We were being splashed by from 500 feet below. 

Vic Falls is absolutely amazing. With the water at a fairly high level, it is reminiscent the mississppi river... if it ran over the san andreas fault. The gorge is maybe 500 feet deep, and the falls are roughly a mile long. We did the once over, taking pictures and basking in the radiance of the sight. The afternoon sun played tricks on us, constructing rainbows everywhere we looked. The falls is viewed from a peninsula across the gorge. One the other side of the peninsula is a bridge that leads from Zambia to Zimbabwe. "Built by Cecil Rhodes", a drunken Zambian told me. Thats something to take heart in... Cecil Rhodes of colonial Rhodesia fame. That was a while ago. We walked to the other side of the peninsula to view an activity taking place on the bridge... Bungii Jumping. I was initally struck by how manageable it looked... And then the person I had my eyes on continued to free fall for about 6 seconds. I became more nervous as we watched person after person huck off this concrete object. At the same time, however, I became more sure I would make the plunge as well.

We walked to the falls side of the gorge, the river before the descent. Jack and I were entreated by a young Zambian. "Hello, would you like to walk across the river on a concrete path to the islands in the middle?" "Yes", I replied. 

We walked up the river a bit before we saw another gent who appeared to be bounding on the water. As we got closer, it became apparent that his feet were maybe 8 inches under the water. He was on a concrete embankment, 200 feet long and maybe 8 inches in girth. He held my hand and I followed him on to it, Jack behind me. His friend offered to hold my shoes. I said no. As we shuffled slowly on this ledge, I looked down river. Maybe 100 yards away the Zambezi cascaded untold feet to the rocks below. I resolved to love life more than ever and be a good Christian if God let me off the ledge alive. It was not the final time that weekend I make that resolution. We finally crossed to the other side, after an ordeal that featured Stan getting wet up to his waist holding his camera above his head and deciding, wisely, to turn back. 

We reached an Island, and continued to Island hop. We took pictures of the sun, the view, ourselves and our guide. Our feet got dominated by sharp rocks that African feet don't flinch at. Our guide entreated us to go further, but as the sun set, we realized we should return back form whence we came. 

We reached the Island that lead to the concrete embankment. Our guide froze... "A Hippo has used this path!" He exclaimed. Wonderful. I scurried like a little girl through the 30 yards of foliage and high tailed it along the walk of doom back to the mainland. Our guide then asked us for 5000 kwacha. Or one dollar. We felt he had earned it. 

We returned back to the Fawtly Towers to refresh. We dined on maybe the best Indian food I've had in all my days and called it an early night because of the jam packed day we had on the horizon. Bedtime was 2 am. 

We rose around 630 to prepare for our 730 departure for white water rafting. I felt horrible, suffice it to say, but I sprung out of bed infused with nervous energy. Ok thats not true but I did eventually get out of bed and took an english breakfast from the cafeteria. 

Jack and I had a truly Zambian experience yet again as the cab we enlisted to take us to the ATM broke down and then indignantly asked us to push him up a hill. Being good midwestern boys we lent a passive aggressive push and continued on our way, as we had no time to spare. 

We hopped in the bus and arrived at "The Waterfront", the jumping off point for our Zambezi rafting experience. The Zambezi is considered one of the best rivers in the world for kayakers and rafters. This time of year the current is stong and certain rapids rage, but the water level is high enough that people don't usually die. Good news for me, as I like to spend as much time out of the raft as in it. Bad news for me is that the Zambezi has crocs in it. 

Our fellow clientele included some dorky spanish people who COULDNT SPEAK ENGLISH! jeez. The nerve. Some british family with a 75 year old man and his porky buy lovable 14 year daughter. fishy. and some other british guy who proved himself to be a certifiable coward. oh, and I forgot to mention the other 40 patrons... British Schoolboys! Wonderfully tart.

Ours was the first raft and I cannot say Stan Jack or I was impressed with our crew. The old brit and his daughter, the cowardly brit (though we didn't know his MO yet), and a dutch man who looked like flaccid penis. He was even bald. 

After the how toos and a few simple rapids, we embarked on our first class 4. I was in the front across from Jack. The boat lurched up, his side far above mine. My side emptied into the churning water. I stayed strong. That is until Jack used me as his personal support bar. The pictures we purchased afterwards show it, it is an opinion but a statement of fact. He pushed me in. No matter, I held on wisely to the safety rope and loaded myself back into the boat. 

The rafting continued, only heating up. We were allowed to float some rapids ourselves, a fact that became a bit unnerving when we glimpsed crocodiles basking on the rocks next to the river. We were also able to jump rocks next to the river that in higher season would have constituted the river bed. Crazy huh?

Karma is a bitch, and Jack Gray found that out the hard way. On double trouble, the 17th rapid, he bit the dust and had to float the final 150 yards in his life preserver, taking mouth fulls of water while laughing hysterically.

Stan got into the act on of the final rapids, losing control and falling in. No one has to know I also fell in on that rapid.

A vendetta arose when another boat, filled with little british gits, splashed us repeatedly. I replied with well placed splashes, but I could tell by Stan's pensive demeanor that he had more in store. What was in store was on display as we paddled into the cove to finish our trip. The offending boat bumped against ours and Stand sprung into action, evincing a deep understanding of aquatic and amphibious combat. He leapt from his seated position into the water and in a quick maneuver grabbed the guide of the boat and dragged him into the water. The guide was stunned and alittle nonplussed, I imagine, but he acknowledged defeat and so did the rest of the gits. 

Soon after this display of leaping ability, Stan would take up the stakes... and so would I.

TBC

Seventh Natural Wonder of the World

Thursday to Monday was a wonderful and taxing stretch of life. Thursday night began with dinner at a Chinese "Hot Pot" restaurant, compliments of my new friend, Eric Chen of KT hubs. The entire office was invited and it was a jolly time. Venerable folks like Mr. Ngoma, Mr. Kennedy, Mwela and Emmanuel made the trip Jack and I were not about to miss the opportunity to cut loose with the Zambians I have gotten to know best. There was a bit of  apprehension about the Chinese restaurant, as Zambians usually stick to their own cuisine (and they also really dislike Chinese folks). However, after wondering aloud whether they would be forced to eat dog and making other inappropriate jests at the expense of Chinese cuisine and culture, they devoured the fare. Things got a little tipsy for most, and the toasting began. Zambians love repetition. Surprisingly, given this fact, the toasts were quite entertaining. I even got up there to represent the interns, thanking the Days and the staff for their hospitality.

After dinner, Kennedy our best friend here in Zambia and truly an awesome fellow, took us to a truly Zambian club. We were the only mizungos (whites) there, and we got eyeballed as such. But people, as they have been our entire time here, were overwhelmingly friendly and after awhile we settled in and had quite a time. We set up a little dance group around Kennedy's brother, Ted... Weird Huh? Then we trekked home the catch the bus.

Friday morning began unpleasantly, as it began at 5 am. The bus left at 6 and we had to get our tickets before then. Should have gotten up earlier, because when we got there the "business class" bus was booked. This bus was 5 seats to an row. Luckily my doctor, may he remain anonymous, was nice enough to give me some sleeping pills just for occasions like this. Another poor decision. It became a poor decision when I woke up 2 hours after consumption during a rest stop looking like the living dead, walking around like a zombie scaring zambians. But after then stop I thankfully fell back asleep. 

We arrive in Livingstone, home to Victoria Falls. Vic Falls is one of the "7 natural wonders of the world"....  no one can tell us what the other 6 are. Someone brought up Niagara falls, but that gots vetoed. "You cant have two waterfalls on the list!" Valid point. We are staying in the Backpackers Lodge, Fawlty Towers. The Fawlty Towers is both a hostel and an old british sitcom, though I wasn't aware of that latter factiod. It was a hole in the wall, but it was nice... pool, bar, camping out back, fun loving clientele from appearances. We set off at once for the Falls, and arrived at about 345 pm. After our 8 hr bus ride, the day began to feel long... until we glimpsed the falls. Absolutely amazing. Just impossible to put it in words... at least if one is coming off an 8 hr bus ride back to Lusaka as I am now... TBC tomorrow (the weekend includes some big dangerous surprises so stay tuned!

LIKE A BOSS

Work was lively today. FK and Leah Day (Founders of WBR, cousins) arrived in Lusaka at midday. There are in town to resolve the issue of dysfunctional coaster hubs, plaguing WBR bicycles since it switched from its old one piece coaster hub to the more highly performing KT two piece hub. FK being the SRAM founder that he is and KT being the eager business partner that it is, the hub manufacturer pulled out all the stops and sent its president. These circumstances led Stan, Abson and I to a 2 pm meeting with KT's Eric Chen in the lobby of the Taj Pamoozi, the premier hotel in lusaka (owned by Mr. Aurora, owner of WBR assembler Tata Zambia, more on him later). Ill be honest in saying that its not really much to be the premier hotel in Zambia... but it is a nice hotel. Anyways we met with Mr. Chen in the lobby and he was a pretty nice guy- we were trying to get a feel for whether or not he was going to try to cheat us on the broken hub or claim that nothing was wrong with it but he approached the issue with an open mind, even though he had pride in his product. FK came down from his room and we made our way to Tata Zambia to allow Eric to view the hubs firsthand, test them and , if need be, meet with the aforementioned Aurora. Well, we did meet with Aurora. We were ushered into his office upon entry to the compound, and after the necessary pleasantries and protocols (the term Zambians use), this guy proceeds to offer his unsolicited opinion as to why the Hub doesn't work, and why KTs hub is a POS, and finally sketches his own design on a napkin. In front of a guy who founded a huge components manufacturer and another guy who runs one. FK is just slackjawed and Eric is sort of looking at Aurora, and then back at FK, unsure whether to defend his product or aquiesce out of deference to FK, assuming that Mr. A is FK's boy. Finally, FK interrupts him in the interest of time and says "Frankly, we tested this hub using sophisticated means and it is more durable than our prior model. I dont really understand the design you have laid out here... I think we ought to go test the hubs." By this time Aurora has fielded a cell phone call in true Zambian fashion, so we leave his office immediately to attend to the real business of the day. Mr. Chen proves to be an interesting guy, willing to get his hands dirty to make sure his hubs are ready for the test, borrowing wrenches and other tools to ensure their performance. The issue appears to be that the hubs were not fully tightened when they left his plant in China, but are functional when tinkered with. This is a small problem to be fixed on his side and good to have identified it. But the test is tomorrow and we shall seeeeeeee.

Ramblings

This post is meant largely to get my ass back on the bloggin bandwagon. Its been a low key week, but I gotta stay in game shape. 

The week, as noted, was uninspired but productive. We got into the office on Monday, Jack and I, with our boss Dave and our "supervisor" Stan gone down to Zimbabwe. We sat down at our desks, and I found that I had little or no capacity for work. I did, however, have the capacity for a morning cup of coffee and all the solemn joy that ensues. That hurdle passed, with aplomb I might add (get it, aplomb rhymes with...), I stared down the remainder of the day: a desolate wasteland of sitting in a cold office trying not to get caught looking at the web. Jack and I had sent off our report on the impact of WBR on the RAPIDS HIV/AIDs program and were in between appointments on our next project with nowhere really to go on it that particular day.  It was a horrible feeling. I don't mind sitting in an office all day if I am working. I hate sitting around looking at the internet. Listen to me complain about having to sit in the office for a day, when every other day has consisted of visiting villages or working on projects I am genuinely interested in... WBR is spoiling me rotten.

Anyways, this lack of purpose led me to my go to site, Realclearpolitics.com, a metamedia site that basically accumulates the best political articles around and puts them on a webpage for one to link to. Much like the drudge report of huffington post. Insert markets or sports for politics in the url to fit your tastes. After lapping up the excretions (its a theme) of our nations op-ed writers I have come to a few conclusions about the Obama Administration, the healthcare debate and those who cover it. Let me preface these comments by saying I have a very superficial understanding of our healthcare system.

1. People who write about this stuff, on both sides, don't seem to be familiar with "the issues":

I suppose this isn't a revelation for most folks, but it dawned on me after I read my 56th article about the healthcare debate. I had no more understanding about the nuts and bolts of the situation than I did before I read all these articles. Sure, now I know about "the public option", a phrase bandied about with either awed regard or frenzied disdain. I know that the plan will "ration" healthcare. Depending on who is writing the article you will find that the plan "increases competition" or kills it, will either save money or mortgage our future. My mind is filled with a bunch of other buzzwords and knowing references to things the plan includes, or will do or wont do. But I am still ignorant. Ignorant of the overall structure of what the new plan would be and also embarrassingly ignorant to the realities of our current plan. So too, I believe, are most of the people writing these articles. These folks were writing about 9/11 8 years ago, then al qaeda, the economy the next year, the iraq war, then immigration, then Afghanistan, then north korea and Iran, then China, the environment, then the "new economic paradigm" ("derivatives negate risk we will never have another recession" was a common refrain), then the campaign, then sarah palin, then joe bidens dumb ass, the crisis ("derivatives are the devil, we will never have positive gdp growth again, some body must do something nowww" etc) the spectacle that was Barak Obamas 100 days ("the most important event in the history of mankind" is how I refer to the event) and now healthcare. This is their job, writing about the cause du jour. And I am not criticizing them personally. But I am saying that such breadth of coverage must come at the cost of depth. And I see almost nothing of import in the op-eds that I ravenously digested this past monday, except when I read George Will. I love that guy. Rather than discuss what is being proposed, attention surrounds whether what is being proposed will succeed. Its like a football announcer who constantly repeats the score to the viewer, expecting that statement of fact and a handful of inane truisms to properly elucidate the picture. John Madden may have made a career of it, but that doesn't mean it impresses me when anybody else does it (we all need to admit it was impressive when Madden did it).

2. I will say it. I DONT LIKE OBAMA.

I say this at pain of exile from my generation. However, I need to make known a feeling that has been brewing in me ever since I watched the guy get sworn in. I supported him during the campaign, I even volunteered at his head quarters in Bozeman this past fall making calls. I believed he represented me, that he was at heart a practical moderate. I believed he supported the basic tenets of capitalism, but also (and reasonably) held that we did needed backstops and programs for honest people who lose their jos or lose their way. I believed, basically that he wasn't a big government liberal. I was wrong. Soo wrong. And once I realized that, well, my opinion on him changed pretty quick. I have been disappointed in the stimulus, in his approach to the bailouts (coughing up the dough while impotently moralizing at bank/insurance execs), his weasly treasury secretary, his moronic VP, in Peter Orszag, in his tough talk on unions followed by coddling, and now in his handling of healthcare. Most of all, I have been disappointed by his fat ass press secretary. Where the hell does that asswipe get off... doing anything? He is a true slob. But I digress. Its not necessarily even that I always disagree with what he does... Its more his disingenuous, professorial way of having his cake and eating it too. He describes massive extension of the government as "increasing competition" and argues that the monstrous health care bill will cut cost... Really? Just tell me what your plan is buddy! Don't lie to me! This thing needs to be fixed. Maybe a public option will help. Maybe spending money now will improve healthcare... fine. Tell me that, don't lie and tell me that spending money... is making us spend less money, because.... its impossible. The fact of the matter is if he was calling it like he saw it, I would disagree so it makes no difference.

I suppose the main point here is DO NOT READ AYN RAND AND EXPECT YOUR POLITICAL VIEWS TO REMAIN MODERATE. A related piece of advice would be do not read Ayn Rand in Africa... it just doesnt mesh. None the less, that is exactly what I am doing. 

TBC

HIV

The people that know me best probably wouldn't call me hard hearted. However, they probably wouldn't peg me as sensitive to the plight of other people, either. I suppose I occupy the sentimental middle ground. I held that middle ground during my first 5 weeks here. I went into the bush to see the villagers hit hardest by HIV. I spoke with them, heard the stories of illness, death, of poverty and orphans. I also heard to stories of triumph over impossibilities and stories of love. I was moved by what I heard. However, I maintained emotional distance. My interest was more academic or professional than sentimental.  I was more caught up in gathering stories than listening to them. More interested in capturing the interesting human interest or work relevant content. "Oh I am very sorry to hear you lost your husband and three siblings to HIV... I think it is wonderful that you donate your time as a caregiver to help other HIV victims in your community... How has the WBR bicycle helped perform your job as a caregiver better?" I maintained an emotional barrier for most of my first month here, quickly rationalizing or suppressing my the emotion I felt. This was not because of my job, of course. I just never broke through.

This past Tuesday, Jack and I watched James (pseudonym) give a hugely impressive 8 hr workshop to a group of rural bicycle mechanics selected to be trained as WBR field mechanics. Throughout the workshop he spoke with overwhelming authority on issues ranging from economics to business management to bicycle repair to politics. He had these guys eating out of his palm, like a politician. I knew James was an exceedingly bright guy and this did nothing to diminish his standing in my eyes. James has been working with Jack and I to remedy spare parts distribution problems. My first day working for WBR in "the field" I perceived spare parts was a problem and wrote up a proposal for a pilot spare parts distribution center to gauge demand and verify if WBRs high quality parts truly have a market.  James has been working on this stuff for 2 years, however he was kind enough to allow me the pretense that I wasn't making suggestions and observations he had considered long ago, and really has done a great job making Jack and I feel like a part of the team. 

Jack, James and I were talking over a Coke outside the training center during a 15 minute break. Jack asked James, some variation of the question "So how many siblings do you have James?" James, in his composed, contemplative way looked at the sky, squinted, cocked his head to the right and said, "Well, there is just me". He smiled a melancholy smile. "I suppose thats not right... I have two cousins of my age. They are very close to me and stay with me now, I take care of them. They grew up in the house of my parents, so I consider them my brother and sister." He drew a heavy breath and looked at the ground. "I don't talk about this very much, however I used to have 2 brothers and 1 sister. They all have passed." My body literally reeled, expression changing from the inconsequential half smile of light conversation to a look of disbelief. "Yes... Yes... I lost two of them on one day. My older brother and my younger brother. All to AIDs. It was... It was probably the most difficult day of my life". He related the whole story in the melancholy matter of fact of someone steeled by time int he face of tragedy. "Sometimes I think about how things could have been... If ARVs (anti retro virals)  had been around... It was 1999, and ARVs came in 2004 or 5. I know they would be fine, just fine if they had been around. They would be alive today..." James raised his eyebrows back into the late afternoon sky, at the sun low in the sky. "My older brother... he was not a... sexual man, he was not interested in women... even his wife. It was by accident that they became married! Haha... he was interested in other things... I just do not understand how he became ill." James's eyes shimmered.  "But that is how it happened... I have wonderful parents, a wonderful wife... I have children. I am very lucky... Yes, very lucky."

Tears had welled in my eyes. The truth of HIV presented itself to me. Whereas I saw the virus as  an ailment that preyed on the careless, the poor, the sexually promiscuous, the ignorant... I realized that here in Africa it wasn't that way at all. HIV is a plague. It took someone in whose reflection I saw myself to make me understand. I saw that the virus had laid waste to families. Why shouldn't that have happened to my family? It would have. And that thought was just far too much to bear. James's siblings were all into their 30s when they contracted HIV, with families and jobs. To reach adulthood with the people with whom you are the closest in the world and then, a couple of agonizing months later... poof. Words cannot describe it.  

So I got myself back together and watched James finish his workshop. I took a run later that day and got to thinking about the conversation again. Again I imagined I had to bear James tragedy. Toward the end of my run, 400 yards away from the entrance to our house I began bawling. My chest heaved as I tried not to think about the nightmare I conjured. A pedestrian walked by and I turned the other way. I had to sit down to compose myself on the ledge next to the sidewalk, covering my face. So why did James's story get to me in a way none of the others had? I realized that even though I had heard countless stories just like James's, I was unable to see my reflection in them.  But when I finally saw my reflection, I finally saw the hideous legacy of the plague that is HIV/AIDs in Africa. It is horrifying.

Immigration Confusion

We start off the day by heading to the immigration office. The meat of the situation is that when I went through Immigration I lied and and said I was a visitor... because thats what I was told to do. Otherwise it would be a 400 dollar fee, as it is for those here to volunteer or engage in business for more than 30 days. The idiot at immigration gives me the visitor stamp but being an ass puts a B next to it, denoting business. I don't know this fact when I go back to the immigration department with driver Kennedy and Jack to get our visas renewed. The woman tells me either I pay 400 dollars, go to the airport and haggle (which even she says seldom works), or maybe she could ask her supervisor and maybe he could help but probably not. So I say, "GO ASK YOUR SUPERVISOR" in the most respectful tone I could muster, already coming to grips with the fact that I would probably be subsisting on white bread and water for the rest of my time here. Shes goes out the door of the office, past Kennedy, who smiles and raises his eyebrows, and onto her supervisor. She comes back right as I finish cursing Zambian government to hell, stamps the passport and tells  me all is well. Smiles at Kennedy and we are on our way. We walk out of the office and Kennedy starts laughing. Jack and I look at each other, curious. He chuckles and says, "I used to screw her sister"... I realize I really do not understand this place.

Picture Show

Reverse chronological order, from the end of the trip to the start.

Please excuse the sideways picture. 

A hippo we encountered during a walk we took at lunch our third day on the river. We discovered him sleeping maybe 5 yards away from us. He faces us, we shit our pants, because these animals are extremely dangerous on land. It then turns around and walks away. By the time I had cleaned out my pants he was already this far away. 

Due to the construction of a dam about 50 years ago (the Kariba Dam, the world largest), the river has gotten much smaller, as land that was once under water now constitutes the banks of the river. The picture is taken just next to the river in some kind of drainage area. Very cool, very bizarre. Seemed like we were on mars. 

Jack and I on dusk of our second day. This campsite, on a sandy island in the middle of the river, was just so perfect. That night we celebrated the 4th of July, singing the Star Spangled Banner and other patriotic numbers. Our guide Martin led us through a rendition of the Zambian national anthem in a show of solidarity. 

This sideways photo pits Jack and I at the bottom of the oldest tree in Africa. Not really, but it was quite large. Notice the moccasins sans socks. Fashion is always paramount.

As noted, fashion is always paramount. I felt as though I needed to take a picture of my moccasins, a shoe that I bought in Montana and has turned in exemplary service since. They handled the harsh African climate and topography with  ease, providing comfort and stability. They even made it out intact.

Jack and Carly to lookers left, then our guide Martin ahead. The mountains on the horizon. We asked Martin if we could get a guide to take us to hike them (they are the second oldest mountains in the world) but he said no one does that because of the dense foliage. I think Martin was probably full of it but oh well.

Hello. Elephant comes to the bank in order to greet us. What an incredible animal. Actually pretty intimidating in person.

A huge crocodile at the outset of the trip. A maybe 12 feet long, though this picture doesn't illustrate that.

And finishing with the beginning. Jack and I relax before floating the river. The banks of Zimbabwe in the distance. 

A Professionals Take

I've got to disagree Dan, I continue to be bullish in general towards alcohol. While I know in these uncertain times there is a definite feeling of comfort that can be taken away from being "safe" with water, the alpha that can be generated through a sizable alcohol position (fortune brands per chance?) can make your year. My personal recommendation is to go overweight alcohol (running is a be a suitable hedge, or a better diet could be an appropriate alternative). I'm strongly underweight tobacco. I'd be biased to the downside on memory retention and overall health, while I'd be a buyer of open bars (what a sickkkk yield).

-N.H.

Rough Times

Just a quick post in the interim of the novellas that constitute our dangerous canoeing escapade. The occasion is my first Zambian club experience, though probably not with the most truly Zambian crowd of them all. A gentleman graduate of the American school  here hosted an open bar and Jack and I earned an invitation through Taylor, a girl we met through some nebulous ex pat connection. She was nice enough to bring us roughnecks along and somehow got our name one the list. There was a list. But I digress. We arrive, and the club is full of white kids, ostensibly diplomats children, as well as South Africans. I think I love South Africans, or at least this certain chap named Quinn (or something). He has had laser hair removal. All over his body. He told me a story about slitting the neck of a sheep and then skinning it. All for fun and games. He takes flaming sambuca shots and snorts the vapors. He has other attributes I cannot remember. Clearly, he is a man I hold in high regard. Anyways, in addition to the intoxicating influence of my new friend Quinn, we discovered there was an open bar. Jacks eyes met mine and we had a moment, a moment during which a decision was made. No words were needed to communicate that decision. The decision was to have a rough morning. Open bars are a nefarious thing that I wish were banned. Honestly I have no use for them. They only lead to pain, misery, and me finding myself the next morning at 9 am with water and coffee in respective hands having just taken a couple of tylenol. Anyways, these quasi Zambians did nothing to mitigate that inevitability, and Jack and I were quickly swept up in the revelry. They were giving away my favorite beer, Windhock. I became very social, and tried to strike up numerous conversations with individuals who proved patently uninterested in my addled musings. The night wore on, and the situation became untenable. I diversified my portfolio to include water and eventually then shifted all my assets into that safer asset class. It was a wise decision and paid dividends as high demand for alcohol led to an asset bubble. When that bubble popped, sometime around 8 am the next morning, investors fled to safer assets like water and the value of my investment increased immensely. Those people with positions long alcohol lost much or all of their dignity.  

Danger You Will Never Understand

Danger was the name of the game when Jack Gray and I decided to canoe the Lower Zambezi, a river infested with Crocodile, Hippo, Elephant, and the Tiger Fish; a river surrounded by Lions, Baboon, Hyena and the hardly innocuous warthog. We set out to envelop, to submerge ourselves in the type of danger our sallow peers in States have never experienced in the entirety of their white bread lives. The type of danger they will never encounter until they find themselves on the precipice of their existence, gazing into the unrelenting jaws of death.

Danger was what we set out for and what we received. From the moment we set foot on Breezers Hunting and Fishing Lodge, just outside the border town of Chriundu, we knew were in the right place. Jack and I headed to the bar, even though the time on the clocks read 8:30 am. It had been a long day. After consuming a couple of Windhooks, the Namibian Lager to which I have become addicted (not in the alcoholic sense), we ventured out to look at the Mighty Zambezi. A sign on the edge of the water caught my eye. It read, “Beware of Crocodiles and Hippos”.  I looked across the river and saw a flag. The Zimbabwean flag. A feeling pulsed through my veins and washed over my body. I felt it in my lions. We were balls deep in danger. 

The following is a journal of all that transpired during our dangerous trip. It is not for the faint of heart. The author is not responsible for the convulsions, cardiac arrests, seizures, extended episodes of incontinence, uncontrollable flatulence or blindness that will almost certainly result from reading the following. Proceed with care,

We sat by the water, taking in our dangerous surroundings, aware and calm. Eventually, as chance would have it, the man charged to be guide down the Zambezi, Martin, approached us. A fit Zambian, Martin led us up the bank to our canoes, Canadian in origin and apparently sea worthy. Martin then entreated us to listen, and listen well, as he laid out clearly the four dangers of the river we were about to float. First, he said, one must be ware of crocs. Crocs are aggressive, Martin said, and deadly. You may not hang limbs out of the canoe, he said.. You may attempt to retrieve them and realize that they are no longer attached to your body. To the submerged croc, the hand or leg is not part of a human. It is a piece of meat. And they are meat eaters. Second, Martin slowly and clearly elucidated, beware of Hippos. Hippos are also aggressive and deadly. They lurk under the water and are liable to pop up without a moments warning. If you are next to a hippo when it pops up, stay calm. The hippo may become angry with you and knock you out of your canoe. It may then inflict a deadly wound on your body using its jaws. It is really the luck of the draw, said Martin, so there is no use losing your composure. I admired his logic.

Third, continued Martin, one must always beware of invisible obstacles. All around this mighty river there lie great, unseen dangers, objects just under the water that will upset the canoe without your knowledge. Again, philosophized Martin, best not to think about it.

Finally, Martin cautioned us about the wind. The wind blows wildly on the Zambezi, often creating swells on the narrow waterway capable of upsetting ones vessel, laying its occupant bare to the whims of various underwater predators.

Martin then inquired whether any of the four of us on the trip (the other two being our friends Carly and April) had any canoeing experience. Jack and I replied that we did, and the girls noted they did not. Martin instructed the two boys to steer in the back and the two girls sat up front. We stowed our bags and disembarked, a little giddy at the prospect of spending the next days attempting to circumvent the dangers laid out so clearly by our man Martin.

It took me a little while to hit my canoeing groove. That while coincided with one of the most dangerous hippo interactions of the trip and the sighting of the biggest croc ever spotted. These sights penetrated me, penetrated me clear to my core. The tables had turned. Danger was balls deep in me.

The dire situation will be explained in part 2 of the series.  Pictures to accompany.

 

7.2.09: Into "The Field"

Left: This gal is Prisca, Rapids caregiver.

In Africa, Westerners are apt to say they are going into "The Field" when they venture of the beaten track into the rural towns and villages to which their aid and charity flows. The esteemed Jack Gray and I ventured off into "The Field" with our intrepid driver Mr. N'Goma to gather qualitative information that would function as the basis of a final report on the efficacy of the RAPIDs healthcare initiative. We met with HIV/AIDs caregivers, people who take on a number of patients in their community, looking after them, administering drugs, sometimes even schlepping the extremely sick ones to the clinic on the back of their bicycles, in oxcarts or wheel barrels. All this effort in exchange for... nothing. These people receive no monetary compensation for their troubles. However there are tens of thousands of these people, willing to give their time for free to help their neighbors in distress. 

We met in front of a three room building which appeared to be the town recreation center. Sitting on benches out front were maybe 30 caregivers, ranging in age from 22 to 67. We introduced ourselves with N'Goma serving as translator, all the while wondering what exactly put us in a position to question these people from a position of authority. After the intros we broke into small groups. I instantly realized the leading questions we had formulated would only draw back scripted, uninteresting answers. "How has the bicycled helped you as a caregiver?" "I am able to see more clients because I can get to them more quickly"... etc. Not exactly ground breaking stuff. So after a couple of stumbles and some awkward moments of silence amongst the group, I was able to start penetrating the group to unearth some interesting stories. 

Each caregiver told me a story of how they had taken a client to the clinic on the back of their bicycle. They described to me their proudest moment as a caregiver, the thing about their community that they were proudest of, and what precipitated their decision to become a caregiver. They also opened up about what the bike allowed them to do outside of their caregiver obligations. From bringing their crops to market 25 plus kms away, to taking their corn to the hammer mill in order to feed their family to seeing family that would otherwise be too far away, it was easy to see what the increased freedom meant to these folks. 

The caregivers were so gracious for what little they had. They tried to illustrate their feelings with the only asset they had to  give back: their good cheer, their smiles and their affection. Literally they had nothing else to give. 

While some of the answers became redundant as groups of five filtered through my interview room, a little work unearthed the unique in each person. Prisca decided to become a caregiver because of her experience raising the orphans of her sister, an HIV/AIDs victim. Others talked about how the bike had allowed them to enjoy economic success (from one cow to three) beyond their wildest dreams. Mary talked about taking care of her mother in law in her capacity as RAPIDs caregiver. The stories once unearthed are so indicative of the hope that is ubiquitous here in spite of the overwhelming struggle and sadness. 

The next day we traveled to the same village and met with trainer of trainers (TOTs) who work on the prevention side of AIDs prevention, spreading awareness and prevention techniques as well as teaching income generating trades such as carpentry, gardening, and farming. These people also had amazing stories. However, they didn't have bicycles and certainly made the most of their audience with a WBR employee, little did they know I am nothing but a lowly intern with no influence on where the bikes go. This open handed, bold faced begging (for lack of a better term) is one of the drawbacks to the charity  that in some cases inspires amazing stories. People see the chicken laying golden eggs and they want one of their own. Indeed, when a white person drives down the road, kids run to the street, pointing at their open palms. But I digress, that is a story for a different post. 

That same day we had the opportunity to meet with the client of a caregiver named Ruth. We went into her home, a little hut with a circumference of maybe 4 feet and a thatched roof. Luckily it doesn't rain all winter in Zambia. She was a wonderful woman, clearly defiant in the face of the disease and determined to overcome it. She responded to our question of whether she felt stigmatized after she contracted HIV. She blithely stated people treated her no differently. During the interview she lied on garment place just in front of the entrance to her tiny little home, holding herself with the composure of a matriarch. Her eyes shone with vitality, even though she was unable to rise from her seated position on her own power and needed the help of her caregiver to move on her feet. She was intensely proud of the little she had and determined in her belief that days lied ahead. Much like her country. 

WBR Overview: Better Late than Never

Left: Some gents fiddling with my camera at the first bicycle distribution for the Education program in Chongwe. We became fast friends.

I have put off explaining exactly what World Bicycle Relief, the organization I am interning for here in Lusaka, does specifically. I will procrastinate no further. WBR, as the title implies, gives bikes to impoverished Africans. However, in order for the reader to properly understand WBR I must first describe the current state of transportation and then the bicycle market in Zambia. 

Only rich Zambians own cars. And only relatively wealthy or fortunate Zambians own bicycles. Especially in rural places, the bicycle is a status symbol, the mark of someone doing well. The "natural bicycle", or transport by foot, is the most common way from A to B for rural people here. In this context, with most people walking their goods to market, or walking to the clinic procure AIDS medicines, the bicycle becomes an incredible tool of empowerment. It gets you from A to B 4 times faster with however many times the payload capacity. The benefit of owning a operational bicycle is intuitive and powerful. 

Now, for those who haven't been to Zambia it might seem like a given that the bikes people buy or receive would be of at least decent quality. In fact, they are not. The bike companies that operate here are not Trek, Specialized, Cannondale or even Huffy.  Rather, they are Atlas, Eagle and other various Indian or Chinese brands you have never heard of. These bikes are manufactured as an afterthought, but a percentage of a percentage of the annual revenue for multinationals like Tata who have more interesting things to worry about than the unchanging low margin bicycle markets in impoverished sub-saharan Africa. The bicycles sold here are all knockoffs of the 1950s Raleigh Roadster, heavy as hell, impossible to steer and liable to break less than a month after purchase. Still people buy them because... these companies have no competition. They have no incentive to step up their design quality or manufacturing quality control or assembly quality control because they have a captive consumer with no alternatives. The quality of bicycles for sale here has not improved for 50 years. Conversely, the NGOs that simply give Africans second hand bikes do not import the quantity and quality of bicycles necessary to make a substantial impact. Enter WBR. 

WBR makes a brutishly strong and culturally appropriate bicycle that has already become synonymous with a excellence in the Zambian market. It built to balance the three overriding needs of the Zambian consumer,  durability, carrying capacity, and reasonable price. Additionally, WBR trains one bicycle mechanic per fifty bikes distributed or sold in order to keep the bikes operational. The organization has boiled its desired areas of affect down to healthcare, education and economic development. In each case, WBR has partnered with organizations in order to distribute its bicycles most effectively to those for whom the bicycle can unlock the most benefit. 

WBR partnered with RAPIDs, an NGO that empowers HIV/AIDs caregivers with healthcare supplies and training. RAPIDs saw a need to increase the agency of caregivers by providing them with bicycles. Initially, to meet this need RAPIDs bought a couple hundred cycles wholesale from local distribution outlets and met with disaster. The bikes promptly fell apart. They then partnered with WBR for 23,000 bikes and the program has been a qualitative and quantitative success, with visits per week skyrocketing and infection rates falling. It has been a real victory for both RAPIDs and WBR. 

WBR also partnered with Harmos, a micro finance NGO operating in Zambia to sell 3000 or so bicycles. This program has become more successful as time goes on and as lending techniques become more refined. The sale of an income-generating asset through micro finance is not new, however the sale of a bicycle via micro finance is (relatively). That fact coupled with the fact that Harmos is a young organization still perfecting its lending techniques made for a rocky start, however the program is now breaking even and appears to be set for expansion. It also has created an exciting template that could be used in other countries to empower micro entrepreneurs. 

Finally, WBR is just beginning a program in conjunction with the Ministry of Education to provide 50,000 bicycles to impoverished rural children who are at risk of dropping out of school due to the demands of their commute (sometimes up to 20 kms each way) and the demands of their home life (work around the house... not your typical chores). 

So there is the overview, I will follow in the future with what I am working on in my capacity as intern.

Running in New Places and Dealing with Dogs

One of my favorite things to do when I travel is to run. I find it a wonderful tool, useful to learn a new city, to calm yourself down in foreign environs and to have people look at you like you are crazy. Some of my most vivid memories of Tokyo and my semester there are of running around the city at dusk and at night. Sometimes I got lost, sometimes I went too far and would walk back, sometimes I saw shady characters about whom I would concoct stories in my head. Sometimes I would get horrible indigestion and have to turn around just a few steps from my dorm. The jogs I remember the best from that time took place when my family visited and we stayed at a hotel overlooking the imperial palace, Tokyo's version of central park. I would do the 4 mile loop every day, and from the skyline surrounding to the amazingly ornate, closed wooden doors of the palace to simple things like the way Japanese trees looked or the way the moat water reflected the city's ambient light, I got an unshakeable sense of place. A feeling that I was in a place like no where I had been before. I remember the feeling bubbling up inside me, and I felt giddy and light. 

Running in Lusaka is not as spectacular, and the air quality is similarly bad (because 4 out of 5 cars is just puking black exhaust), but I get the same feelings when I run here. Usually my runs are at dusk, which comes early and quickly because its the dead of winter down here. So I venture out onto Independence Lane, which is much like an African version of Summit Avenue, residential, wide and centrally located. I get looked at like I am insane here, largely because the people I run by don't have an ounce of fat on them and have no reason to run. Indeed, given their diets the calorie expenditure would put them on the couch for days. When I reach my halfway point, the sun is usually down and the the run becomes much more interesting. We are instructed to refrain from being alone out of doors after the sun goes down, however Zambians seem nice enough in the daytime that before my run the prospect of being in the dark with them doesn't bother me. Once I'm actually out there in the dark however, I get a bit squeamish. My gait quickens and my strides become longer and stronger. Every person walking alone on the sidewalk (which is in horrible repair, I'm astonished I haven't broken my ankle yet) is menacing. I try to parry the would-be attackers with disingenuous smiles and calls of a very midwestern "How ya doin'?" The Zambians mostly squint at me in disbelief and continue on their way. One guy was shadow boxing as I approached him. I went to the other side of the road. He pantomimed a gun shot with this finger and thumb. I thought my life was over. 

When I finish my runs, I have to open our gate and walk past two houses before I reach our pad. The neighbors have a pair of dogs that until recently have caused me no end of hell. Every time I'd come home, from a run or otherwise, these bastardous dogs would bark and scamper after me. They became bolder with every passing day and I shier, until one day they were feet away from me, trying to bite my nice slender ankles as I kicked at them. I resolved at that moment that I would end the whole charade our next encounter, which took place the next afternoon. 

As I entered the gate, I heard the dogs barking and running towards the object of their torment. These foolish canines had no idea what lay in store for them. I picked up a rock and whipped it at the white dog. It narrowly missed him. I picked up another and pelted the black dog, and it began to whimper. I continued this barrage until the dogs resolved to move out of rock throwing range. They even stopped barking. I continued walking toward our house, however in the doorway of the second house I saw a mother standing, hands on hips, shaking her head. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. To be honest her disdain did not dampen my exultant mood. The dogs haven't fucked with me since.

6-27-09: Polo Lacrosse

Yesterday I was introduced to a game that I had never known before, called "Polo-X". It combines those haughtily exclusive games, Polo and Lacrosse. It is a bizarre spectacle. People loping around on these huge animals, holding the reins in one hand and a stick with a large circular basket on its end in the other. The game is much more about being a competent rider and properly positioning the horse relative to your competitors than it is about "stick skills" (an attribute my college friend Matt Flanagan has in spades... Hay- yoooo). The quality of the athlete  on the pitch was quite unimpressive... these were horse people. Chubby, red faced teenage girls and their chubbier fathers loped around with what appeared to the uninitiated eye as aimlessness. The maneuvers with the lacrosse sticks were nothing impressive. One imagines Elliot Burkland, with his impressive riding and lax skills, would have laid waste to this lot in his first attempt. However it is also a very dangerous and violent game. The stopping and starting required by lacrosse is not natural for horses and apparently leads to many injuries, for people as well as the animals. One would wager that gents are trampled with some frequency in the pursuit of Polo-X glory.

We took in the match at the Lusaka Polo Grounds, which is quite a scene. Filled mostly with ruddy South Africans clad in riding pants as well as the odd American ex-pat, the populace divided its time between the polo-x match and the televised rugby match, becoming euphoric as one rugby side edged the other (25-22 as a few of the exultant men yelled). 

The group of us who went to the grounds, Ellen, Jack, Emily (led by our local guide Taylor), indulged a Namibian beer called Windhock, named after a German colonial capital in the aforementioned country. I love Windhock. It is a crisp beer, balanced and simple. It is made with only three ingredients: barley, hops and water. It would be sacrilege for me as a Minnesotan to put anything ahead of the Schells or Summit brewers, however... I cannot say enough about this beer. 

My taste in beer has been infinitely refined with the help of one John Stroh, visiting WBR with Vivian and their wonderful kids Christopher and Elizabeth, 15 and 13 respectively. John has much experience in the beer industry as a brewer and also as a beer drinker. His palate is much like mine, he prefers a clean beer he can "drink all day". He has become my beer demagogue, and I his rabid parishioner. Upon arrival to the continent, I had abided the "When in Rome" philosophy and drank Mosi, the ubiquitous Zambian beer exclusively. However, John made light of the fact that it used 6 ingredients to Windhocks 3. That was the end of Mosi for me. Just the other day John told me he held Heineken beer in low regard, due to excessive bitterness. I haven't had one since. 

Anyways, we continued to indulge in the wonderful Windhock as the sun beat down on our tanned hides. Afternoon quickly turned to dusk however, as it is winter down here, and was accompanied by a temperature drop of 20 degree. As the wind began to pick up, we made our way back to the Land Rover. Unsure what to make of our brief foray into the South African easy life, noting its stark contrast to the "the other half" of Zambians, we returned to down on the dusty pot holed road from whence we came.   

A Summary of the Past: Part 2

This picture is of a number of young chaps I met at my first bicycle distribution, in a town called Chongwe. The gent in the orange hood and his friend to the looker's left asked me for a loan. Though I did not deem them credit worthy, we quickly became good friends. 

To continue in the chronological fashion...

After passing customs, I was picked up by a hefty Zambian named "Mr. Ngoma". (Frequent readers of this blog of which literally two exist might recall that Ngoma accompanied to the lively World Cup Qualifier in Chilibombwe just a week later). We began to drive to the "office" the home of WBR. At this point I must concede that I was quite overwhelmed. The Ambien hangover, the drastic change in scenery and the uncertainty that surrounded my immediate future converged to produce a surreal effect that was quite strong. However, once we reached the office the feeling waned, as I was introduced to most of the establishments 12 or so employees and realized that I would fit in nicely. I spent the balance of the afternoon, after a little introductory discussion with FK about what exactly WBR does (because up to that point I was embarrassingly in the dark), with Emily. Emily works for WBR as a photographer and is a 25 year old Chicago resident. We set about the task of matching pictures of Zambian students with their short autobiographies. 

The day came and went, and Craig and I drove back to what I learned would be my house. Lusaka is composed of three quasi high rises that have broken windows and look like they have been airlifted from season 1 of the wire. The rest of the city is a sprawling maze of walls- every home, from the most modest on up, have walls. Most of those walls have broken bottles cemented on top in order to keep the ruffians out. For a gent from St. Paul, such circumstances are not the norm. Our house was no different, a walled compound with two yappy dogs guarding the premises. The house itself is quite nice and spacious with two bathrooms and three well sized bedrooms. But I digress. 

As we returned reached our destination, Craig informed me he would be my roommate until he returned to Chicago about a week later.  A wonderful man and self-professed "bike nerd", we hit it off right off the bat. However, I needed to go to sleep as my energy was waning in a big way and quickly slipped into a deep sleep at 6 p.m. up returning home. 

A Summary of the Past: Part 1

I realize that as now my blog is pictureless. And those who know me would surmise that I simply have not been taking pictures, because I've never been that guy. Well, I have been that guy since I've been here and Im damn pleased about it.  Above is just a small taste of the visual magic I have captured in my camera. However it takes forever to upload pics on this internet and as such opportunities for the masses to view these images will be few and far between. That said, I will begin a swift overview of two weeks here on this side of the world. 

I am obliged to start from the beginning, with my flight. I flew from Minneapolis to London, the flight taking off at 10 pm central time. In order to mitigate the pain of the trans-atlantic flight, I quickly and decisively popped a number of Ambien sleeping pills into my mouth and slept like a child for the 10 hour duration. Upon landing, I was shaken to attention by a stewardess and shuffled off the flight. In customs, I has harangued by a government employee who was manifestly unimpressed by the quality of my passport. He told me with theatre that I should not be allowed into the country with a passport in such a condition. Eventually he let me pass. I wandered around London Heathrow for 7 hours of purgatory, feasting at that godforsaken establishment TGI Fridays. Eventually I boarded the aircraft to Nairobi. I decided 7 hours constituted a good and proper day, and wished to sleep for the duration of my 9 hour flight. Thusly, I ate some more sleeping pills. The next 4 hours were a bizarre haze... Reluctantly watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop, aware that I wished desperately to explore other viewing options, however unable to summon the energy or faculties required to pursue that avenue. After taking in the climax of "Blart", I endured a fitful sleep for the final 4 hours to Nairobi. 

The airport was expectedly dingy, though not unlike its peers in Jamacia or the Bahamas... I was shepherded into a "lounge" of some sort where I stared straight ahead for the duration of my layover. I heard my flight being called over the loudspeaker and hustled over to my gate, the last person to get on the plane. From there we stopped in Lilongwe, Malawi and finally continued on to Lusaka, Zambia my final stop. I got of the plane in the middle of the runway and for the first time stared into the African sun. Of course, I was wearing sunglasses. 

If I do you, you do me... Part 2

Picking up where I left off...

We got back on the road proper, away from the hordes of crestfallen Zambians, and headed north to the border of the Congo.  Everything got a little darker and a little more menacing as we approached. Maybe because the sun was going down. As we passed the final police check point before the Congo border the police officer surveyed us with a puzzled, incredulous gaze that seemed to say, "What ever you say, minzungo". Soon a queue of Semi-trucks in our driving lane formed on the horizon. We came to a stop behind it and seeing no one utilizing the oncoming lane, we popped into it and came closer to the border. We drove for maybe half a mile, but the line of Semis still extended as far as the eye could see and presently a sideways semi blocked our path. People milled about the trucks, and most of the vehicles didn't have drivers. It seemed that the line wasn't moving very fast. 

While the "football" match had only caused me moments of discomfort, mainly when I witnessed a gentleman officer of the law holding onto the hood of a reversing car for his life, or when I saw another man being kidnapped for unknown offenses, I began at this point during my time near the Congolese border to feel quite anxious. The look of the area, the look of folks spending their time here at this waypoint, and the levels of trash and refuse piled up on the road conspired to produce that feeling in all of us, I think, and we quickly reversed course and headed back to the more friendly confines of central zambia. 

Our next stop was an impromptu one. For a reason that would only in hindsight become clear, we pulled of the road to "have a drink" at a bar. Mike and I, docile sheep that we are, gladly followed our orders and proceeded to have a number of cocktails while watching the US being dismantled on TV as Zambian patrons looked on with mingled satisfaction and sympathy. Suddenly, our driver Ngoma, who had been somewhere else this entire time, asked us if we would be pleased to stay for dinner. Mike and I shrugged our shoulders, supposing the place to be no better or no worse than anywhere else and ordered out food. We continued at our well paced clip and eventually we had our food served, and hopped in the car for a slightly altered ride home (highlighted by the song "I kissed your sister" by Sean Kingston). The song was played 9 times during the half hour drive. 

What we later came to understand is that polygamy is quite common in Zambia. Our bulky but lovable driver, really stretches the root word "poly" to its limits. By our modest estimates, he has at least one girl in every city in the country. He met up with one at the bar we suddenly and inexplicably stopped at, and again, the next day during our drive to Lusaka we were subjected an amorous interlude when he asked us to stop at a "train station". 

Besides Ngoma's trysts, the ride back was much as the first, characterized by loud music, a broken bass speaker and a playlist of three inexplicably mind numbing songs. My only solace, away from the wonderful roadside fruit that I purchased for an amazingly low price, was to see my twitching compatriot Lamick's legs trapped behind the seat of the enormous Ngoma and to laugh loudly and manaically to myself.

If I do you, you do me!

On a sweltering day under the African sun, the Zambian national team fell to Algeria 2-0 in from of a sold out stadium in Chilibombwe. And I was there to witness it all, from the optimistic chicanery in the streets beforehand, to the madness on the pitch inside the dilapidated stadium during (which looked unfit for a St. Paul Academy v. St. Agnes clash, let alone a World Cup qualifier), to the angry mob behavior afterwards. And I will relay it all, beginning 8 hours beforehand with my rousal from sleep at 5 am. 

I woke about 4 hours after I went to bed, more than a little drowsy from a week of late nights and early mornings due to the presence of the Strohs, visiting family (John actually had his 50th birthday on saturday, a fact I learned after I had purchased tickets to the game). I piled into the car of one of the WBR drivers, a gentleman named Ngoma with roommate and friend Mike. Ngoma is a very sizeable man, easily pushing 3 bills (with a good bit of it muscle) so that he would be most useful if mob violence marred our trip to the Congolese border. Ngoma also has a mercedes benz, a fact that puzzled both Mike and I to no end. Upon entry to the back seat of the vehicle, it became eminently clear which side I would choose to sit. Behind the passanger seat was a wealth of legroom... Behind the driver, trusty Ngoma, no more than two inches seperated the back seat and the back of the front seat. I settled into my seat and nodded of sleep, even as Zambian rap music blared and the broken bass speaker in the trunk shook like a bag of broken glass. I was awoken as Lamick, another WBR employee and our forth and final compatriot stood outside the vehicle. As he opened the rear door on the driver side, I could, even in my early morning state, see the gears turning in his head. He squeezed his legs into the space in front of his seat, eventually settling in with both the legs splayed wide at 45 degrees and a grimace written on his face. I smiled and fell back into my slumber.

I awoke three hours later as we pulled into a gas station to refill and relieve ourselves. The same Zambian rap song pulsed, and the tactful chorus "If I do you, you do me" repeated and repeated.  I looked to my right and saw Lamick, legs twitching with a wild look on his face. He quickly bounded out of the car and into the bathroom. I for my part was impressed by the fact that his legs had not atrophied. We loaded back into the car and continued our journey north. Chilibombwe is 6 hours directly north of Lusaka, which is in south central Zambia. Our destination was literally on the border of the Congo in the "copper belt" of the country, where as we neared our destination, mountainous hills of black something rose and passed to our right and left, next to them very industrial complexes of certain sorts unfailingly spewing black smoke. Driving in this country has one constant. The belched exhaust of cars given excessive burden and little care is ubiquitous. On a 6 hour drive it can begin to seem like the natural way of things. 

Eventually we approached our target, as part of a slow moving convoy, and began to see Zambians lining the road, ostensibly to evince their hopes for success. An exuberant mood of hope pervaded as we crawled on. Zambians waved flags and scarves and proudly pointed to their national side's jerseys. I became aware of a fact that must have been horrifying mike the entirety of the jaunt, that the "I do you, you do me" song was one of three favored tracks and was being played in a loop. Over and over. Apparently these two men, adults, were fixated, awestruck with the genius of P Squared the artist credited with the inventive track. The only solace I could take was in Lamick's inability to move his legs, a kind of perverse vengence for his off tune humming. Finally we arrived in Chilibombwe, which turned out to be a small copper town, with a very rural populace. The single lane road became more crowded with people and eventually we were ushered into a parking lot. We began to trek down the road, Mike and I conspicuously the only "minzungos" (white people) in eyesight. Vendors attempted to sell us scarves and rum and other things and we indulged at least a few of them, as we both purchased scarves inlaid with Zambian colors (a move we later regretted in the 90 degree heat).  As we walked down the road, a honking car parted the sea of people with two policemen impotently admonishing the offending gentleman to reverse his course. The car disappeared out of sight into the crowd and we continued with the pack toward a circular tin structure on the horizon. Suddenly, the honking car burst back upon the scene, parting the crowd as before with honking and reckless speed, however this time the car sported a new hood adornment- one of the police officers. He grasped the hood with both hand as the car reversed at speeds of at least thirty miles an hour. They hit a bump and the gentleman officer was hurled into the air, but he managed to maintain his grip on the hood remain attached to the speeding vehicle as it swerved backwards though the crowd and out of eyesight. Mike and I looked at one another in astonishment.

We finally approached the stadium and looked for our entry. Faulty directions from one of the Security guards had us doing a 360 loop around the tin-walled stadium. Its walls stood around twenty to thirty feet high, and more resembled from the outside a gerry-rigged prison than a football pitch. And gerry-rigged it was, as we saw upon further examination. We arrived a full 2 hours early as our tickets were in general admission so I had a walk about the place, eventually securing my self in the VIP lounge, the only place they served booze in the whole place. After a few Heinekens I returned to see our formerly vacant section filling rapidly with the game scarcely an hour away. I sat down and watched the teams warm up and the excitement build. I heard Zambians talking up their prospects and talking down thier deficiences in a manner that reminded me of Sundays at the Metrodome and summer conversations with certain nameless homers (Cam, Gates?). Thier refrain was a variation on the same theme: "Why not this year??!!" It would be bourne out in the next few hours that this was not going to be the year. Algeria scored on its only two chances while the more athletic and posession oriented Zambians flubbed away chance after chance as the air slowly left the building. Before long fans who I had overheard extolling their new (white) french coach as a savior were calling for his head. One particularily overheated but well dressed gent sitting infront of Mike repeatedly expressed the threatening refrain, "You are stupid and you must die!" We could only hope that such refrains would not be repeated in our direction. 

They were not and the Zambian fans, in accepting defeat were very well behaved. That is until they filtered out of the stadium. About 50 paces outside the stadium we saw a man get tossed into the bed of a pick up truck, wholly against his will, and battered by the men occupying the space remorselessly, with kicks and ... open handed slaps, as it happened. Regardless of thier method of attack, he was clearly well on his way to receiving the beating of his life, and as the car began to peel out Mike and I looked at each other in astonishment once again. The sea of people again parted and the car, going well over 50 mph, disappeared. No one made any attempt to help the man, and mostly people stared around disinterestedly. Even our companions seemed unmoved, expressing the sentiment that "he must have done something wrong". The battered gentleman quickly left our minds as the endeavor of extracting ourselves from this entanglement of cars and people and debris again consumed our attention. 

Ok thats all for today people as I must rise early, tomorrow I will continue with an exciting description of our trip to the border of the Congo, our experience in a social house and our ride home... which wasnt much different than our ride up. 

My First Blog

I wonder how many illustrious blogging careers have been started under this same title. "My first Blog". Hundreds, maybe thousands. Now for the disturbing news. While this fact may have been gleaned by some of my more clever readers, I have officially crossed over to the to the dark side and have started a blog. With the help of my new friend Jack Gray, a gentleman who hails from Detroit, Michigan and will be joining me this summer, I've "gone digital". Im on the "cutting edge". Im a member of the "new media".  And since I have been in Africa, I've been experiencing "persistently loose stool". 

Im going to be sharing my experiences here in Zambia and where ever else my life takes me as long as it remains interesting. When I begin sitting my thumb again, I'll be sure to lower my blog frequency.

So I've been here for about a week and a half, getting acclimated or "sensitized" to my surroundings (to borrow a word from NGO parlance). Im interning at World Bicycle Relief for the next two months. Things have been great, cool program and people. The only drawback is the wildly intense dreams Ive been having due to my malaria pills. Wow. Ive never experienced anything like it. 

This is my introduction and Ill provide details on the last two weeks  maybe a lengthened version on Sunday after I attend the World Cup Qualifier between the Zambia Copper Bullets and Algeria. Im heading up to the copper belt of nothern Zambia, a 6 hour drive with Mr. Mike Kollins, as well as N goma and Lamick, two Zambia WBR employees. Resume then.

Danno