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