Zanzibar Part II - Kendwa

And now for Kendwa: beachside paradise, coconut wood bungalows on the sand, too many hammocks to inhabit, beds and lounge chairs on the beach overlooking the ocean. The water is as blue as a Scandinavian's eyes, with a sky to match. It is a tropical paradise, and although I always seem to think that I'm going to write and read at the beach, I never seem to accomplish it. Vegging just seems MUCH more appealing. Or reading. Or swimming. Or chatting. It's the rainy season in Zanzibar now, so there were a few sprinkles here and there, but the clouds were often a welcome respite from the blazing sun, the sea cool enough to momentarily annihilate the sweat from your cleavage with just an ankle-grazing plunge, and if neither of those sufficiently cooled you, there were beds and boats-turned-beds under shaded thatched umbrellas. Our days were lazy and decadent; sleep-ins, breakfast, lounging, maybe a walk or a sunset cruise or a midnight swim to a wooden dhow (Tanzanian boat), drinking too early, seafood dinners and curries on African beach time (even slower than African city time), making headway on books (if you're lucky), and the like. At night we would often de-robe on the shadowy beach, impulsive and full of adrenaline, and run naked into the soft water of the Indian Ocean. I think of all that ocean has affected and witnessed, how it connects to another continent near and dear to my heart (Asia), how it allowed for both the passage and exploration of many a traveller eastward (starting with Vasco De Gama back in the day) and a simultaneous influx westward (from India and the Middle East), it's an area and an ocean that has been though a lot. Plus, who can ever tire of clear, turquoise waters and white sand beaches? Whoever claims to be "over" paradise clearly hasn't been to beaches in Mozambique or Zanzibar...

if only it weren't quite so true...

http://stuffexpataidworkerslike.com/

Zanzibar Part I - Stonetown

A traditional Zanzibar door. Apparently the spikes on it came from the Indians who would adorn doors with them to keep elephants at bay.

Travel and the beach make many things whirlwind out of control; keeping up with blogposts is one of them. Oh, poor beach traveler, I know, I know, but as much as I ridicule bloggers, I find myself strangely attached to maintaining my blog up-to-date, pertinent, and hopefully moderately thoughtful (I mean, I could be filling you in on some of our wild-and-crazy nights of dancing and debauchery, but I'll save those for recounting in person).

From May 1st until the 8th I voyaged with five fellow travellers to Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania. Arriving in Stonetown by ferry (instead of taking the short flight from Dar Es Salaam) was a brilliant decision - we were able to get a snapshot of the multitude of types of people making the trip to the renowned island, as well as able to take in the spectacular scenery, building caught between dilapidation and renovated modernity. Colonial influence and architecture inspired by Muslim, Indian, British and Zanzibari influences shaped it into a town unlike any other I've seen. Winding alleyways only several shoulder-spans wide open up onto small squares where men in fez-like hats sip hyper-caffeinated coffee (ask Jamie, he has a good story about that one...) and lounge shoeless, feet greyed by age and wearing open-toed shoes for too many years. Simultaneously, women in headscarves make chapati-like crepes or roast corn at the intersections of these alleyways, sometimes pausing to sit, to chat, or to observe these comparatively scantily-clad tourists. People zoom by on motorbikes (Vietnam-style) and regular bikes and I found myself pressed up against stone walls a number of times if not fearing for my life, then at least fearing for my toes. We got lost in the streets wandering and exploring. We hit up Forodani Gardens both nights, right on the water, alight all bright and fraylach (as Viv would say) and dined on cheap fish and seafood skewers from the ocean which we overlooked. Nutella and Elephant Banana crepes finished off the cornucopia.

Forodani Gardens

We ventured to the market, the freshest and brightest and biggest selection I've seen since SE Asia.

Heaven at the market...

Spices and scents assaulted the senses, as did colors of chitenges (the bright pieces of "African" cloth) and kangas (similar to chitenges) and kikoys (thicker, brightly colored multipurpose cloths). The Portuguese, the Arabs, the Indians and the Brits all found magic and some sort of home or refuge on Zanzibar, and with it's nearly perfect weather year-round, crystal blue waters, and ideal climate for sugarcane, fruit and spice growth, it's not hard to see why. Zanzibar is referred to as a spice island because so many different types of spices. We went on a comical spice tour (comical because our guide was a funky individual who mispronounced every other word) where they showed us how many of the spices grow: turmeric and ginger, peppercorns and cumin, cloves, cinnamon, vanilla, cardamom...it was fascinating to see how many of my favourite spices come to be in the form with which I am familiar.

Decked in gear made from palm leaves on the spice tour

Fresh nutmeg

After two days in Stonetown we were ready for some beach-ing...Kendwa details are coming...

Always a sensitive topic...Kristof sheds light yet again

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/12/opinion/12kristof.html?_r=1&hp

Passover in Zam

The office, magically transformed!

An epic, memorable Passover, truly something special, and the first that belonged to me (and Lena, too). I think part of what made it so remarkable was that, for the most part, we were sharing it with people who had little-to-no information about the holiday, or who had never been to a seder before, or who only knew portions and fragments of the general idea. That people were so curious to share and partake in our traditions meant a lot to me. There was excitement and joy, an eagerness devoid of resentment or "proper" kosher-ness or formality - it was makeshift, the result of love and dedication; of shlepping matzo gently enough to make it here in one piece, and matzo ball soup mix all the way from home; of seeking out horseradish paste somewhere, anywhere; of chopping 6 cups of charoseth by hand; of finding a dessert that didn't have flour, nor nuts (allergies), nor matzo meal (we only had two precious boxes of matzo and we needed it for straight-up consumption!), nor cornstarch or whatever funky things that are hard to come by here. It was the result of a group of people here who are curious and open to new experiences.

Our makeshift seder plate

It meant so much to me that not only were they willing to listen, but they wanted to participate, they were inquisitive of practices and traditions, they were eager to join. To hear Jamie pronounce it "matz-oh," to have Alla, Marissa and others be at their first seder, and to hear the chorus of voices speaking in phonetic Hebrew was uplifting. We transformed our office (with its unforgiving fluorescent light) into a more romantic setting thanks to Alice's chitenges used as a table runner and a lampshade, and yellow candles in multiple beer bottles strewn around the room.

Enraptured by the Haggadah.

Lena put together a wonderfully appropriate Haggadah - just Jewish enough, but not naively insular - linked to the bigger picture and the real world, too - and the meal went off without a hitch. Matzo, charoseth, maror, parsley and eggs and salt water, matzo ball soup, green beans, potato kugel, two salads, chicken baked with lemon juice, wine, herbs, tons of garlic and onions, mustard, mango chutney and hot sauce. Dessert consisted of flourless chocolate cake embellished with fresh mint from the garden (thankyouverymuch dad, now I have to have some sort of garden wherever I live) and coconut macaroons, and we were left with the ideal amount of leftovers to sustain us for a few extra days.

It was an incredible Passover, and regardless of celebrating it halfway around the world, I was still with my family; I was with my ZamFam :)

The ZamFam, in all its glory (please note the framed picture of Obama above the door...Allie Thomas, you would be proud)

Afikomen success!!

Dessert. Yummmmm...

Temperature drops

I can't believe how quickly the temperature is dropping. From one week to the next, suddenly the nights become cold and I have to close my window and cosy up beneath my newly purchased chitenge blanket. This week, the days have a hint of a nip. It's still hot enough to wear shorts and a tank, and the sun continues to fry me (not hard to do) to the point where I have to slather on SPF 60 sunscreen, but the breeze is cool, standing in the shade your sweat actually dries, and as soon as the sun begins to set I go sprinting for a sweatshirt.

Life goes on as normal here – we're still in the midst of coach trainings and retrainings, and right now I'm psyched to head to Zanzibar with my friends Alla, Steve, Aisha, Jamie and Jamie's friend from home. We fly out in two weeks and right now we're doing planning and research. Daydreams of pristine beaches and the apparently incredible mix of African, Indian and Middle Eastern cultures excites and titillates me (yes, I just used the word “titillate”).

This cooler weather is make me nostalgic for fall: thick sweaters, boots scarves, apple picking in the sun, back-to-school shopping and supplies, cherishing the last warm days, the breathtaking leaves of Vermont, the perpetual smell of smoke and fire, first cravings for warm hearty soup, looking forward to Sundays when you wake up too late, spend too much time in your pyjamas, go out for brunch with your girls, and then flip through the NY Times magazine. This upcoming autumn will be cherished like no other.

Sunday Sunset

Lazy Sundays filled with late sleep-ins, overloads of useless computer time, and too much housework and room-cleaning are both a blessing and a curse; they let you catch up on everything you've been postponing for far too long, but there's also the temptation to be a complete good-for-nothing and sit around all day. On one such Sunday we decided to make moves and grooves; Mike, Alice, Jamie and I hopped in the Prado and ventured out exploring. We drove alllllll the way down our road (which extends for many, many kilometres) until it turned, forked into many others, and joined one of the main roads that heads to the airport. We continued straight, and almost instantaneously after the airport we found ourselves in the bush – farms and crops and stretching landscapes, thatched roof huts and small vendors on the side of the road, I couldn't believe that we were a mere 30 minutes from the city. We managed to catch a spectacular sunset on the way back, which only added to the magical essence of a lazy Sunday evening.

"I'm Fine"

You know those encounters when you're rushing by someone and there's a miscommunication or mis-calculation of what was said and the proper response? “What's up?” and the response is “I'm good,” or “How are you?” “Not much.” Those happen ALL the time out here. And no one even realizes it's out of place. Often I'll say “Hi” and people say back, “I'm fine,” and sometimes when I'm feeling frustrated or annoyed I think to myself, ummm I didn't ask how you were! Well, I was talking to the cook at the space where we're conducting our ToC this week, and out of the blue he was like, “I'm fine.” Okay, cool. I'm happy for you, I guess. Only with a little more talking and probing did I realize that his name is Fine. Imagine the perpetual confusion! “What's your name?” “I'm Fine.” “I know you're fine, but what's your name?” “I'm Fine.” I guess he has to say, “My name is Fine.” It must get tiring.

Let's clap ourselves!

I know I've talked about Zam-ified English before, but I almost laughed out loud the other day:

So we're in the middle of the second round of ToCs - Training of Coaches - which is an intense, 8:00 AM-5:30 PM, 6-day long training of peer educators (about 35 per training) from which we will pick 40 new coaches. One of the key things that the coaches do during the training is that in pairs, they each facilitate one of our practices. This way we get to see their participant interaction, management, dynamism, grasp of the curriculum and their general overall composure and facilitation style. Oftentimes Zambians will leave out small words or prepositions when speaking in English (I don't think they're as present in Nyanja), so instead of saying, "Let's clap FOR ourselves," a facilitating coach looking to praise the participants said, "Let's clap ourselves." Wouldn't be that bad a mistake, except for the fact that there's the Zambian L/R switch, right? So, "Let's clap ourselves" quickly became, "Let's cRap ourselves." I almost couldn't contain my need to guffaw. All I could think was, "Wooohoooo! Everyone in the group did a great job! Now let's ALL crap all over ourselves at the same time!" That would be a sight to behold, no?

"Sex is no accident" - Awesome condom ads from MTV

Parents Part 2 - Cape Town, the mother city

Cape Town, Cape Town, what a gorgeous city. A little bit European, A little American, always African but in it's own way. This vacation was like a little oasis and a dip back into not quite what home is like, but somewhere in between home and Lusaka in terms of cosmopolitanism, efficiency, art, and funk. I know I constantly harp on walkability, but Cape Town it's walkable (where it's safe) and scenically spectacular. A jagged table protrudes from the centre of the city, as though one day it was just magically raised up, an elevator caught on the top floor. Often covering Table Mountain? Its table cloth – a shroud of cloud that may or may not burn off throughout the day, but that genuinely looks like a table cloth. In the six days I was there with my parents we covered a ton: walking around the V&A waterfront, taking the cable car up Table Mountain, exploring Long and Kloof Streets, a day-long excursion driving down the peninsula all the way to Cape Point (where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic). Beaches! Penguins! Windy Cape Point! Windy roads turning into dry bushlands melding into the lush winelands of Constantia and the thick forests that insulate the wealthy homes. A farmer's market unlike any other, wines and vines, botanical gardens, galleries and museums, fish and sushi, game meat and a passion for tapas, local fashion and a Blake Lively spotting; Cape Town spoiled me on a number of levels.

Scoping the scene on Table Mountain

Beaches of the peninsula

Windy Cape Point!

I've been to farmer's markets in some of the hippy-est and foodie-est places – Vermont and New York, Maine and Montreal – but the Old Biscuit Mill's Saturday Market is unlike anything I've ever seen before. A veritable cornucopia of colorful, fresh, homemade, exotic products, it's part hipster and part hippy. It reminds me of the Tams in Montreal in that it brings together all kinds of different people of diverse ages and backgrounds, but it's more bustling, more gourmet. One side is completely dedicated to food: artisanal coffees, homemade sausages, cheese, wine by the glass, multiple kinds of mushrooms eloquently displayed (pink ones at that!) fresh by the kilo or simply grilled with herbs, oil, and salt to pop in your mouth right there, nuts and dried fruit, organic chocolate, fruit and veggies, baked goods of every dimension, sweet tarts, savoury quiches, hearty breads, delicate croissants, sandwiches made to order with succulent home-roasted meats, waffles, crepes, burritos, open-faced sandwiches, Asian noodles, falafel, flatbread pizza with Parmesan and prosciutto, game meats like kudu and impala, ostrich and guinea fowl, fresh figs to pop in your mouth, washed down by iced tea...and if that wasn't good enough? On the other side were little stands and stalls set up by local designers selling their wares. None of that made-in-China-trying-to-look-African bullshit, but hip, funky, trendy designers. Just as Cape Town is a mix of cultures, backgrounds and styles, so too were the designs – Part European, part African, part North American, even a slight Asian influence. I didn't actually land up buying anything, but the prospect of and temptation to purchase was great. Primarily the positive energy and vibes blew me away – festive, frailach (to throw a Yiddish word in there), full of a certain joie-de-vivre...however you want to phrase it, Saturday Market at the Old Biscuit Mill had it. That, in and of itself, is reason enough to make the trek back to Cape Town.

Just a sampling to whet your appetite...

I had heard that Stellenbosch was tacky, touristy, very commercial, and that Franschoek (which translates as “French Corner”) was the place to go for wine. That may very well be true comparatively speaking, but Stellenbosch is still picturesque with its grape vines stretching up spectacular mountains. So verdant, life-giving, green; the modernity of the vineyard Delaire both contrasted and complimented the landscape creating a stunning and memorable scene, while the more family-friendly Warwick had big umbrellas and the potential for picnics. They each engendered different feelings but were enjoyable and different in their individual ways. Franschoek will just have to wait until next time...

The view of Stellenbosch from Delaire

Townships of Cape Town - A final goodbye on the way to the airport

Parents part 1 - Lusaka and Safari

Parentals come and gone and I still can't believe how quickly the two weeks sprinted by. They landed in Lusaka on Monday the 7^th and I showed them around the big ol' city of Lusaka for 3 days. In truth, Lusaka isn't exactly the most exciting or invigorating city in the world, but them stopping here was largely about seeing what my life has been like here for the past 7 or 8 months – meeting my friends, my coworkers, my boss, our coaches, taking them to see our curriculum in action, driving around the city, braiing (a South African word for BBQ) with a big crew of our friends, seeing town, going out to eat...it's so much easier to see your growth and change and development when compared to people who haven't seen you in a long chunk of time. Not that I think I've changed all that much, but I saw that my patience is more extensive, my ability to talk to get what I want (protocol is rarely followed, except for silly things when it is strictly followed) is a still that has been honed, my willingness to roll with the punches and be confident in the unknown is all more comfortable than 7 months ago.

Viv and Rob hanging out with the kids

Participating in Gender Fishbowl

From Lusaka we flew to Victoria Falls for a night (where we saw the falls in their full-fledged glory – despite raincoats we were completely DRENCHED from the spray) and then drove into Botswana to start our safari adventures!

Sundowners at the Royal Livingstone

The serenity and calmness of a safari is unparalleled in most other areas of life. Like fishing, there's the sense that you can't rush anything, and that all will be lost if you try. There is fascination and wonder in tracking or waiting or finding an animal, and tempered awe and amazement when you do and you realize that this wild African animal is 10 feet away from your car. Our second day in Chobe we saw four lions, big cats, lazing in the heat of the afternoon behind a bush. Stretched out like house-cats or tabbies, tails swatting away flies, paws limp-wristed in the air as the rolled over. One by one they nonchalantly stood up and walked past our car, a stone's throw (or a pounce!) away from what could be their lunch if they so desired. They sauntered past, peed, stretched, and continued on their merry way.

Our game drives in Chobe brought with them hippos and crocs, buffalo, elephants, baboons, all kinds of antelope (kudu, impala, puku, etc.), warthogs, giraffe, zebras, eagles, velvet monkeys, guinea fowl, spotted tortoise, alligators and all kinds of crazy birds.

We saw tons and tons of elephants! Elephants bathing, elephants nursing, elephants dusting themselves with mud, elephaints eating...as many as 30 or 40 at a time, newborns as big as a large dog, males as big as a small house! Elephants galore.

Zebras grazing as casually as horses, rotund bellies from the lush Botswanan rainy season, they were fat and happy, letting me stare, completely flabbergasted, at the intricacy and beauty of their stripes. I'd love a bag made out of one of them. Jokingggggggg!

Giraffe, long and lanky, gawky as a teenaged boy, but simultaneously elegant. They seem to run in slow motion. They step out and cross the bumpy dirt road very daintily as though each step had a little kick or flick or bounce to it, then glided forward as gracefully as a ballerina – when you don't know if theyre actually moving parts of their bodies or if they're being pushed on a platform with wheels. They almost look prehistoric – relics of a bygone era, a time when brontosaurus roamed the earth and humans hadn't yet interfered. I loved it all, from the hundreds and hundreds of impala (Lulu-like in color and springiness or bounceability) to the rare lion sightings, and even to the birds (and you know how much I hate birds, but here they're exotic and colorful and non-menacing).

One of the highlights of Chobe (apart from the outstanding animals, of course)? Overhearing my mother in the tent next to me (EXTREMELY luxurious tents, let me tell you) say to my father, “Honey, did you ever think we would be doing this??” Priceless.

We took a 6 person flight (less terrifying than I anticipated) to the Okavango Delta where we stayed at Sandibe River Lodge – African glamour if I've ever seen it. It's the type of place I've only ever seen in pictures and could never imagine staying before I'm a well-established professional in my 40's. In short, it's completely decadent and gorgeous – sprawling beds with canopied mosquito nets, thatched roof cottages, your own sundeck, a communal lounge area and fresh meals like you can't imagine. The whole lodge area is open to nature, the melodic crickets sound like xylophones at work each night. Hippos grunt next to my cottage. I may have heard an elephant bleat (or roar? What do elephants do when they make noise?). But what really blew me away is the beauty of the delta. Sheer, simple, untouched beauty. Palm trees and spreading shallow water, papyrus and water lilies aplenty. Calmness. Peaceful solitude. Even many of the animals roam solo. Serenity.

My cabana

Boat ride in the Delta

A LEOPARD! I can't believe was saw a leopard! I was sure it was going to be one of those things you hope and pray for and want that never comes true, and then that becomes the reason why you vow to eventually come back on safari one day. After an unsuccessful morning of attempting to track the leopard, our guides got more info on their radio from a second car that had gone out. As majestic as lions are, the leopard was equally as amazing and potentially even more so, with piercing eyes and a pattern more intricate and detailed than I ever would have imagined. It brought me back to sixth or seventh grade Bar Mitzvah clothes, except this time the fur was REAL and on an ANIMAL, not on teenaged girls too flummoxed with pubescence to know that a leopard is a real animal. It didn't do much apart from lounge and then perch up on a fallen tree, but he managed to be completely mesmerizing nonetheless.

The day after leopard-viewing? Cheetah! And this cat was slightly more exciting, or at least more mobile. I have NO idea how our guides ever spotted it, but it was perched high on a termite mound about a kilometre away. We cautiously drove up, its spots emerged from camouflage and we tracked him for about 30 minutes; spraying his territory, listening to warning calls, curling up beneath a bush...as with the leopard, it was amazing to see how cat-like these massive felines really are – it was like watching Ping but 25 times bigger.

Anyways, more to come Cape Town-wise, but this blogpost is already long enough and I feel my Sunday exhaustion coming on (and perhaps your patience waning), so that will be my next update, I promise. Until then, a few pictures to pique your interest...

Pics up on Facebook...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2055770&id=4603434&l=60c56704c8 (if you don't have Facebook)

or

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?fbid=545102248607&id=4603434&aid=2055770

I'm about 3 weeks behind...

New post coming soon, I promise! A lot to catch up on post-parentals, post-safari, post-Cape Town, but you'll get it ALLLLLLL (and probably want to kill me afterwards). Patience, young samurai, it's coming...

A second lesson, this time in the art of Zamtalk L/R reversal

Have I written about the Zambian L/R switch yet? And no, it's not left/right switch (although I've found that directions and determining between left and right can be challenging here too), but it's literally switching Ls for Rs and vice versa. I guess in Nyanja the difference isn't all that great, and with the Zambian accent both Ls and Rs are trilled allowing for easy mix-ups, but we hear it ALL the time from coaches who are implementing our "culliculum" (curriculum).

Right now I'm reading tons of applications from people who want to be GRS coaches and for some reason seeing the L/R switch written is that much more hilarious. So far I've come across:

• Someone who claimed to do XYZ in their "dairy life" (translation = "daily life")
• Someone else who wants "the privirege of working with GRS" (translation = "privilege")
• Someone who has the skill of "cloud control" (read = crowd control. Although cloud control would be nice when we have outdoor events during the rainy season)
• Someone who is "royal to all activities" (royal, loyal, same difference).

Letters are also often just forgotten in words. And not because they're not pronounced. Just because...they're easy to forget. The best one I've seen (and I showed it to my Zambian coworkers who died too) is someone who wrote:

• "I don't think I will have any problems because I won't shit soon."

Here, "to shift" means to move, but the person conveniently got mixed up and forgot the F! Whoops. I laughed so hard.

One or two last ones? I'll try to snap a picture of this soon, but on the way to a new(ish) area where we're working there's a sign on the side of the road that reads, "supriers of blocks" (instead of "suppliers"), and of course, you can never forget that this year is an "erection year" (otherwise known as an "election year") - Zambia is trying to get more women involved in politics. My coworkers favorite saying or misquotation? "Women need to be on top this erection!"

Finding rhythms in the daily

It's easy to get comfortable in your routine and feel like there's nothing to report on. There are no epic travels (soon to change when momma and poppa Billick get here and we hit up Botswana and Cape Town, nothing so new and titillating and exciting that I feel the need to sit down and word vomit onto a webpage or a blogpost. But in that comfort zone friendships are built and sustained, work is accomplished, things are learned (grant-writing, in my case), and epic times, casual times, memories are created in the safe zone.

Jamie's house is an African oasis. He lives in a guest house behind an older couple who have lived in Zambia for decades. His cabana (for lack of a better word...although I really SHOULD start calling him their cabana boy...) is amidst a lush flower-filled garden, next to a sheltered bar and table area outdoors, and wedged next to a pool that adds the perfect lounge factor to any hot weekend afternoon.

The slowing down of VCT events on Saturdays (at least compared to in the fall...we still have them about every other week) allows for more time and space to relax. Less constant hyperdrive. The last Saturday of each month is the Dutch Market, a panoply of crafts - both Zambian and imported - clothes, blankets, decorations, jewelry, food (all kinds of hard-to-get ethnic things here like big Chinese dumplings, French crepes, salsa, street-food-like noodles, etc.) and a generally jovial atmosphere. I'm going to hit it up tomorrow with a few of the other interns. My new room (I moved after Lena, one of the fellows, moved out) and the walls are looking far to bare for my liking...

Zam texts - an introduction

Please forgive my lag in blogging - it's been a rough few weeks but I'm on the upswing. I messed up my neck about 3 1/2 weeks ago. Doing what? I'm not really sure - probably Zumba and running and poor posture and genetics and computer use and all those fun things. I'm seeing a new physiotherapist and I'm taking it VERY easy, but I got a little freaked out when I started feeling tinglies in my right arm...NOT fun, especially when you're away from home. It doesn't seem to be a disc though, so we're going to try to work it out and in the meantime I'm doing a lot of lying on my back during the hours that I'm not at work (and apparently supposed to be staying off my computer, but look how well that's turning out...).

This is the perfect opportunity to talk about Zam-texting though. What precisely is Zam-texting? Well since phones are pay-as-you-go here, and calling people is relatively expensive, everyone text messages instead. I have yet to get used to some of the spellings of words though. I mean, I understand writing "u" or "ur" for "you" or "your" - it's easier and shorter too if there's a limit on the number of letters. But other substitutions barely make sense or are just comical. Where is this all coming from? Here's the story: I saw a Zambian physiotherapist a couple of times, and while she was an excellent masseuse, I felt as though she wasn't 'listening to my body,' as they say, she was giving me the run-down: heat, ultrasound, massage - generic bullshit and not tailored to my body or my needs. Granted, I only saw her twice so I didn't give it ample time to improve, but I'm in a shitton of pain and she was like, "Oh yeah, just come once a week." I've endured enough hours of physio to know that she wasn't for me. After seeing this other woman this morning who I like a lot (Zambian, British parents, trained for 5 years in Melbourne) I sent the first woman a text message saying that unfortunately I would have to cancel our appointment next Tuesday. She wrote back, "Why? R U in pain?" Stumped at how to be as polite as possible while not lying, I responded, "Yes, a little bit. And the tingling in my hand is worrisome so I'm just going to take it easy and see if it improves." A bit of a white lie, but also not saying that I was magically healed so she wouldn't continue the ineffectual treatment. Her response? I'll quote it letter for letter here: "U r making a mistake. Go önline and check 4 cervical spondylosis u wil c yo symtoms. Leavin it wil just worsen it." My spoiled, elitist, North American side is going to come out right now (please be forewarned, I normally try to push this part away, but when it comes to my health, screw it), but why should I follow the advice of someone who is a) being condescending to a patient they are trying to encourage to come back? b) barely even checked me out - how does she know that's what I have? and c) gave me exercises only after I asked for them (ummm, isn't that her job?) and told me to do things that crunch one side of my neck? The second physio was like, "You should definitely NOT be turning and crunching to the right." Clearly I'm a little frustrated, but if nothing else I have a Zam-text story to share with you. Now all I've got to do is get on fixing this neck...

Hitting reset

At the halfway point I feel the need to sit down and reevaluate why I'm here and why I'm doing what I'm doing. It's so easy to get bogged down in petty details (meat pies at VCT events?), that I lose scope and start concentrating on the daily intricacies without the broader viewpoint of why I'm here: for education, for empowerment, for sport and development, for the kids, for giving myself and growing myself and learning. Readjust. Reset your priorities. Remind yourself why you're here.

A shortage of Coke Light...what an atrocity!

There's a Coke Light shortage in Lusaka. Not a Diet Coke shortage (it doesn't exist here), not a Coke shortage (ubiquitous and unavoidable, as it is in most places throughout the globe), not a Pepsi Light shortage (a newly-opened plant in Lusaka covers that territory) but Coke Light. I've surveyed about 5 different grocery stores and 3 or 4 different gas stations that have been known to stock the addictive caffeine-laden soft drink, but to no avail. It's not even that I crave it so intensely, but the mere knowledge that it's nowhere to be found piques my interest, jogs my yearnings, and leaves me determined to find it at any cost. Scouring shelves, asking stock-boys why it's missing or when it's coming in, contemplating packing my purse the one time I find it out at a bar on a Saturday night...It becomes a mission, solely for the game of it. It also causes me to re-evaluate what we so often take for granted at home: the ease of acquiring a Diet Coke, the size and shape of soda cans (they come in heavier cans here, deceptively sturdy, so you think you have a whole mouthful left when all that remains is really only a trickle), recycling the leftover aluminum (or pinching off the tab to apparently make wheelchairs – why they can't use the entire can I still can't figure out...). It forces me to remember that despite the fact that we have big South African chain supermarkets out here, things still often work at a different pace. And you know what? Often they do eventually materialize – I walked into the store Monday and guess what was stacked 4 feet high? Six-packs of Coke Light. I have yet to buy one...

Extremely interesting article/blog:

http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/africa/101213/wanderlust-taxi-queens-south-africa-aids

Dedicated to Maine adventures with T&L...

For the first time in a long time, I felt a little homesick yesterday morning. Maybe homesick is the wrong word - it wasn't a sad, depressed, melancholy homesick, but more of a nostalgic, reminiscing, bittersweet homesick. I jumped in the car, alone (and the tiniest bit hungover) to drive to Zumba and had a momentary jolt back to Saturday mornings at school, hopping in the car, going on adventures. Piling in sometimes one too many people deep, music blasting, emergency pit stops at Dunkin' Donuts along the way, always on some sort of bizarre mission, even if the mission itself was just to get off campus for a few hours and go on an adventure. A search for the best lobster rolls. A hidden beach. A pretty drive. A cute cafe. Life outside of college. Time and space to talk with someone you may have accidentally ignored the week before. And it's decompression time, thinking time, time to remind yourself that you ARE human and that normal people don't dedicate their lives to one sole thing (school, when you're a college student), time to regain your sanity. It's a sweet nostalgia I haven't really felt yet, a romanticization that comes with time and distance and the headspace to look back without a cynical eye

Mozambique is heaven. That's all. (Travel stories, part 2).

Portuguese is such a sexy language. I just want someone to read me bedtime stories or whisper sweet nothings in my ear in the romantic tongue.

After making our way back to Durban for a night, and a pretty gruelling 24 hours, Alice and I finally made it to Maputo, Mozambique. Since the bus route from Durban to Maputo was non-existent or since defunct, we found a cheap flight to Johannesburg less than 24 hours prior to our departure, spent the night (x-mas eve, no less!) in the airport, made it standby onto a bus to Maputo, and got there a full day earlier than anticipated.

One night in Maputo. Colorful, derelict colonial buildings. We spend less than a full day here, but I know that I like this city a lot already. What isn't there to like upon first glance? It's an african city, so yes, there's trash on the streets and hawkers and always some people catcalling you, but we're relatively ignored at least compared to Zambia, the people are a mix of shades and colors here, European-esque cafes, patisseries and restaurants spill out into the streets, and there's a vibrant energy that mixes Southern Africa's pulse with Europe's style. One night here, what to do? Dinner at a seafood market where you haggle and bargain for fresh fish, prawns, calamari, crabs despite the fact that you know they're likely ripping you off regardless of your negotiating skills. You round the corner and pick the restaurant or stall that you want to cook it. Simple, simple. Simple is best. Fish on the grill. Prawns with peri-peri (chillies). Crisp juicy fries. A waiter who barely speaks English. And the meal is perfect. The most perfect thing to have touched your lips in a long time. It might be that Zambia has no ocean access, but I have rarely had seafood that delicious.

Before...

And after!

* * *

We took a shuttle up to Tofo, a beach north of Maputo but still in southern Mozambique. I think I'm in love. Or in heaven. Tofo is one of the most gorgeous places I've ever been. At first, I attributed my amazement to my months of landlocked-ness, but it can't just be that; the beach is many kilometres long, stretches wider than Ogunquit, wider than an elephant's ass. It's only minimally inclined so you walk for meters and meters and the water only reaches mid-thigh. The waves are rough enough for bouncing over and diving under, but calm enough that you are rarely ambushed with mouthfuls of salty water. It's surprisingly warm, so despite a constant breeze you're not cold post-dip. An idyllic turquoise-blue, it imparts feelings of an isolated paradise, and despite the fact that this is surely their highest or busiest point of the year, the beach isn't overwhelmingly crowded.

Alice and I got our snorkelling fix too, which was something I was totally craving. It wasn't quite what I was expecting or used to in that they dubbed it a “water safari” and we went out looking for whale sharks, not fish. Whale sharks are breathtaking creatures. Mysterious and friendly, they are not quite endangered but threatened, and a lot about them is unknown. Apparently there are only about 1000 of them remaining (that they know of) and Tofo and the bay near Inhambane has the largest year-round concentration. Technically they're sharks but they're completely harmless to humans – they feed on zooplankton by opening their mouths and filtering water, and they can grow up to 20 meters long! The one we saw, followed and swam with was about 5 meters long and overwhelmingly huge as it is. Its fins had cartilaginous ridges that seemed as though they were formed from Fimo or Silly Putty and the spots and patterns on its back rivalled the most intricate leopard print. Colorful and delicate, they were big splotches of shades of brown encircled with darker and lighter complimentary colors. We would jump into the water, scramble to see the massive creature, split onto both sides of it and swim several or multiple minutes with it until it dove down. Dolphin fins and manta rays emerged out of the water at certain points, and the impending pressure, excitement and panic when viewing the animals was an adrenaline rush I'm not usually used to when it comes to snorkeling. We also got to jump in on the nearby reef and saw the jovial and colorful clownfish, angelfish, blue starfish and a multitude of other fish I couldn't name if you asked me.

Tofo beach

Me and Alice, relishing the beach!

* * *

The unh-tzz unh-tzz unh-tzz of the pounding bass until 7am shakes your soul and causes our cabana of a dorm to vibrate back and forth – soul-shaking at worst, a bizarre lullaby at best, indicative of a raging party and a joie-de-vivre at best. It can make it difficult to sleep but in an exhausted, sun-soaked state sleep comes easily.

* * *

The days at Tofo began to blend into each other: mornings of strong French press coffee, languishing over a book in the shade, reapplying multiple layers of sunscreen as we sprawled on our chitenges, waiting until our own sweat almost drowned us before running across the scorching sand – so fine it actually squeaked beneath our feet – making our way to the turquoise water that splashed in our faces, caked salt residue on our bodies, and left us with sexy beach hair.

I just have moments, specific images that come to mind, replaying on the backs of my eyelids: traipsing up sand dunes at night to get to the point of the beach that juts out, arriving at the top to find the moon illuminating the ocean, so bright you could almost read. The tides came in diagonally from either side and the reef several hundred meters out pushed them back, creating a trapezoidal shape not seen every day in nature.

New Year's Eve day was epic: some of the Peace Corps people we were hanging out with befriended an older Italian/South African couple who invited us to their rented house in Barra, a beach about 25 minutes up the road. They picked us up and we arrived at their house to find a plethora of snacks, about four coolers filled with booze, and chairs and a big tent to pack up and bring down to the beach. Oh, wait, also the hitch for not one, but TWO jet-skis that they let us play on. And did I mention they took the meat out of the freezer for a big post-beach braai (the South African word for a BBQ)? We were all in heaven. Picture this: cruising on a jet-ski in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Mozambique, a scorching hot cloudless day complete with a minor alcohol buzz, catching air, exhilaration soaring...it was other-worldly. The rest of the day only got better: BBQ-ing at the house of the Italians, drinking, talking, taking silly pictures, hanging out in their blow-up pool for adults. I don't know if I've ever had a better New Year's (although seafood dinner in VT and the beach in Thailand DO come close...)

Braaiing with the Italians

* * *

Cashews are like peanuts in Mozambique, both in their ease of acquisition and in their cost. Young boys scour the beach for tourists to buy their big bags laden with roasted cashews. Of course, I need to add salt to mine, but apart from that they're perfect – fresh, sweet, smokey – and only $3 a bag! The perfect mid-afternoon snack before indulging in fresh seafood brought in that day by local fisherman. As I've said before, I really, really like Mozambique...

* * *

A 5am goodbye to Tofo

It's a melancholy feeling, the end of a vacation. All the planning and time and thought and excitement swirling slowly down the drain, and you go back home only left with the empty carcass of the trip. Leaving this vacation is going to be hard – it's exponentially more beautiful, more exotic and more fun than recent trips I can remember. At the same time though, my parents are coming in March which is certainly something to look forward to, and it'll be great to have the whole ZamFam together again. Happy New Year! And 2011, bring it onnnnnnnn!

Ponies on the Beach? Whatever works... (travel stories, part 1)

As promised, an epically long blogpost is here. I actually hate writing such long posts because as a reader I hate having to slog through pages and pages of writing – I get bored, distracted, annoyed, whatever – but with almost 3 weeks of backpacking through South Africa and Mozambique behind me, I feel like there's no other option apart from epically long. Bare with me. I'll post it in two parts – both to give you time and space to read it, and to stop myself from having to sit down for a full 3 hours to write it all. South Africa's first...

I don't think I realized how much I missed big city life. Or exploration. Or walkability of a city. Landing in Durban, South Africa (SA), Alice and I were flabbergasted by the overwhelming greenness of the surroundings, the steep hills of the city that *gasp* actually give a view of the city (Lusaka is totally flat), and the beautiful houses not necessarily encompassed by tall stone walls. Durban has a Miami Beach art deco vibe and the largest Indian population outside of India which makes for an interesting mix. We only stayed the night there before hopping into our little blueberry of a car and making the 8-hour trek south to Coffee Bay.

The Coffee Shack (our hostel) was precisely what they claim it to be – a backpacker's paradise. Clean, tropical, conducive to conversation with mid-sized tables, little enclaves, hammocks strewn in the shade for lounging and vegging, as well as flowers, activities and friendly people aplenty. I witnessed an older wrinkled woman in hippy-ish low-crotched gauchos encouraging a blonde-topped two-year old, fat, happy toddler to do sun salutations. It was one of the cuter things I've seen in the water. Coffee Bay made up the more active part of our trip. The mountains buttressing the ocean there weren't jagged and angery, but softly rounded off in plush green. At certain points they just fell off. Ended. Disappeared into empty air that toppled into the ocean. The scenery surrounding Coffee Bay is a mix of Ireland's green fields, Australia's plump sheep, a rainforest's lush jungle, all blended together in a kaleidoscope contained by the cliffs. It pulls me from one continent to another until I'm totally discombobulated and I don't know what part if the world I belong to.

Alice and I hiked to Hole in the Wall, a massive striated rock with a perfectly symmetrical hole washed out of the middle, waves lapping through the center, now we're Koh Phi Phi, Thailand, or Ha Long Bay, Vietnam. We had pre-signed up for a horseback riding trip after our long hike (not thinking things through too clearly...). Parts of the ride were sluggish and sleepy, but it was refreshing to be on an animal again, and whenever we trotted or cantered I was electrified with an exhilarating jolt of energy. We ran the horses on the windy, salty beach at sunset, then walked them up a nearby mountain for panoramic views. I turned behind to Alice and said, “This is too much beauty for one day. I can't take it.”

* * *

The huts around the Wild Coast, particularly near Coffee Bay, are simultaneously awesome and baffling. Although people tell me that the Eastern Cape is the poorest province in SA, the huts are nowhere close to as dismal or primitive as those in Zambia. In Zam, it's an anomaly to find a concrete hut – most are made from mud. On the Wild Coast, almost all of them are concrete and they have corrugated tim roofs instead of thatched straw ones. Moreover, there must have been a recent shipment of bright turquoise and soft coral paint, because if the huts aren't white then they're one of the above two colors. As a result, the lush green undulating landscape is dotted with bursts of color. It imparts a festive sentiment, and I imagine indirectly lifts people's moods. How can you be bitter and morose when you live in a turquoise house?

* * *

Do you think the goats look both ways before crossing the street? The rate at which they bound across and narrowly escape, then jeeringly look behind them with what I imagine is a little giggle, I'd have to say yes.

* * *

I thought I liked Coffee Bay, but Port St. John's may have won me over even more. The jungle-and-mountains-and-ocean combo seems even more exotic and decadent than the wanna-be Ireland-ness of Coffee Bay. Our one full day there Alice and I were blessed with the gift of a gorgeous sunny and hot day (it had been surprisingly chilly thus far on our vacation) and took advantage of it by driving to the beach 4 km away, then walking a short 30 minute hike into a nature reserve to find a sprawling long beach, deserted save for a few families lounging in the shade. The slope of the beach was oh-so-gradual and the ocean was filled with many long waves as a result. The water was a miz somewhere between Maine and Thailand – colder than I imagined it would be, but refreshing enough in the heat of the clear South African day that it wasn't numbing.

Something I learned and embraced this vacation, and definitely lived out to the fullest in Mozambique, is that to give in to the presence of sand everywhere – in your bag, between your toes, wedged in the crevices of your ears, caked to the back of your neck – is a wonderful think. Instead of fighting the inevitable, you merely accept that it will be there and that you'll get it out at some point, hopefully in a warm shower, but you never know. Sometimes beggars can't be choosers.