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...)