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