Slowing down

Sitting in our office with a day and a half remaining before x-mas vacation, I announce, "I want to write a blogpost, but I don't know what about." These past four months have been such a whirlwind of adventures, certainly comprised of down-days and relaxed weeks, but most of it has whizzed by - nights melting into weeks streaming into days tumbling into months. These past two weeks, for the first time in a LONG time, I've been a little bored. It's okay though, it gives me time to get excited about and plan my trip, to leisurely compile information for one of our final reports, to catch up on my laundry-list of things to research online (who knew the GRE was changing its format come August 2011?? Not me), and to respond to emails that have been chilling out in my inbox (not helpful that everyone is in exams now - I won't get any back until I'm on the road and then they'll pile up again...). In other news, a fellow Montrealer has been staying here for the past few nights - for those of you who know Jory Cohen, he's doing an overland trip from Tanzania, through Malawi, Zimbabwe, up into Zambia and then back to Tanzania where he's pairing up with a local Tanzanian guy to start a micro-finance honey enterprise. It's nice to have a familiar face from home. I feel a little obnoxious at times playing Jewish geography and finding these random connections that probably bore the other interns and fellows listening in to our conversations, but it also links me back to what's going on at home, and instills in me a sense of comfort and interconnection. You know what that meansssssssss... you all need to come out and visit! Hahaha wishful thinking, right? We DO have a number of extra beds though, always available as long as you're cool entertaining yourself during the day somewhat. More to come soon - I'll try to post again before I take off on Sunday the 19th.

No, this wasn't posed...

Alice's awesome photography skills. We didn't tell you she's the official GRS photographer?

Oh! The rain

I don't think I would be able to live in Seattle. Or Vancouver. Or even England. Not because these places aren't beautiful - they are - they're romantic, charming, enticing, and endearing, but I have major issues dealing with rain day in and day out. Bursts of rain bookended by sun? No problem. A rainy day here or there? Completely fine by me. Even welcome at times (come on, who doesn't love those cozy, cuddly days when you have an excuse to be lazy or stay curled up with a good book - yes, even FaceBOOK counts). But we're going on our third day of incessant rain here and it's starting to give me cabin fever. It doesn't help that with projects wrapping up and the year coming to a close things are pretty slow in the office, so I've resorted to creating projects for myself: doing recon for X-mas break, catching up on much-needed emails, and researching the best way to make perfect popcorn (our addiction here in Zam). Hopefully the rain will break soon. If not, expect many, many more blogposts from me as I'm sitting antsy inside...

Mzungus at Manda Hill

If you've been reading my blog thus far, you can probably discern that my time in Zambia has been great and moderately wholesome so far. Yes, it's been punctuated by a ton of annoyingly redundant catcalls of "MZUNGU! MZUNGU" from babies up to older men, and a few potentially scary run-ins (crazy man in Kaoma), but that could happen anywhere, right? For the first time last week I felt specifically targeted and sneakily duped solely because of my mzungu status (and I'm not including being overcharged for taxis or food bought in markets - in my mind that's a given).

Alice, Lena and I went food shopping Saturday afternoon after the final VCT Challenge Day of 2010 (we got soaked in a torrential downpour, but that's another story). We hit up Manda Hill, a newly rebuilt American-styled mall that houses Shoprite - the mecca of international food products (we all salivated at the sight of Philadelphia cream cheese and smoked salmon, but that's another story). We stocked up on supplies for our ThanksChristMukkah dinner and trekked back to the car, bags and bags of groceries in tow. Manda Hill is an odd place - expensive by Zambian standards, it draws an expat and international crowd. At the same time though, wealthy Zambians and upwardly-mobile (or wanna-be upwardly-mobile?) Zambians hang out there too. Anyways, we loaded our stuff into the car, I hopped in the driver's seat, and slowly backed out of the too-narrow parking spots that are ubiquitous in Zambia, careful to avoid small children and people walking by.

Just as I was about to turn my wheel and pull into drive, a loud SMACK thuds on my roof. WTF? I thought to myself. There was no one there! I was being purposefully careful and perceptive! Maybe I just didn't see someone and this was a warning SMACK? I turn to the left and see a guy couched over, not screaming or crying, and a different guy comes over and says, "You just ran over his foot. You have to take us to the hospital and to the police." I kept on going with my three-point-turn, the dude wasn't even expressing pain. But then part of me panicked - what if I HAD really run over his foot? I could see the headlines already: "Mzungu Charged with Hit and Run at Manda Hill." The second guy who approached the car (with a strange, golf ball-like protrusion at his eyebrow, probably from a fight no less) continued bugging us to take them to the hospital, so I finally got out and went to look at the guy's foot.

"It hurts, oh! The pain!" he said several times. Right. That's why you weren't screaming in pain earlier. "Take off your shoe," I instructed. He did. "And now your sock." He began to pull it off and then stopped about halfway and continued, "Oh, I can't, I can't! The pain." "Take it off, NOW," I commanded. He did, attempting to shield his foot from my view, and... it was TOTALLY fine. this was approximately 4 minutes after I had apparently "ran over his foot," and there was no swelling, no blood, nothing crushed, no weird indentations...your body reacts very quickly to something like that, so I just said, "You're totally fine, stop lying," and brusquely walked back to the car, turned to the second guy and asserted, "Get OFF of my car, you're full of shit," and drove away.

Upon further pondering and discussion we realized that it had all the makings of a scam - first of all, I was driving a low-riding station wagon, there was absolutely NO way I could have ran over his foot if he were behind me, he would have had to be to the side, which he wasn't. Secondly, a second guy jumped in and did the talking. When Lena and Alice asked who he was he hesitated and said, "Uhhh, his brother." Thirdly, the "brother" switched from insisting we take them to the police and the hospital, to insisting we drive them to their "family doctor." Right. So we can pay him and then you can split the sum. Or so you can hop in the car with three white girls and then rob us. Or so you can make us feel like idiots. Either way, they were full of shit, and thankfully we were all savvy enough to avoid their sneaky little ploy.

Lesson learned? Be careful backing out of Manda Hill. Scammers are lurking...

Bat Migration and Colonial Relics

The bat migration was one of the cooler things I've seen recently. Maybe I was so blown away because I wasn't expecting it to be cool at all? I don't know. It is the largest (number-wise) mammal migration in the world, and one of the mysteries is that people don't really know where they go to or from – some have been traced to the Congo, but I'm not sure if researchers know their trajectory. And then there's the fact that it's barely mentioned in the guidebooks, very sparsely frequented, and in a protected park with ghetto dirt roads and unmarked trails makes it seem like that much more of a special, magical and personal discovery.

After an ambitious wake-up at 5:30 AM (still stuffed post-Thanksgiving desserts)) we finally hit the road by 7:30 or 8:00 (gas fill-up and cohort pick-ups were required). We drove about 6 or 7 hours through smaller and smaller Zambian towns, past the Copperbelt, kissing the south-easternmost edge of the Congo, until we reached Kasanka National Park. We set up tents and went to search out these strange, strange flying mammals. We arrived at the bat forest at about 5:15 to find the bats roosting. As depicted in every bat story and movie, they actually do hang upside-down. Lining tree trunks, covering branches like browned leaves of autumn, there was a plethora of bats. I expected to be grossed out – I imagined being surrounded by rats or mice – but they were surprisingly beautiful. With wide wingspans and cute faces, they imparted none of the negative connotations they usually are taken to represent. We ducked the rope prohibiting us from great views and snuck into the forest (where we were supposed to pay 270 000 ZMK – equivalent to $54 – for someone to guide us in...yeah right), and scaled tree-houses and key look-out points to have a heightened view of the goings-on. Between about 5:30 and 6:20 PM was the peak of their swarming – they leave their roost in order to feed on fruit – and the skies were legitimately FILLED with bats. It was potentially one of the simultaneously simplest and craziest things I've ever seen. We emerged from the wilderness to find everyone else sitting on benches like drones waiting, and a guy with a thick Southern African accent chastised us in front of people while we apologized, played slightly dumb, and were secretly thrilled that we duped the system and had an outrageous private view.

The next morning we busted out of there and drove another 6 or 7 hours north to Shiwa Ng'andu, an old colonial house in the middle of the bus built by an eccentric British dude in 1932. He modeled it after a stereotypical British estate and at its peak it employed 2000+ people and supported the entire village. After his death it was left to fall into ramshackle disrepair, and only in the 90s did the eccentric's grandsons refurbish the house and open it to tourism, The inside is still a little shabby and only alludes to the prestige and glamor it must have once garnered, but the grounds are impeccable and a bizarre disjuncture between cultures is created: straw huts next to a colonial estate; bellies swollen from malnutrition and ion imbalance beside opulence and silver and china; current working people, lives and events next to preserved relics of another era. Like I said, it's completely bizarre.

We camped about 20 km down the road at a lodge and campsite next to crystal clear shallow hot springs, and while we expected the springs to be a bit more dramatic, the lodge itself was a genuine oasis with flowers and herbs and lounging spaces indoors and outdoors and *surprise, surprise* INTERNET! In the middle of nowhere, I couldn't believe it.

One last highlight before moving on: I finally saw a Zebra! And not one but many! They're slightly weird animals, with the babies sporting long lanky legs, and the adults with legs too short for their bodies, but their pelts (do zebras have pelts?) are as gorgeous in person as represented on runways.

Lastly, yesterday was World AIDS Day. Here's my friend/other intern Alice's Haiku in honor of the event:

Red Ribbons Flapping.

Testing Today for Status.

Positive Freedom.

Chicken Killing, take two

My final trip to the refugee settlement (at least under the name of the UNHCR project) was a compilation of joy, elation, fear, sadness, melancholy, pride...My first little tale didn't even take place in the settlement, but on the drive up at a stop to collect supplies:

I had one of the scarier experiences I've encountered a few days ago. As usual, we stopped in Kaoma to pick up foodstuffs and groceries. Alice joined me on this trip, and it was awesome to have another intern with me since she is normally in the other refugee settlement, Meheba. Anyway, I had left Alice and a few other people with the purchased food in search of wine. I walked down the road with one of the Zambians we work with, Mutale, and after successfully completing our mission he helped the other guys load the bus full of drinks, and I walked the 500m or so alone back to Alice. Let me mention that it was broad daylight, 2:00 in the afternoon, the main road through Kaoma, I had a camera in my hand (a sign that read “power boozing” was too great to let go undocumented), and about $1500-$1800 worth of kwacha in my backpack when I was a moderately nice looking man walking towards me. Sporting a t-shirt and a blazer jacket with jeans, he even seemed more well-dressed than the haphazard, thrown-together look so common in Zambia (ummm, do you think these kids know who Franz Ferdinand is? Because I saw one wearing their concert T). Walking towards each other nothing seemed out of line; he was staring, but that's nothing new to me here. Then, just as we were at the point when one person veers slightly to one side, and the other individual to the other, he kind of stopped, then moved toward me. Hmmm, a little more strange, but I've had guys here block my way, stand in my way, place themselves in front of me before. Annoying? Yes. But normally I just give a little eye-roll, purposely walk around them, and give a wrist-flick or a drawn out “Iwe!” (which means “you” in Nyanja, but is used synonymously with “hey!” or “come onnnnn” or “give me a break!”). When I made my side-stepping move, he followed into my personal space (which is a tiny box that gets smaller and smaller the more time I spend here). I backed up a touch, and he lunged toward me, grabbing my shoulders more forcefully than friendly, and I'm not sure if he made a move to grab my backpack, but that's what was first on my mind. I shot back, keeping my eyes on him, throwing my half-empty water bottle at him, and shouting at the top of my lungs, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!” My flipflop came off in the process. I didn't even care and barely noticed. I swear, I know cognitively what adrenaline can do to you, but it's been a long time (if ever) since mine has been pumping like that. I was focused and determined, ready to sprint, knees bent, perceptive but concentrated, ready to react. Once enough space had been established and he began to turn and walk on, I spun and half-walked, half-ran to the grocery store where Alice was waiting, unknowing of what had just occurred. Some old men sitting called out, “Don't worry, he's crazy,” looping their fingers in circles at their temples, the international sign for insane. Right, he's crazy, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he grabbed me. Or that hypothetically he could have hurt me or stolen from me. Once my breath caught up to me at the store and I saw Alice, I couldn't help it - I released the panicked cry and jagged tears that follow an adrenaline rush. Along came the shakes too, and she sat me down, instructing me to “breathe” just as I was reminding myself to do the exact same thing. After some water and a few minutes of respite I was fine, and once safely on base – like a childhood game of tag – I didn't feel threatened, scared or even all that mentally panicked, but my body was still reacting in the opposite fashion which is an interesting predicament to be in. Not an experience I'd jump to repeat, but one that taught me that I can deal if faced with it.

Second bizarre situation that occurred in the same day? After getting to the settlement Alice and I went for a dip in the river. As we approached, a bunch of young girls I had made friends with the trip before ambushed us yelling, “Max! Max! Max!” smothering me in wet hugs, topless, some with breast buds starting, oblivious to the North American preoccupation with privacy and certain forms of bodily exposure. We swam, hung out, they braided the front of my hair, and as we were sitting with our legs soaking un the refreshing-yet-deliciously-warm water, one of them just grabbed the triangle of my bathing suit top, pulled it aside to expose my boob, then put it back over to tuck it away. It was as though she said to herself, “Yup, her boobs are just as ghostly white as the rest of her.” I didn't really care, it was just funny and totally unexpected.

* * *

I am a murderer. Of something with a real nervous system (mosquitos don't count). I'm a chicken-killer! I've witnessed chicken killing before in Vietnam and aided in the plucking, watched the gutting, ate the bird and felt that I had participated, but this time it was me, taking the knife to the chicken's throat myself. We had forgotten to buy meat for ourselves in Kaoma, so we got a few village chickens for ourselves in the camp. Alice had also killed one her first trip to Meheba, and I kind of feel like it's a rite of passage. And totally necessary if you're going to be a meat eater. Wings under one flip-flip clad foot, feet under another, head in my left hand, knife in my right, the neck took more back-and-forth motions than I expected were needed to pierce the skin. The chicken seemed to die in stages: first it fought, then succumbed once the blood started flowing liberally, the in twitched angrily and involuntarily as I kept cutting. The blood slowed, the chicken relaxed into the ground, and with a final last gush of blood, some last twitching, relaxation and a final succumbing to death, to the earth, (to my stomach...too soon?). It was cool though, and surprisingly easy. And then totally ironically I was given a chicken about 30 minutes later as a gift!

* * *

Francis – one of our coaches – invited me to his house and I jumped at the offer. I mean, when else will I get to be in a refugee's home? Through paths, past huts, seeing children playing with toys made from empty plastic drink containers, watching women cooking, until we arrived at his hut. Surrounded by a straw fence, it was two rooms but, sported a straw thatched roof and mud walls. Him, his wife and I sat on chairs and benches, talked (or rather, mostly Francis talked – that man can talk forever!), and played with his adorable children. He offered me a chicken as his guest, and in proper Western culture I refused, or thanked him and denied. I didn't realize what a big deal that would be, how insulted and upset he would get. He explained that neighbours would talk if they saw me leaving empty-handed, that in their culture they needed to give guests a gift. Sure then, I thought, I'll take a chicken. He grabbed a big fat one and I brought it back with me to Lusaka on a public bus – how Zambian! One of the funniest parts of the encounter? Walking back with his 2 ½ year old son holding my hand, Francis asked in their language, “Do you know what her name is?” “Yes,” his son replied, “Mzungu [white person].” That's what I'm perpetually known as. Although now it's my name. Oh well.

* * *

It was difficult saying goodbye to many of the coaches; our UNHCR grant is up at the end of the year and unlikely to be renewed – the Zambian government which is in charge of the settlements is trying to shut them down, so the are essentially kicking out all NGOs. They claim that they don't have the resources to sustain their own population, never mind a population of refugees. There might be some validity to that, but in the same breath how can you expect people to repatriate to Congo when people are macheted to death and shot there daily? The GRS program gives these refugees some purpose, some goal, encourages education and inspires them to push themselves further. It's such a shame that they're forcing us to end it and frustrates me to no end.

Another fire-top in my neighbourhood

The vegetative life that is able to spring from the arid red earth here is not only surprising, but breathtaking. For the first two months here, it seemed like every single tree was a Jacaranda - delicate purple feathers of flowers creating canopies over homes, roads, walkways, providing a stark contrast to the film of dust covering cars, bodies, homes and laundry. Carolyn, it was precisely the shade of purple you die for, and every time I actively noticed them I thought of you. With the change of the seasons though, the Jacarandas quickly lost their petals and are now replaced by what I call Fire Trees. I'm completely oblivious to what their actual name is, but now it seems like every Jacaranda was replaced with a Fire Tree. You look up and no longer is it just the red soil that's alight, but the sky too (matching my hair, perhaps?). The fire trees are thick, fluorescent and lush - a highlighter swash on the top of perfect climbing trunks. They remind me of the autumn I exchanged for a second summer, the one I'm now starting to miss. The trees really are spectacular though, and a reminder of what can grow, survive and flourish in very little.

Ninja Ping

I don't exactly consider myself a squeamish person - bugs don't usually gross me out, I'll brush away (most) spiders with the sweep of a hand, and I've been consistently cleaning up Ping's (our cat's) half-eaten poisonous lizards/barf that he so conscientiously leaves around the house for us every few weeks. But two nights ago that patience was tested.

After a pretty long day at the office and knowing that I had to wake up at 6AM the next morning (long story, but in short it was the only time we could go on a site visit for our VCT Challenge day this Saturday), I collapsed into bed at 12:30 only to be woken up again four hours later. Shuffling, bumping, moving, "What the hell is that?" I wondered. "Is someone in the house? Did we forget to lock the door?" Three of my four housemates were also gone (two at Vic Falls, one at the refugee settlement), so that made the bumps in the night all the more ominous. Eyes burning from lack of sleep, I threw on my glasses, reached for my headlamp, and ducked out from beneath my mosquito net only to find...Ping going crazy on the floor by the base of my bed. Sometimes we call him ninja cat when he randomly climbs up sides of couches, pounces from one piece of furniture to another, and gets all wide-eyed and playful, but this was another beast altogether. He was jumping in midair for apparently no reason. Oh wait, maybe he was swatting at something. I flipped on the light. There he was, playing with a dead mouse. Tossing it up, catching it himself, pouncing on the immobile creature, totally frenzied and giddy. All of this on top of my purse, my running shoes, my computer case. Ew. I tried to kcock Ping out of the way but he kept on running back. I don't know, maybe the mouse was made out of catnip or something. Instead I ran into the kitchen to get a plastic bag, finally pushed Ping out of the room, picked up the (kind of cute, in retrospect) mouse with two plastic bags (one crunched up so I wouldn't feel the body - I'm telling you, I don't know why it made me squeamish!), and tossed it in the garbage before letting Ping back in the room. An upside of the encounter? Ping is doing his job. And I was so tired that the whole event kind of feels like a dream. The downside? There was a dead mouse all over my stuff. And I had to clean it up. No big deal though, next time it will come as less of a surprise, right?

Read me!

Super interesting article about the extended lifespans of people born HIV+:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/06/us/06hiv.html?hp

A GRS record?

Mayukwayukwa again. As I wrote on my Facebook status,

"Destination: Refugee Settlement

Goal: 700+ people tested in one football/netball VCT tournament

We'll see how it goes..."

And go it did. Not without any hitches, but by now I realize that's to be expected for these big events. But maybe I should start at the beginning.

* * *

It was nice to come back and know things a little bit - pulling up in the dark, past sunset but before complete blackness shrouds the scenery, I knew what lay immediately beyond, what to expect, how the basics work; give people hugs, shake their hands, remember their names. I went for a run my first morning and heard someone say, "Hi Max!" I stopped and gave the young woman a hug - she wasn't one of our GRS coaches but maybe a netball coach. I had no idea what her name was, but she clearly knew me. The day after that I was walking with a few of our coaches and thought I heard some kids call out "Maxime! Maxime!" I must be hearing things, I thought. They must be saying something else. I turned to our coaches and said, "Wait, are they shouting my name?" "Yes, of course they know your name!" Ummm, what? There are like 10 000+ people who live in Mayukwayukwa, and granted this kids were close to where we stay, I still thought it was amazing they knew or remembered my name when I had only been there once before for five days. Talk about feeling like a celebrity. The best part of that run though? Just towards the end, 4 minutes from the chalets, three small kids no older than five years old sprinted towards me at full speed, recklessly and without abandon. I expected them to stop a cautionary six feet away as most others do, but no. They charge at me, to the point where if I hadn't stopped running I would have punted them down the bumpy dirt road. Without a second to reflect, they ambush me with hugs and giggles, giggles punctuated by nervous hiccups, becoming slightly shy after acknowledging their brazenness. I started my run again and looking over my shoulder I waved as the girl in the pink princess dress continued on her skipping jaunt.

* * *

This trip was punctuated by great conversations, feeling like I could ask the coaches questions since we were already friends, and being comfortable with all the guys I was traveling with. One of the best and most comical conversations? A totally organically grown sex talk with 9 Zambian men. It stemmed from the question if there were any "safe" days to have unprotected sex with a girl, which evolved into me giving them a rundown of what happens anatomically during a woman's menstruation cycle, and then the conversation just exploded: question upon question, some probing for knowledge that I take for granted (does having sex in different positions make it more or less safe?), others complex and long-winded (how come female circumcision is not allowed in the US?). Lazzy - our fearless leader - took it upon himself to be the moderator, assigning a speaking order and ensuring that everyone who wanted to had the opportunity to put in their two cents. My VagMon girls would be so proud.

* * *

I'm going to leave out and miss so much of what I want to capture and convey from all of the talks with coaches that I had this trip if for no other reason than because there's too much information, too much that's worth sharing, too much that just rocked me to my core, more that I thought it would. On my second day at the settlement I took a walk with three of the refugees - two coaches, Dominic (Angolan) and Francis (Congolese, I think?), and a former coach now GRS employee, Felix (Congolese). Some of our conversation was just shooting the shit, but other parts were so deep I couldn't believe they were sharing such stories with me as casually as talking about when the mangoes would be ripe. It began with me timidly asking Dom how he got here, what his background was, and if he minded sharing his story with me. His wasn't particularly appalling: his parents heard rumors of fighting elsewhere in Angola, so they left all they had - their farm, bags of maize and rice, vegetables, animals - to hop on a boad and cross the border in to Zambia. That was back in 1967. Dom was born in Mayukwayukwa. Then he started talking about some of the newer refugees: a woman from Congo arrived a year ago, only 18, gang-raped by 5 soldiers while she was trying to escape, now here in Mayukwayukwa alone; men with missing limbs, former soldiers, hands, arms, feet, legs cut off by the unforgiving blade of someone else's machete; stories of crossing borders in the nighttime, traversing jungles where the threat of death-by-vicious-animal is not only possible but also probable; sister and mother macheted to death in front of one of our Congolese coaches, and him beaten to the point of unconsciousness, only alive because he miraculously ended up in a church, he doesn't remember why or how he got there; more tame stories like Dom's where people leave everything in the middle of the night because they hear of the threat of attack; completely terrifying stories like one from the Congo where mothers are told, "Pound your infant to death in this hole in the ground otherwise we'll kill you." And they do it. I can't even fathom being put in that position, never mind the selfish or selfless decision to be made.

The coaches were curious, so curious, about what life is like in Canada, in the US. They complained about the difficulties of being a refugee, how the Zambian government wouldn't recognize them as citizens even after 10, 20, 30, 40 years of living in this country, after birthing generations of children here. They wanted job opportunities, educational opportunities, "basic human rights" - an easy catchphrase that they never elaborated on, but I kind of assume is the golden halo of hope that they assume Canada, the US, Australia and Europe provide. I asked them what they wanted. If they could have one wish, if I were magical, what would they wish for? More industry and job opportunities here? Work and school i Lusaka? Peace back home? Resettlement abroad? Despite long rambling tangents, this is what I deduced: school and work opportunities, the chance to really provide for their families, a place where they're not constantly looked at as outsiders, a place where they can live without the fear that they could be kicked out at any moment, and last but possibly the most movie-tearjerker-inducing is the chance to tell their story. At least five different people asked me to share these stories with people at home. So I'm honoring their request and sharing them with you. I hope I do them and their stories justice.

* * *

975! I fuck you not (pardon my language). The number of people who got HIV tested on Saturday was 975. Our target? 700. Last time in Mayukwayukwa? about 650, Rumors of the highest in GRS? Eight-hundred-and-thirty-something over a two-day long event in Malawi last year. But this is huge. There's nothing like the elation after a completely exhausting, draining day when you find out that not only did you succeed in whatever way, shape or form you were trying for, but you surpassed what you hoped for. It's like your body is finally able to relax, your mind can't process what's happened, and you're left in a sort of peaceful, dumbfounded shock. With a little sleepiness and a lot of joy thrown in the mix. I feel personally affected by this success which is silly because there were so many people who did so many things to make this event happen, but I guess I mean to say that I'm proud of what everyone did and I would have been pretty upset if it hadn't gone well.

That's not to say that there weren't major challenges, there definitely were - there wasn't enough buffer to go around (which is essential to do the test with the instant Determine HIV kits) so some counsellors started over an hour late (we solved it by going around and administering saline solution to them by using syringes); we ran out of reporting forms and hand to write form after form after form by hand; early in the day at about 11 AM we finished the 700 Determine kits we had brought ourselves (!) and had to get about 300 more fro the local clinic. However, because they report to the government we needed to handwrite a second form to indicate the age, name, address, result, etc. of those tested. I'm also worried about the follow-up for those who test positive - will the clinic really follow through? What kind of confidentiality is kept when HIV carries such stigma here and the community is so small? All this while I was responsible for registering counsellors and coaches, distributing lunch coupons, t-shirts, breakfast and snacks, sitting in the blazing sun, managing other problems as they came up, writing certificates of participation for the 200+ player, watching football and netball tournaments, wanting to dance and interact with the kids more than I did, and keep my cool, my calm and a smile on my face when I was either a) dealing with someone who was complaining or upset, b) talking to someone who wanted me to give them something, c) internally freaking out, or d) completely clueless on how to fix a given problem. Oh, and did I mention that because we surpassed our target we also ran out of incentives early on (we give sugar in the settlements for people who test - one of the reasons why our turnout is so high), so people were obviously upset and complaining about that. With a little bit of innovation and teamwork though, we got things done. Got things done well. The biggest surprise to me? I was able to keep my cool, go with the flow and fix the problems that arose more so (coolness-wise) than I think I would have been able to 3 months ago. Don't get me wrong, minor freak-outs occurred, but they were more internalized and pushed me to find a proactive solution. It felt different. I felt different.

Lake of Stars

I think I have PLoSD - kind of like PTSD, but instead it's post-Lake of Stars Depression. Lake of Stars is a three-day long music festival on the shores of Lake Malawi, one of the biggest lakes in Africa. Just like the Great Lakes, its waters stretch far across giving the illusion of oceanfront property, despite its central African location. Hosted every year in October, the festival features a mixture of well-known and not-so-well-known local or African artists and others from the UK too (it's co-sponsored by some Brits, I'm not sure if it's a British organization or the British government...).

Anddddddd that's about as far as I got on my blog about Lake of Stars. Pathetic, I know. Last week was crazy though; since we got home on Tuesday from LoS, we had a three day workweek and about a million and four things to do. Monday was a holiday so we didn't have work and everything was closed, and then I left on Tuesday the 26th for the refugee camp and only got back tonight (the 31st). So instead of writing a nice long, well-packaged and pretty blog, I'm going to save that for writing about Mayukwayukwa and just summarize by saying Lake of Stars was awesome, we camped on the beach, listened to music, swam and partied for three days straight. Maybe it's better if I don't go into details about it anyway. My mother DOES read this...Hi mom. No, no, I'm kidding, it wasn't anything all that debaucherous, but like I said, long blogpost to come...

Lake of Stars update coming soon, until then a sampling of pictures

So the order of these is totally messed up, but just a few pictures to give you an idea of my life the past few weeks (in case you haven't or can't look at all the pics on Facebook - they're much easier to load there for some reason...). To the left is the view from our campsite on Lake Malawi for the Lake of Stars music festival. Our tent collapsed in the wind the first day so I just slept outside. This was my morning view. Tough life. The right hand picture is on the drive back to Lilongwe. The view was too pretty, we had to stop and stretch our legs.

Before Lake of Stars I was at the refugee settlement Mayukwayukwa. Below are some pictures from my time there. I head out again on Tuesday October 26th until the 31st for a massive VCT football and netball tournament where we hope to test over 700 people!
GRS Graduates (left).

A village in Mayukwayukwa (below).

At the river before hopping in! (left)

The UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) guest house - home sweet home for the week (right).

Oh and lastly, to add to the list of awesome names I mentioned last post (Loveness, Freeborn and Besana) I have one more that I came across today while writing certificates: Fatness. Yes, Fatness. Different connotations here versus at home, I would assume.

Mayukwayukwaaaaaa!

Hellooooo!

I know it's been a while since I've last written. Please forgive my lapse in blogging, I was busy preparing for my trip to the refugee settlement (Mayukwayukwa, or as Ali called it, Mayukwawawjsrkeuwonfsoiethdfnspw%^#$), in the actual settlement from the 4th until the 9th, and then busy with birthday festivities! I don't even know where to begin organizing my thoughts so I think the best way is just to pull snippets from my journal. They'll be choppy, but hopefully they'll help to paint a picture, or at least draw a rudimentary sketch, of what my time there was like.

* * *

Driving to Mayukwayukwa. Finally making the trek. With anticipation it has been built up in my mind and I don't know what to expect apart from countryside and space. We're stopped right now in Kaoma, the last frontier before two hours of dirt roads take over, and I elicit relentless stares as I sit and write perched in the shade on a stoop. Smiling at unbelieving kids, sometimes they seem enthralled, other times terrified. Adults too, look at me communicating with their eyes either fascination or a guarded, "What the hell are you doing here?" Sounds are similar - "Closer" blaring from a tavern, the incessant repetition of a loudspeaker saying the same short sentence in Nyanja, it begins to blend with the musicality of the cars, the idling trucks, the songs, the voices shouting, humming, singing along. Sand covers the shoulders of the road hinting at beaches far, far fro here, and it surprises me that while I'm not 100% comfortable or TOTALLY at ease, I'm much more accustomed to this world, this lifestyle, that I was 9 weeks ago. It's hard to push South-East Asia and Vietnam out of my mind with its lush and plentiful excess, gorgeous in its diversity, yet Zambia presents a new sort of beauty – an excess in color and spirit, in energy and space. Different, but no more or less astonishing.

* * *

My mother always said that I came home from my first day (or week, or month) of kindergarten and when asked what I had learned, I answered, “I learned how to be mean.” Pretty powerful words for a 5-year-old. I think what I meant to say, and would have said if I had had adequate grasp of the English language, is, “I learned how to say no, and for the first time in my life people said no to me, denyed me something without an excuse. And I learned to do the same.” Being in Mayukwayukwa at times feels like kindergarten again at times – I have to be “mean” or say no, be anally strict, when I have what they're asking for. Mineral water at lunch yesterday? I had 40 bottles in my room. But not enough for all the coaches. And none would be remaining for us if we gave them away. Extra pens? Three sitting in my bag, right next to the 9 million kwacha ($1800) granted to GRS by UNHCR. I could buy 9000 pens with that. But I can't give these away because that sets an unsustainable precedent. So instead I lend out one sole pen, insist that our LPC (Local Program Coordinator) Justine, give it back at the end of the day, and threaten to hunt him down and follow him hope if he doesn't return it. I have to say no without excuses, or with excuses and explanations that don't seem fair in my mind, but I can't do otherwise.

* * *

I think you can only fully understand the demands, requests, and long-winded answers everyone speaks about in the refugee settlements after witnessing it firsthand. Even going into a meeting with our LPCs in the headspace of being patient and expecting the meeting to last longer than necessary, it still blows my mind that it took us 3 ½ hours to talk about these issues. From what would seem to be major (the suggestion of opening a GRS office in the camp, our upcoming VCT tournament) to what appears to be minor (how you will choose who is invited to the tournament as a “supporter” – and supporters get food incentives), everything is a big deal, everything has the potential to offend someone, and everyone wants to throw their two cents in. I can't say that I blame them – in a place where resources are even more scarce than they are in Lusaka, people want things they can get their hands on. Pair that with a small-town atmosphere where everyone knows your business and rumors spread like fire in the dry African Bush, and something as small as giving away a few remaining biscuits from an already-opened package waterfalls into giving away whole boxes of biscuits freely to people, without regard for who they are or their connection to GRS. The issue of incentives comes in too: since we don't pay our coaches we sometimes give them salt or mealiemeal or washing paste. But then parents say, “You're benefitting from our kids when they're not getting anything in return,” (ummm, education on how to protect yourself from getting HIV? Or ways of taking care of yourself if you are HIV+?). Or coaches complain about the incentives they receive...it's a delicate balance and I feel like no matter what people will always find something to complain about. It can be trying and tiring...

* * *

Little things here make my day: conversations with our coaches under the tree budding baby mangoes; an exchange with a hazy-eyed old woman, skin hanging off her body in drapes, rusty safety pin through her earlobe long with age; children staring unabashedly until I lift up a hand to wave and shatter the division.

* * *

There's a netball coach here with BSA (Breakthrough Sports Academy, our partner in this project) who blows my mind. I think he's from either Angola or the Congo and both his arms are amputated several inches below both elbows. Every time I see him, he greets me with such warmth and effervescent energy. When I was first introduced to him he extended the shortened stump of his arm and I had a momentary sense of, “What do I do with this? Give him a pound with my fist? Brush my hand against it?” I was thankful I had witnessed someone greet him beforehand and so I just followed suit: held the soft, tapered end of his arm and shook it despite its missing hand and forearm. What has this man gone through? What do people do to other people? What are we capable of? And how are people able to survive whatever he has survived and still be jocular, still have spirit?

* * *

Driving deeper into the settlement, seeing schools and homes and stalls on the edge of tiny sandy roads barely wide enough for the UNHCR truck we rode in. It was nice to get a bit outside the compound or area where we were conducting our training. It really was stereotypical African villages, mud huts with straw thatched roofs, circled together around a common area, kids scattered ourside, women working or cooking of handing out nearby. Whether you think it sounds overly idealistic or peacefully simple, it's not an easy life. Person after person after person expressed the desire to go to school, to find work, to make money, to get out of there. As beautiful and serene as it is out in the countryside, in the bush, there is still this desire to get to the big city.

* * *

The best names I came across while writing certificates for graduations in the camps:

Last name:

• Wankie (use your imagination...yes, I'm very mature)

First names:

• Besana (“besar” means “kiss” in Portuguese and there are a bunch of Portuguese-speaking Angolan refugees in Mayukwayukwa)

• Loveness

• Freeborn

Freeborn. That's the most moving for me, particularly in a refugee settlement. Their child was born free, when under other circumstances they may not have been.

* * *

I head back there from October 26^th until the 31^st for a big VCT Tournament with multiple football (soccer) and netball teams competing, prizes, testing, entertainment, etc. etc. Until then, a bunch of us are heading out to Malawi from Thursday until Tuesday for a big music festival which should prove to be epic. I'll let you know...

Doggy Death Wishes

So apparently our very cute puppy has a death wish: first, about two weeks after we got here, she was hanging out around the car and her leg was partially run over by the car. She limped for a few days but seemed to get over it until she was playing around some cinder blocks in our yard (there's some construction going on) and it fell on the very same leg, both bruising it and cutting the flesh slightly. She seemed to be doing okay for a solid 3 weeks in there, then was gnawing on a heavy wooden board that was propped up against the wall and it fell on her back left leg. The final blow? Alice, Marissa and I came back from grocery shopping tonight to find pools of radiant red blood all over our porch: puddles on the yoga mats, smears on the rocks, paw prints sprinkled around. It was already dark by this time so we popped out our headlamps and did some rudimentary first aid by washing out the wound, filling it with neosporin, and tying strips of newly laundered t-shirts around the gash. It was deep on her lower leg, sliced almost to the bone and bleeding long and hard. When I first wrote this blogpost I forgot to include the most comical part (if it's okay that something so serious might be comical): our night guard/watchman (whose English is sometimes indecipherable) said that the "big cat" did it. Now, there is a fat grey cat who has been seen in our garden from time to time, but if this cat was responsible for Kamba's wound, there would be a cheetah in our back yard and I'd be terrified to walk from our car to the house. After doing a little crime scene investigation we deduced that she had hit into some glass resting on the side of the house and that it probably cut cleanly though, a neat slice. We're taking her to the vet first thing in the morning, and as we speak she's sleeping soundly at my feet. Witnessing the whole ordeal made me wish I knew more though, made me wish I could do more, take action, know that I had done all that I could possibly do to remedy the situation.

The smoke that thunders

Not only does work come in waves, but so too do things to write about. Friday night a Zambian woman in our office organized a centuries old traditional performance/"educational session" involving drums, dance and some hardcore hip-isolation action which is meant to titillate and tempt your husband-to-be. In the past (and still sometime in more rural locations) the whole process was meant to last the month before marriage. These days however, women only take a night to do it, so it came across as a Zambian version of a bachelorette party. I'll save that story for vocal sharing (I wouldn't want to incriminate anyone, now would I?) and instead tackle the most recent (and maybe the most impressive) first while impressions are still fresh in my mind: Victoria Falls. The largest waterfall in the world, or so it claims - it is neither the highest nor the widest but its height and width form the largest sheet of falling water in the world (I stole this fact from Wikipedia). In Nyanja it's named Mosi-oa-Tunya , or the Smoke that Thunders. And thunder it does.

Another intern (Alice), my friend Jamie from Bowdoin, his friend Brandon and I road-tripped out there early Saturday morning and made the 6 hour journey arriving by 1ish. Splitting the driving made it easy and allowed us to sneak in some naptime, and cruising in car was so liberating. Here we were, on our own, driving in Africa, blasting music, singing along, joking and chilling out.

We hit up the falls soon after arriving at our hostel. Both Brandon and Jamie had been there last during the wet season and explained that at the time the mist was all-encompassing, obscuring the view, though the sheer magnitude and force of the falls was overwhelming. This time the stream was less, but it stretches so long and wide with a precipitous drop and moss-padded boulders crashed into by tumbling water...in some ways I'm glad it was the low season because we were able to see more. I never knew that Vic falls fell into a gorge so we were able to stand on one side and watch the other, peer into Zimbabwe, gape at people bungee-jumping from the bridge, sit in awe t the strength and capacity of those falls. I don't get it, it's just wanter and empty space, yet it takes people's breath away - including my own - every time.

The next day we hiked down to the Boiling Pot which is where the river turns below the falls, so for a little corner portion the raging water is (relatively) calm. There are no other words for what we did apart from frolic in the water and lounge in the sun. Afterwards we hiked back up and walked to the other side of the gorge where the river actually flows from. Stepping through shallow yet forceful streams, we made our way across water-eaten rocks carved deep by the powerful river to a pool of water right on the edge of the drop-off - I literally lay across the edge and peered hundreds of feet to the precipice below. My stomach flip-flopped but the adrenaline was also exhilarating and refreshing in a strangely carnal and simplistic sense.

Pie Dilemmas (and no, not whether to choose pumpkin or pecan...)

First real VCT, second big event, and whether it was coincidence, confidence, less organization needed overall or fate, I'm not sure, but it went much, much smoother than the first. Things didn't go 100% according to plan (they never do here), like we were supposed to start at 8 AM and things only really got moving at 10, but at the end of the day we tested over 300 people and maybe even over 400, so the late start didn't seem to put much of a damper on our ability. I'm getting way ahead of myself here though. Let me first explain what a VCT even is.

VCT stands for Voluntary Counselling and Testing - it's a free service whereby people are tested for HIV using kits that only require a tiny pinprick of blood and take about 10 of 15 minutes. Since GRS doesn't test people ourselves, we have other organizations we partner with that come and do the testing for us, like Tiny Tim and Friends (TTF) - a paediatric-focused organization, CIDRZ, and Marie Stopes who not only test but also provide family planning. At Saturday's event Marie Stopes only tested about 50 individuals, but they did on-the-spot IUD insertion (birth control by way of an Inter-Uterine Device...Google it if you don't know what I'm talking about), and disseminated a lot of information other forms of birth control as well as male circumcision (which reduces a man's chances of acquiring HIV). If an individual is found to be HIV positive, they're then followed up by one of these organizations/clinics and given comprehensive care, counselling and treatment.

But back to Saturday's VCT: One of our biggest challenges at these events is figuring out how to draw more parents and guardians out. We had hundreds and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of children milling around but no guardians, and children under 16 years old need a parent or guardian's consent in order to test.

The kids crack me up, and it's so weird because I never thought I was a kid person before this. Time and time again at the VCT they began to surround me, with giggles and cornrows and dust-caked clothes (some appropriate and just well-worn, others almost comical - a princess-like dress worn casually? but it's all they have...), with grins and sores and new teeth pushing through pink gums, with flies perched on their dreads and babies saddled to their young non-existent hips (siblings, no doubt), with their excitement at the seemingly mundane and their gyrating hips at a song with a heavy beat; they represent incongruous mixtures in the same single person. They are powerful in numbers - jostling and pushing to the front, creating a mob-like scene either around us muzungus (white people) or around the local Zambian pop performers - and it can be easy to forget their needs when, for a split second, you wonder if they would trample you should you be pushed to the ground...

Talking about VCTs, kids in these compounds, GRS's role as an NGO, it's so hard not to resort to cliches and to express my thoughts, feelings and beliefs in a logical, coherent way. Maybe it's because there IS no organization to them. I want to help these kids, to provide motivating role models for them, to set up the structure to help empower and educate them, to have a sense of self-efficacy even if they won't become movie stars, but in the same breath it's so frustrating and tiresome and emotionally trying when people ask you for things NONSTOP. I genuinely don't think I've ever been asked for so many things in such a short period of time. "Give me 50 000 kwacha [the currency here]," "Give me a ribbon," "Give me food." When I would try and explain that everyone else was asking for that too - how could I only choose and give to one person? How could that ever be fair? - they would just keep on pressing. I know that it makes sense, I would probably do the same if I were in their situation: if you don't have anything to lose and only have the possibility to gain, why no push for whatever you can get? Why not ask and ask and ask, one day you might get something.

Case in point: we had leftover pies from lunch (not pies like fruit pies, they're meat pies with potatos in a sort of gravy, and encased by flakey pastry. Delicious but deadly amounts of oil) and a member of the GRS staff decided to give them to a few kids who had helped move desks back into classrooms where they belonged. I told the staff member that I didn't think it was a good idea - I had already witnessed the frenzy that the kids went into when something, anything, was given away for free - but he insisted and I decided to stay out of it. Sure enough, after he had given out the pies, the lucky recipients went streaming from the room bragging to anyone who would listen, and a legitimate stampede of kids followed, elbowing their way to the front of the crowd. It wasn't fair and it was unnecessarily obvious, and then for the next hour we spent cleaning up and waiting for a truck to get there, we had to fend off children asking for pies. It's such a shitty feeling, knowing that you do have 10 or 12 pies left, that you may or may not eat them, that you definitely don't need them, yet you lie because there's no fair way to distribute them. The worst part was that I justified it in my head by thinking that we'd give them out to our coaches who had worked hard all day long and who were riding back in a truck with the tents, yet when we got back home they had all already been dropped off. So there we were, unnecessarily left with extra pies (when we have about 20 in our freezer already), we could have unfairly distributed them to a select few kids who probably would have loved them, and I just have no idea what's morally correct in this situation.

Moral dilemmas aside, the preliminary numbers tested are great and beyond that, the warmth, energy and crystallized joy that I witnessed on Saturday leaves me with positive connotations and a sense of pride that I played a real role in the planning and execution of this event.

New pictures up!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2050616&id=4603434&l=9cb7e3069d

New addictions and Rosh Hashanah

I now see why people become gambling addicts. For the first time in my life last night I played blackjack and gambled. What was the outcome, you ask? I tripled what I put in and walked away with $40 USD more than I started with. Groceries for a week! I won't make too much of a habit out of it, but it's definitely rewarding .

On a completely different note, my trip to the refugee camps has been postponed. I was supposed to leave next Wednesday but because of re-registration in the camps there are (apparently) a million-and-two activities going on and nowhere for us to stay (the UNHCR guest house is full and there aren't hotels or anything around there). When I first heard, I was pretty pissed. I know that a large part of being here and working here is being flexible - particularly time-wise - but this was going to be my escape from the city, my time to be out in the field, to be autonomous, to be the only intern working on a project (as awesome as it is to work with other people, sometimes it's also nice to have something that's yours, you know?). Instead of next week it's moved to the beginning of October and we actually come back on my birthday (the 10th). The switch just forced me to take a step back and reorganize my thoughts and my mentality. A firm grip on time just doesn't work out here. And that's okay. But I need to remember and respect that, instead of getting frustrated.

Lastly, the other night one of the fellows and I made Rosh Hashanah dinner for the GRS interns and fellows. It was a veritable feast! With crunchy sweet apples, notorious Zambian honey, bread that is braided and soft like challah (what it's doing in Zambia, I have no idea!), orange-lemon-rosemary roast chicken, balsamic gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, minted cucumber tomato salad and an apple honey bourbon cake with vanilla ice cream, we dined like kings. The highlight was the vuvuzela as the shofar - pictures will certainly be up soon, but to say the least, it was epic. Epic and nice to both have that connection to what I associate with home, and to share it with people here (for a few of them it was their first Rosh Hashanah dinner). Spreading a little Jew love here and there. Shana tova!

A different sort of graduation

This past Saturday we had our first big graduation/testing event and it was a complete whirlwind of excitement, terror, passion, dance and fun. Before I go into detailing the actual event, I should preface all of this with a little explanation of what we're up to that kids are graduating from. Grassroot Soccer in Zambia implements a 10 session-long curriculum in schools, community centres and refugee camps focused on HIV education and prevention using soccer and sport as a medium. It's an activities-based program (or as they spell it here, programME - it's tough to get used to!) that relies on the power of soccer to establish self-efficacy in youth through the use of local peers and mentors who act as coaches for the GRS Skillz (yes, with a Z) curriculum. After these 10 sessions there's a graduation for the kids. Since we finished a cycle in four different compounds (like townships in Cape Town) around Lusaka, we decided to have a big graduation with all the kids together. GRS also organizes VCT (voluntary counseling and testing) events where people can come and get HIV tests for free. For the first time we incorporated this into our big graduation, so it was a little bit chaotic but really cool and totally new too.

Because it was at the UN urban refugee transit center (where refugees stay for about a month before being placed somewhere else), and since it is walled-in and (relatively) secure, we were able to go with all our coaches the day prior to begin setting up. I expected it to take the larger part of the day, but again here is an example of one of the many illogical processes here: we went with all the coaches around 10 AM, but the big truck carrying the 300 chairs and poles for tents only showed up several hours later. Typical, and I'm learning to anticipate the need for flexibility at all times, not only in certain situations.

The next morning we were up bright and early at 6:30 (on a Saturday! Better get used to it for these types of things) and headed to the location to finish setting up and welcome the busses full of children and parents. It's so funny and foreign to me that the kids and parents actually made it there in the first place. At home, people would need not only a formal invitation - which the parents here actually did get during home visits - but a plan of action, a definite arrival/departure time, schedule for the day, etc. etc. With incentives like chitengues (fabric wrapped around as a skirt) for parents and lunch provided, that was enough to make them come.

I knew that the day would never go by without any hitches and that the game plan was in reality just a rough outline, but I think that we handled the speed bumps really well: a few tents fell down/weren't put up at all because of missing parts which messed up the organization of the testing partners a bit, then the lunch/drink distribution was slightly messy, consent forms that had been signed previously had no means of organization by which to get them back to the kids, and we almost ran out of blank consent forms, but somehow everything worked out in the end.

Everything aside though, I had a total and utter blast. Bustling around and making sure things were running as best as possible, I felt like I finally had a minor grasp on the way things function in Zam. Speaking and interacting with coaches I saw friendships being fostered, jocular attitudes cultivated. And observing kids taking this graduation seriously, proud of finishing the curriculum, I could see the impact that GRS has on their attitudes and their lives. As a mzungu (white person) with translucent skin, red hair and blue eyes, I felt welcomed, giddy and energized when I danced in front of 300+ people, surrounded by kids as young as 6 and as old as 18, booty-poppin', shaking and moving to strong thumping beats, totally sober in the midday African sun. Completely invigorating.

Another first for me, I also got an HIV test! It wasn't exactly nerve-wracking, but there's always that minuscule element of "what if...?" The 10-15 waiting period is like a built-in anxiety ticking time bomb waiting to be detonated or deactivated, you're not sure which. At our whole event with over 300 people and about 150ish tested, only 4 kids were found to be HIV positive, all from the same family. I can't even wrap my head around how soul-shaking it must be to receive that information as a parent...They'll receive support, counseling, ARTs, etc from our partner organization Tiny Tim and Friends, but still...

The last thing I'll mention for now is that most of the accompanying parents and guardians were female, but there were a select few particularly gung-ho males (fathers? uncles? grandfathers?) present too, who were adamant about having their children tested. I can only imagine what they've gone through to make it to that point of pushing a role that's often associated here with the feminine, but it genuinely warmed the cockles of my heart (as my mother would say) to witness that kind of care, dedication and support.

So summary: first graduation = great success!

Finally, pictures!

So I've learned that pictures upload much faster to Facebook than to this blog, so for those of you not savvy with the fb (ahem...mom...), here's the public link to my posted pictures:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2050616&id=4603434&l=9cb7e3069d

Fiction and facts

Just a few interesting stories/myths/tales/even some truths I've learned in my three weeks in Zambia so far:

1. At an intervention last week (an intervention is where GRS coaches conduct one of the ten practice sessions in our curriculum), one of the older kids (about 15 or 17) was very convinced that one of the ways you could get HIV was to be bewitched be someone else.
2. Many parents don't want their kids to test at VCT events because they think that people (we) are taking their children's blood for satanic purposes.
3. You can get HIV through touching someone, sharing plates, etc.
4. Women sometimes think that their husband or boyfriend isn't being faithful if they use a condom.
5. On the other hand though, kids here have exceptional knowledge about HIV and AIDS transmission and prevention. Why is the epidemic so bad in Southern Africa then? There are other places in the world that have lots of poverty and similar levels of education...however here there is a lot of intergenerational sex and many multiple concurrent partners (partners at the same time) versus consecutive monogamy. Since the HIV virus proliferates in the first 8 weeks of exposure, to have multiple partners at the same time during that period increases the chance of passing the virus on to a partner. People are actually 40 times more likely to pass HIV on during that initial infection periof than they are the 2-10 years after that! Crazy, eh?

Bear With Me

I'm asking for your forgiveness and understanding in advance: this is about to be the cheesiest blog post ever, but I have to write it anyway. After a week in the office busying myself with different projects and continuing to get used to how things work around here, we were let off a little bit early on Friday. I decided to go for a quick jog around our neighborhood and ran down the long road that stretches from our house to what is literally the bush - not a single house, dirt roads stemming from the central concrete road, and I wouldn't be surprised if I saw some sort of animal there. The pervasive red Lusakan dust was kicked up with every step I took, and Shakira's "This Time for Africa" came on my iPod. My shadow was 35-feet tall with the blazing orange sun spreading across the horizon and setting behind me, Zambians coming home from work, from school, from somewhere else, walking next to me, and it finally hit me. I'm in Africa. I was taken back to when I returned my little Civic right before I left and the same song came on the radio - a world away right now, but connecting between the two locations anyways. It was my "Aha!" moment, my "holy shit I'm in Africa" moment, my "I know this is disgustingly cheesy but it's too special to ignore" moment.

Oh, Bureaucracy!

I got my first few real tastes of Zambian bureaucracy and organization this past week, and although I was amply forewarned, it's still always surprising (and not to mention frustrating) when you expect one thing and the true outcome is quite another. Just one big thing to get used to. On Friday, Alice and I brought our forms, pictures and applications to immigration to drop off for processing in order to get work permits. "Immigration" usually draws up images ofdelineated rows, organization and strict methodical processing. Not so much over here in Zam. There were no lines only clumping, no clear signs of where to go, the instructions we received were, "Navigate the immigration office until you find the appropriate person to talk to," and once there it's always a little disheartening to see your meticulously-prepared package loosely tossed under a pile of tens of others. Apparently they don't call you when it's ready either. Rather, you have to check in a massive notebook every two or three weeks where they may (or may not) remember to write your name indicating that your permit is ready and waiting. Alice's application form was in a different font than the original, and despite the fact that it had all the same information, they were thisclose to making her go home and change it. After 45 minutes of waiting, navigating, negotiating and paying, we finally dropped it off and for now all I have to do is keep my fingers crossed.

It's funny, because although I had heard about the bureaucracy and the need to be flexible beforehand, it's really only when I'm in a situation that calls for it that I see how I react. At times I can definitely be patient, at others though, my Western need-for-speed and what I deem "efficiency" takes over and I let my frustrations overcome my patience. It's all a learning experience and I consistently remind myself that things are done differently over here; it's in no way my place to impose any methods, I'm here as a support system and it's most important that GRS in particular, is primarily based on the actions, thoughts, needs and desires of Zambians. I also know that this entire transition/adjustment period is something that almost all interns at GRS and even international workers here experience. Ultimately what I'm saying here is generic and over-commented-on, but it's notable and something different nonetheless.

Saturday the other girl interns/fellows and I went to see an outdoor concert of Zambian/South African artists headlined by a female Jamaican duo called Brick & Lace. Apart from the fact that the concert started like 4 hours late and because it went later into the night than expected so I was underdressed and FREEZING, it was really fun. I haven't encountered an ounce of hostility in the two weeks that I've been here, but Saturday night a really drunk 40-ish year old man came up to me and started chatting (he was a close talker with beer breath, I'll let your imagination do the rest). He asked if we could be friends and so I jokingly said, "Sure, of course we can be friends."

"Here, take my number," he insisted.

In retrospect, I should have just taken it and then deleted it, but I didn't even want to lead him on or play games so I just said, "I don't even know you! We just met, I don't take people's numbers who I just met."

"It's because I'm black isn't it??" he responded, accusingly.

I was startled and taken aback. "It has nothing to do with your skin color. I don't know you," I replied.

"Are you a racist?" he continued to prod.

"If I were racist I wouldn't be in Zambia for a year," I said back. He again asked if I was a racist and at that point I thought to myself, "This drunk dude is not worth my time, he's a lost cause," so I just walked away to the other end of where the group of our friends was standing. I know that he was just trying to get a rise out of me, poking at catchphrases and key words that would upset and annoy me, but I guess it worked (although maybe not in the way he had hoped for - I never DID give him my number...)

A little more info on an intern's life here

Helloooooo!

Up until now I feel like I've been writing snippets and tidbits, giving you guys my initial impressions and chopped stories but not fully explaining what things are actually like here in Lusaka. Selfish on my part, I know, but between slow internet, exploring the city, work, and hanging out with the other interns and fellows there hasn't been much free time to sit down and write a big long blogpost. So here I go:

One of the first things I noticed when I got here was all of the dust. Jamie (my friend from Bowdoin who just so happens to be here for the year as a Princeton in Africa Fellow) had forewarned me that it was a dusty city, but I imagined Asian-city dust: steamy hot fumes and moto-bike exhaust hanging low in the air. Lusaka's dust is different. The main roads are paved, but directly off of them are neighbourhoods and areas with dry, red, unpaved roads, dappled with craters and sprinkled with rocks (just to make the drive that much more exciting, right?). It hasn't rained here in weeks, I can only imagine how much worse the roads are during the rainy season. Needless to say, cars certainly get a beating out here, and if you have a sore neck I would suggest staying home and not driving ANYWHERE.

The GRS house is situated on the same plot of land as the office - the doors are about 20 feet apart - which makes it easy to roll out of bed, grab breakfast and saunter over. I can also see how it might start to get slightly insular or claustrophobic, so I've been making an effort to get out in the evenings (everyone pretty much does too), exploring the surrounding areas and keeping my eyes peeled and my ears open for cool things to do. Monday night the other female interns/fellow and I went to Zumba (so much fun and only $3! The instructor was 45 minutes late because she was in a minor car accident, though. I'm quickly learning the extensive time delay is typical and something I better get used to) and last night we went to an outdoor yoga class held at the French school (L'Alliance Francaise).

Driving here is another adventure altogether. Drivers aren't particularly aggressive or out of control (I AM a Montreal driver, after all), but there's the challenge of driving on the left side of the road, paired wider vehicles than I'm used to, breaks that may or may not work (I'm exaggerating...kind of), twisting, curvy roads that are only sometimes labeled, and a country that loves roundabouts. It's definitely interesting. I'm starting to get the hang of it though, and it's strangely liberating to drive in another country. It makes me feel like less of a tourist and more of someone who actually lives here, which I guess makes sense since that's what I'm doing for the year.

I'll keep on giving you guys info on the city and what I'm up to here and around, but no one like super-long blogposts (I know that I always pretend to have read them and never actually do) so I'm going to cut myself off here and hopefully write again soon.

Much love xox,

Max

Circle Dances and Settlements

In the middle of the circle, voices cheering, singing, all-emcompassing protective support just by the mere presence of others. Whether the beat is generated by clapping hands or a pumping sound system, it's overwhelming nonetheless. Syncopations throw my body for a loop forcing me to change my standard dance moves, desperately searching for some movement, some method, some motion to relay this overwhelming urge to flow and sway. In the middle of the brightly lit day surrounded by the giggles of children, or late into the night so that the darkness of the nightclub envelopes us, people I've never met before welcome me all the same. Both circumstances produce a sense of camaraderie; we're all in it together. As a muzungu (white person) with bright red hair there's no doubt that I stand out like a sore thumb, and although there are inevitably a few giggles and hollers of "muzungu," they are quickly tempered by the movements, by the sounds, by the beats. And while the divisions between the world I've called home for 22 years and Lusaka aren't completely erased and will never be, the lines a blurred a little if only just for several minutes.

***

On another note, I've been given my intern position: I'll be a programming intern working on the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) project, so part of the time I'll be organizing the stuff for the urban refugees and the rest of the time I'll be organizing stuff for the refugee settlements we work in outside of Lusaka. About once a month I'll actually get to go to one of the settlements about 8 hours west of Lusaka to help with the training of the GRS coaches, VCT (Voluntary HIV Counselling and Testing) events, monitoring and evaluation, and all the other fun business-y type things that interns do.