Embarrassing Noises

Sometimes I make embarrassing noises.  The kind of noises one might expect from an elderly British noblewoman.  Think the Dowager Countess of Downton Abbey as portrayed by Maggie Smith.  They usually escape when I do something clumsy, which is rather quite often.  Matt asks what I dropped after I make such a noise.  Last week I learned that another sort of event elicits my Dowager Countess cry: surprise. 

I was headed out to a brunch and went into the kitchen to grab the banana bread I had baked the night before.  While I was packing up, I chatted with my housekeeper about something or other.  My memory of the conversation was erased after what happened next.  As I bent down, she asked me if I noticed what was on the counter.  I had not.

I looked up and let out one of my high-pitched, girly shrieks.  A dead mourning dove was upside down on my countertop, six inches from my face, staring at me out of its glassy eyes.  “Where did this come from?” I asked, trying to recover from what I immediately realize was an embarrassing white lady overreaction.  My housekeeper explained that the guard had found it in the yard; they thought it must have flown into an electric wire because it didn’t look injured or sick.  “What is it doing in here?” I enquired, trying not to sound too unnerved.  Apparently, they wanted to show it to me.  Which is nice I guess, but I would have rather seen it outside and not in my kitchen.  Or at least had a little warning!

The guard asked if he could take it home to eat for dinner and I told him he was more than welcome to it.  Surprisingly, Prithvi came running in to investigate my cry of surprise and was too busy trying to comfort me with kisses to notice the dead dove just out of her reach. 

I wonder how long it will be before I find the next animal that came to an untimely end in our yard sitting on my kitchen countertop.

Legal Driving

I thought going to the DMV to register our car in DC was an ordeal.  Well, we did have to wait for hours in freezing temperatures, but at least it was one stop.  Not so here in Zambia.  Last month, I spent time making sure we followed driving laws by registering one of our cars. 

The car registration was supposed to take three hours on a Monday morning.  We get spoiled at the embassy by having local staff members accompanying us and doing all of our paperwork while we do such bureaucratic errands.  It would take unimaginable hours and frustration if I had to do these things on my own.  Painless, right?  I’m sure it would have been if I hadn’t agreed to do it a few days before Independence Day, driving right through the parade route.  Or if they hadn’t been practicing for the parade and closing half of the roads downtown.  I picked up one of our Zambian colleagues at the embassy first thing that morning and he directed me to our first stop: car inspection.

 Did I mention that I was driving the car we just bought that has the steering wheel on the right?  It was my first time driving that car and first time sitting on the right side of the car as a driver.  All sorts of firsts!  I think I scared my passenger a bit when I kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of turning on my turn signal.  At least I warned him that might happen.  Anyway, I followed his directions about two miles before we get stopped in gridlock.  Lusaka is not a huge city and traffic usually moves at a decent pace.  But we were stuck.  I felt the road rage rising in my stomach every time I would let one person in and another one or two cars tried to tuck in as well.  Did they not realize that we should take turns?  They didn’t, so I reminded them with my horn and some aggressive driving skills I picked up in DC.  It took us 45 minutes to go another mile before we were able to escape to an alternate route. 

We eventually made it outside the city, having circumvented the parade practice that was causing our traffic woes and headed south on Kafue Road.  I sailed down the main road at a nice clip until we reached a police checkpoint.  Luckily, with diplomatic plates we often get waved right through so we didn’t have a slow down there.  The potholes took care of that.  The car I was driving is a Toyota Corolla which doesn’t have the best clearance.  It felt like I was in a driving video game as I swerved to avoid foot deep holes every few dozen yards.  Again, I think my passenger questioned my driving abilities. We drove past Lilayi, the lovely lodge and game reserve where we saw all of the animals I wrote about in my “saying yes” post.  The car inspection center was way out past the giraffes and baby elephants.  I would have much rather gone to visit them instead.

We turned off the pot-holed highway onto a dirt road that was covered in rocks large enough to do real damage to low sitting cars.  I slowed to a crawl in an attempt to minimize damage to the undercarriage of the car.  It took us a few more minutes to reach the inspection facility which was a well-maintained large parking lot with shaded benches for car owners to wait.  My escort from the embassy took care of everything.  He showed the inspector our VIN number on the engine and we were on our way.  Back down the dirt road and then north on the pot-holed highway.  Three hours after we left the embassy, we reached our second stop: license plate installation. 

The Zambian government issues license plate numbers but leaves the printing and installation to private businesses.  So we headed to Phil’s License Plates to have our new number affixed to the car.  I think I might be the only white woman to ever visit Phil’s.  At least that’s what it felt like.  All of the men standing around the shop immediately stopped talking and stared at me.  I am very used to that after two years in India so it was not a problem.  It was just a bit odd because I rarely get noticed in Lusaka; people here do not generally stare.  Well, I stared right back at all of them because each and every one of those grown men was drinking a child-sized juice box from a tiny straw.  At Phil’s you get a free juice box with every installation. 

With our new plates we made our final stop at the district police station.  I am not quite sure why we needed to go there because I got to stay in the car.  In fact, I don’t think I really needed to go along on the journey at all except to do the driving.  I didn’t have to sign anything or show any proof of identity.  They just needed me for my windshield-wiping, right hand driving skills. 

We made it back to the embassy five hours after we started and I think both of us were ready for a nap.  Or a beer.  I went for the nap as it was only 2pm.  

Saying Yes

“During your first month at a new post, say yes to everything.”

I don’t remember where I first heard this, but it is the best advice I’ve been given for life in the Foreign Service.  It means that even though you are jet lagged or might be a bit shy you should try new experiences right off the bat when you move somewhere new.  There are lots of good reasons for this.  Firstly, it is worthwhile to let potential friends know that you like to get out and do things.  Secondly, keeping busy really seems to help culture shock and homesickness.  Thirdly, each post offers so many different opportunities it is good to figure out what you want to do during your time there.

I embraced this method for our move to Lusaka and am so glad I did.  For example, during my first week in Lusaka someone asked me if I would volunteer as a Brownie troop leader.  Sure!  It was a great decision.  The girls are funny, smart, and compassionate and the weekly meetings give me a chance to practice some of my teaching skills.  We sing songs, read stories, play games, and do activities to earn those ever-important badges!

Just this last week Matt and I said yes to giving a little boy a ride from the front gate of the lodge a mile down the road to the main building.  We were visiting an elephant orphanage and lodge on a game reserve just outside of Lusaka.  When we were heading up to the lodge for lunch after an hour watching adorable baby elephants play in the mud, the guard at the gate explained that there was a little boy who went to school on the reserve needed a lift.  Now, usually we are very strict about not giving anyone a ride who we do not know, but we saw the timid little boy and said “climb in”.  We introduced ourselves and I asked the boy to help me look for animals as we drove along.  I am so glad I did!  Having grown up in the area he had a great eye!  He pointed out warthogs, eland, and giraffes.  I must admit that I had a much harder time seeing them even when he showed me exactly where they were.  In my defense, the giraffes looked just like the trees they were munching on until they moved.  He seemed surprised that I had such difficulty finding something he saw so clearly.  If we hadn’t agreed to give the eight year old a lift, we would not have spotted the animals on our own. 

My final example of saying yes that I will share hasn’t actually happened yet.  I have been substitute teaching at the American school and was originally hired as a middle and high school sub.  So far, so good.  I am  getting to know the students and am pleased about how many of them I already recognize.  However, yesterday I received a phone call from the primary school.  They need someone to sub for the preschool class full of four year olds.  Would I do it?  Yes!  I first made sure there would be a teaching assistant, but I immediately said that I would do the job.  Have I ever spent an entire morning with a group of four year olds?  No.  I decided that I might as well give it a shot!  Sure, I am trained as a secondary school teacher, but a few days with little ones sounds like fun.

While I am past the first month in Lusaka, I am going to keep saying yes.  It’s a winning strategy so far! 

Sweeping up the sunset

I start every morning here with a walk.  Well, that is after I’ve sat down to breakfast with Matt and nursed a delicious cup of his coffee while reading my “stories” on the internet.  In fact, Prithvi decides when it is time to go – I can only ignore her cries and tail wags for so long.

The mornings are still cool enough that I need to wear a light sweater but I can feel it heating up a bit each day as we make our way into summer.  We head out the gate with a goodbye to the guard and reassure him that we will be back soon.  Our neighborhood streets aren’t too busy that I mind the lack of sidewalk.  We take our walk early enough that most people are still on their way to work; I am beginning to recognize people who live and work in our little residential area.  People are so friendly here that nearly everyone I pass wants to say hello.  Usually, I initiate the greeting because I get a kick out of how peoples’ faces light up when I say “good morning”.  It is such a small thing but it seems to make a huge difference to the Zambians I meet.  Most people in turn ask me how I am and the more outgoing ones inquire after the dog.  One guy even asked me this week if he could have her.  I told him that he probably didn’t want this dog.

Even after almost two months of daily walks I am still amazed at the beauty of this place.  I get lost in my head as I pass the house with the plants that look like they belong in Jurassic Park and that avocado tree that is just about ready to drop at least 300 pieces of fruit. I marvel at the little sparrow-looking birds with their electric blue bellies.   I ponder how each home’s boreholes and the miniature water towers work.  I get the song “Shipoopi” from “The Music Man” stuck in my head every time I turn onto the street whose name sounds exactly the same.  I laugh at Prithvi when she raises her hackles and snorts at the same collie and Boerhounds she passes every morning.  I wave to the gardeners wearing their bright IKB-colored coveralls.  I watch each step when I have to walk up against a garden wall as I continue onto the busy road that completes my loop. 

Most walks are just like that.  However, yesterday I saw something that made me stop in my tracks.  I was astounded to see a gardener sweeping up all of the gorgeous purple petals from a Jacaranda tree.  How could he be getting rid of that incredible lavender carpet that was covering the ugly, pot-holed road?  I wanted him to desist immediately!  It seemed as ludicrous as someone sweeping up the sunset.  Luckily, before I made a fool out of myself I realized there was probably a perfectly valid reason for him to do such a thing – like cars needing to drive on the road without the hazard of slippery flower petals. 

I love my walks each morning and cannot wait to see what the new season brings.  Perhaps I will discover something even better than a purple petal-covered road.

Tree Trimming Part 2: Sweaty Palms

In my last post about the tree trimming, I focused on my conversation about American history and politics with a few Zambians.  I didn't describe much of what actually went on as the team of guys removed the potentially roof-damaging branches from our trees.  This is because I had not yet seen them at work.  I wish it had stayed that way.

Later that afternoon, A. came back to check on their progress.  I had enjoyed our talk that morning so I decided to join him as he supervised.  As we walked through the yard I was horrified to see the men blatantly flout the safety instructions they were given just hours before.  Yes, the man in the tree was wearing his harness but it was hanging around his neck instead of securing him to the tree.  The five guys on the ground stood staring up at him as he shimmied along with only his legs wrapped around the bough.

In a repeat of his initial warnings, A. reminded the men that the embassy expected that they follow safety precautions.  The team of tree trimmers just smiled and laughed like they knew he was right but their hands were tied.  They continued watching the one man who was actually working up in the tree and yelled unhelpful suggestions about where he should cut the branch. 

I stared up in terror as the man on the branch hacked away at the tree with a machete and a small ax.  With each blow, he had to steady himself and regain his balance.  I felt my heart speed up and my palms began to sweat.  I was absolutely sure this man would fall to his death in my backyard.  My dread grew worse as his machete cut deeper and deeper.  A. did not make me feel any better as he regaled me with stories of accidents he witnessed over the years.  The most evocative was his tale of a tree trimmer who, like the man in my “matchstick” tree, chose not to use his safety harness.  The man in the story was working on a limb that was overhanging a barbed-wire-topped wall.  I will spare you the details but assure you that although the man landed in the barbed wire, he survived the ordeal after spending several weeks in the hospital.  I was just sure this was going to happen at my house before the day was out.

After another twenty minutes of fretting and trying to convince the tree trimmers to observe ANY safety precaution, I decided that I needed to go inside.  If they wouldn't listen to me I could not spend my day anxiously standing under a tree.  I went back in the house, sat down with a book, and turned up the music. 

Thankfully, no men fell from my trees that day or in the seven subsequent days that it took them to complete the job.   

"Shopping" for a Church Home in Lusaka

Abbie and I took our first foray into churchgoing since arriving in Lusaka early last month.  A colleague from the embassy and his wife have been doing the circuit of protestant churches around the area and invited us to join them in their “church shopping” adventures.  We have similar theological stances and backgrounds—somewhat liberal, with a solid reform background.  But with Abbie and my Chennai experience in mind—which featured a broad gap between stodgy Roman Catholic congregations and Tamil-language mega-churches—we were skeptical.

Lusaka boasts many churches and even a few mosques, temples (B’hai and Hindu), and other places of worship.  Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah Witnesses—denominations that one of my previous countries heavily repressed—both operate openly in Lusaka.  Methodist seminary (and several churches), several community churches (think Willow Creek), and a large number of Pentecostal churches.  TV displays a brand of evangelical Christianity that strikes us as a mixture of 1920s tent revivals and Steve Martin’s “Leap of Faith.”  Imploring, sweating white pastors conducting faith healings, spitting, shaking, and exorcising form some of the more salacious programs on the Christian TV network (which all of them are, at their root).  Not quite our speed.

We aren’t picky, nor are we that into interdenominational spats over when a baptism should be performed or which hymns congregations should sing.  That said, we wanted to avoid the sad situation of many U.S. churches:  that Sunday morning was the most segregated time in the country.  We wanted a church that Zambians ran, supported, and tended.  Expats were fine, but we didn’t want to cloister ourselves off in mini-America.

Up first was St. Columba’s Presbyterian Church, about two-thirds of the way to downtown Lusaka; it was an easy drive on a Sunday.  St. Columba’s falls on the slightly more liberal side of Zambia’s protestant, even Presbyterian spectrum.  According to another colleague who regularly attends the church, it’s a member of the United Church of Zambia, which is closer to our PCUSA.  A separate strain is more of an “emerging church”—slightly more conservative, in the vein of PCA.  Both claim explorer David Livingstone, who allegedly brought Presbyterianism to Zambia.

The church itself was small, with the sanctuary holding around 100-120 people (depending on how many stood in the back).  We sat with our colleagues on some hard, but not entirely uncomfortable portable wood pews about four rows back from the pulpit.  Ahead of us stood a small electric piano/organ, a small area for a six-person choir (several older women and one man in gold-trimmed purple robes), a podium, a backbench, and a few other chairs.  On the walls were faded felt banners exclaiming “Jehovah Jireh:  God Provides” and “Elohim, our Adonai!” and a tilted hymnboard with about five hymn numbers.  In the center was a sparse, very Calvinistic wooden cross, looking benignly over the congregation.

The congregation itself was around ninety percent Zambian, with a few Western missionaries, American aid workers, and ourselves interspersed around the cozy sanctuary.  Abbie and I noticed a curious collection of teenagers sitting in the first and second rows—a very rare sight back in the States.  They wore sheer white robes over their normal clothes.  Perhaps acolytes?  We’d soon find out.

Our colleague noted that the United Church ordained women, an important aspect of community we found lacking in our otherwise great D.C. church.  A retired female pastor was sitting across the church from us, we found later.  Along the back of the pulpit wall and speckled around the congregation were women in what I can only describe as modern-day Mayflower pilgrim outfits—black dresses with big white collars and light, white bonnets.  They were elders and deacons.

The service began with a litany of hymns mainline Presbyterians would know well:  Just as I am; Holy, Holy, Holy; I Will Enter his Gates; Take my Life and Let it Be” among others.  This was another welcome change from Grace, which tried to push its more traditional congregation through contemporary hymns few people knew.  I prefer the classics, so this suited me fine.  We soon found that the songs printed on the upside-down program were only the tip of the iceberg, disguising hidden songs most of the congregation knew reflexively.  This is good, because the projector-minder was not exactly on his game.

From the muddle of street noise outside, a few flies, and some chattering babies raised a clear, loud voice singing “You are the Alpha and Omega.”  Abbie and I looked around—was there a CD player with a young Beyonce cutting through the congregation?  After a short while, Abbie nudged me and pointed to a somewhat distracted looking teenage girl in the first row.  She was singing in a voice that, even when hampered by her seated position and facing away from the congregation, rose de profundis to fill the church with an antiphonal call to join her.  It was surprising, beautiful, and effortless.  This girl would later join her “junior choir” in another hymn that would have put much larger, better trained choirs to shame.  Her male equal sang in a clear tenor across from her, held together by perfectly balanced, crystalline four-part harmony from the other teenagers who formed the “junior choir”.  It very nearly brought me to tears.  The “senior choir”—those five ladies and the (usual) one man—presided over this younger group with well-meaning, but tinny and off tune warblings.  You could tell they felt it though, and that was what mattered.

The pastor then embarked on a Scripture-embroidered sermon focusing on the analogy running through the Bible of the vine and the branches.  It was well-rooted and well-voiced, but lacked a “so what” at times.  Still, the theology was solid, if slightly more conservative than what we were used to.  In the panoply of churches, though, we felt it was probably very close to the middle of the road.  The reverend punctuated his sermon with Africa-focused tidbits, including a tesseracted version of our “storm and boat” analogy, featuring a man trapped by a lion who ignores the tree God provides him in his obstinacy.  The lion eats the man, thanking God for providing.  I forgot how it related to the sermon, but it was entertaining.  We rode the reverend’s rounded r’s and deep vowels through an eloquent, if a bit rambling sermon.  Not bad, altogether.

After the sermon (and after a few more secret hymns, Lord’s Prayer, and Apostle’s Creed), we reached a heartfelt communion, featuring pre-squared bread and actual wine.  Well, rosé.  Rosé blood of Christ.  Still, I thought it was a good bit of adherence to the actual last supper (and way better than rosemary ciabatta body-of-Christ bread we got one week at Grace)!

The service wrapped up with a few more prayers and a rousing, surprising Nyanja hymn that sent the whole congregation out to tea and cakes on the tips of their toes.  Mini-Beyonce led this, too.  Not unsurprisingly, I met a Davidson grad, who claimed a long pedigree of Davidsonians in his bloodline, including a daughter who graduated just two years after me (though I couldn’t place her).  Small world.

We’ll continue our church search, but I have a good feeling about this one.  When my colleague invited me last night to come with him today, he mentioned that the church was “conservative, but with a good community.” After the service, we met an nearly toothless, 87-year old church member who warmly greeted us, wrote down my place of work, and promised she and her church would treat her like their own “babies.”  I could get used to her fellowship; the rest of the congregation brought the same warmth and hospitality to members and visitors alike—something we’ve come to expect and anticipate about the lovely Zambian public.  I think we’ll be back.

Tree Trimming

Most days living as an American abroad are much like living as an American at home.  Running errands, cooking dinner, spending time with friends.  Most days are unremarkable.  Then there are days when you notice something and it sticks in your mind.

This morning I welcomed the head embassy gardener, A., and one of his colleagues into our yard to look at the trees.  I love the trees in our yard but half a dozen of them have sagging limbs hanging over our roof.  A. was quite concerned that the trees would start dropping their branches when the rains start in October.  He frowned and confided, “I’m afraid the roof is made of asbestos, so we don’t want anything to damage it.”  I returned a sarcastic “great!” and we shared a little chuckle.  Ah, the joys of living in an old house.

We continued around to the back of the house where I pointed out some more branches that should come down.  Now, these were not in-danger-of-causing-us-cancer branches, but they were dropping too many little yellow flowers into the pool.  Those branches have been the constant enemy of our terrific gardener Chrispin (or just Chris).  A. agreed that those too should go.

Within minutes I had convinced the guard to let the tree trimming crew into the yard – Chris would supervise their work.  A. gave them a speech about the US government worrying about their safety and how they should always wear their harnesses when climbing up the trees.  He also told them that if they died on the job, he would come back and kill them himself.  More chuckles all around.

Once the trimmers set about their work, A. and I started talking.  It came up in conversation that I teach history.  He told me that he was never very good in history but still remembers quite a bit of what they learned in school.  He said that when he was growing up the Zambian education system was very focused on America and Europe.  He smiled sadly as he remembered knowing more about Detroit than he did about Lusaka.  He memorized the population, the climate, and the history of a city that few Americans even think about these days.

His colleague then said that she is always surprised and a little offended when Americans give her background information on an event from American history.  With a wide-eyed laugh she said “I learned all of that in secondary school!”.  I tried to make her feel better by admitting that Americans probably do that because they figure other people know as little about our history as we do theirs.  She nodded as if she thought I could be on to something.

Then A. asked us if we had heard President Obama’s speech commemorating the 5oth anniversary of the March on Washington on the radio last night.  I told him I had and was curious to hear what he thought of it.  He beamed as he talked about our (America’s) lofty ideals and how we seem to always want to improve upon our past.  And about how he thinks President Obama will be better appreciated once he leaves office.  He said it was too bad, but that is often what happens with leaders, especially those gifted at public speaking.

That’s what I can’t get out of my head.  This man, in Lusaka, Zambia, has thought so much about American history.  I just wish that our students would learn a little bit more about people beyond our borders.

Ballroom Dancing

We found it on Google Earth as soon as we got the email.  It amazes me that such a small road has been mapped, photographed even, and is accessible to anyone in the world.  How is it possible that I was able to type in an address for a plot in Lusaka, Zambia and look at it from my living room in Washington, DC? 

However surprising it seemed, Matt and I were able to see our neighborhood before either of us ever set foot in this country.  We knew that we had a three bedroom house with a yard and a pool.  We had seen a few pictures of the house, empty between residents.  We were thrilled!   

Apparently the house is in the British colonial style: single story with long, dark rooms, a sizable kitchen complete with breakfast nook, and a laundry room the size of our last apartment.  Our living room is nice but oddly shaped.  We have a beautiful stone fireplace in the center that divides a sitting area from the dining room.  And then there is room for another sitting area.  And then a third.  I am finding it difficult to imagine how I will arrange things once our household effects arrive but look forward to spending hours on Pinterest for ideas.  How many seating areas can one room have?   A woman who came in to measure for curtains suggested that I use the space for ballroom dance lessons.  She might be right; too bad I am not that kind of teacher. 

Compared to the rest of the house, the bedrooms are fairly small but are still larger than most I've had in my life.  There are two built in closets with a walk-in as well.  Is the house challenging me to acquire more clothing?  We’ll see.   

While I am very happy with the inside, I love the outside of the house best.  I spend most afternoons sitting under our metal awning on the stone veranda.  I read, drink coffee, and throw balls for the dog to chase.  It is a nice way to pass the time.  As he is infinitely more knowledgeable on the topic, I will leave it to Matt describe the vegetation and wildlife.

This is our third Monday in Lusaka and we are starting to fall in to routines.  This house feels more like home every day.  A gigantic, charming, home.

Prithvi's Excellent Adventure

Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I hurried to finish my coffee before my ride beeped at the gate.  The coffee was nice and strong but surprisingly smooth.  I hadn’t slept well the night before thanks to jet lag and worry about my little dog making her way to Zambia on her own.  Needless to say, I wanted to be ready the moment the expeditor from the embassy arrived to take me to the airport to pick up Prithvi.  I suspected that he would be a little later than the 6:15am time we had arranged but I didn’t want to be late in case he really did show up so early.  

At 6:30 I climbed into his large pick-up truck and quickly fell into conversation with my smiley Zambian colleague.  The city was certainly awake at that time, with many people hurrying along dirt tracks next to the roads as they made their way to work.  Even those working in the service industry as gardeners or housekeepers dressed far more nicely than most Americans would.  Ladies wore long skirts, high heels, and smart jackets whereas the men wore nice pants and pressed button-down shirts.  One exception was a young man proudly wearing a t-shirt that read “Git-R-Done”; no doubt a charity donation from the US.

Up the road the sun began to rise at a faster pace than I have ever seen.  The sky transformed from a foggy lavender to the vibrant orange sun depicted in the opening scene of The Lion King.  Lusaka is not a huge city and it seemed as if we were in the countryside within five minutes.  My companion told me that the country has vast amounts of arable land left empty, which was evident as we drove along the open road to the airport.  He was a great conversationalist so we jumped from topic to topic.  Thankfully, his easy manner took my mind off of my nerves about the dog. 

Prithvi’s journey to Zambia was a complicated one.  US-based airlines restrict the shipment of animals as cargo during the summer heat, so we were not able to check her as excess baggage like we had done when we brought her out of India.  Instead, we had to hire a pet shipper to arrange her travel from Washington.  They handled the reservations with the airline and much of the paperwork on our side of the Atlantic.  The shipping office at the embassy handled the rest, which meant all we had to do was take her to the vet before we left.  Because we arrived in Lusaka on a Saturday night, Prithvi had to follow us a few days later.  The Lusaka airport is much too small to have staff to accept animals on the weekend.  That is why I was out and about so early on a Monday morning.  Prithvi had started her journey on Saturday afternoon when the pet shipper picked her up from the apartment she was staying in with my parents just of of U Street in DC.  From there they took her to Dulles airport for her British Airways flight to Heathrow.  Once in London, she visited the “pet resort” where she had the chance to take a walk, eat, and drink some water before continuing on to Africa. 

When we arrived at the airport we drove directly to BA’s cargo office at the end of the runway.  Although her flight had landed about 30 minutes earlier, Prithvi’s crate was only just unloaded as we pulled up.  I ran to the truck that was carrying her crate and called her name in an embarrassingly high voice.  She looked a little bit shell-shocked but mostly cold from the chilly winter morning.  As soon as the truck stopped, I let her out of the crate and gave her a big hug.  The Zambian men around me chuckled at such a display of affection for a dog but I didn’t care.  Her little wiggles and kisses immediately put me at ease.  My companion handled all of the paperwork with the customs agent as I walked her around the cargo area. 

Within minutes we were finished and back in the car, taking Prithvi to her new home and her very first yard.  My new friend from the embassy looked at me, scratching her behind the ears, and said “you know, Zambians have a difficult time understanding Americans and their dogs”.  I grinned and replied “I know”.   I finally felt like we could start our tour.

Venturing into the "Unkown Interior"

Matt and I love maps.  We are big nerds who spend hours getting lost in geography games on Sporcle and Geoguesser.  Whenever we make our way over to DC's Eastern Market we stop at small white tent to thumb through boxes of antique maps.  Several weeks ago we came across one we couldn't pass up.  We found an 1872 map from "Mitchell's New General Atlas" entitled "Map of Africa Showing its Most Recent Discoveries".   

The map is in great condition with a lot of detail along the coasts of the continent but swaths of blank spaces in the middle.  Of course we looked to see what it said about the land we now call Zambia and found this: unknown interior.  My first, very Social Studies teacher thought was "unknown to whom?".  Surely it was only a blank space to the American cartographer; people who had lived there for generations must have known it quite well.  Livingstone had explored the area by 1872 but the British would still take a few years to  grant the land to Cecil Rhodes, who would become its namesake for several decades.  Before the West called it Northern Rhodesia, Zambia was simply referred to as "unknown interior".  

I had decided long before we acquired the map that I wanted to learn more about this land and its people.  However, I reluctantly acknowledged that Zambia remained an unknown to me.  In my last post I mentioned having difficulty finding information about the place but have recently had better luck with my research.  I started with a fantastic, brutally honest, memoir written by a British-born, African-raised woman called Don't Let Us Go to the Dogs Tonight.  Her story unfolds during her childhood in the 1960s and 1970s at the time when African countries shrugged off their colonial rulers.  Her family were farmers, convinced that they had rights to the land because of their "European superiority" and better agricultural techniques.  She does not shy away from including her parents' racist views but presents them as historical fact.  She talks about her connection to the land and her identity as a white African growing up in Zimbabwe, Malawi, and Zambia.  It was a compelling read that I highly recommend.  It helped me think about history and about how I can avoid falling into a colonial mindset.

I am also in the middle of two other books about the region - one fiction and one history.  Both focus on British gentlemen who try to make a better life for themselves in southern Africa.  In a 1914 letter mentioned in The Africa House by Christina Lamb, Stewart Gore-Browne wrote: "It was all so magical that I felt I had entered a fairy kingdom".  He was enchanted by the untouched beauty of the land where big game roamed and the Earth was rumored to be filled with gems.  

It is interesting how outsiders write about Africa as an exotic place full of magic and mystery.  I must admit that despite my knowledge and disdain of colonialism I feel the same way.  I find it fascinating to imagine bustling cities with vast open lands full of giraffes and elephants just an hour's drive away.  I am excited to see it for myself so I can conceive of the two worlds existing side by side.  To a certain extent, places you have never been are unknown.  That is what I find so exciting about travel: I am slowly filling in those blank spaces on my own map.

  

Counting Down to Zambia!

Hello friends-

Matt and I are getting more excited by the day as we count down to our arrival in Lusaka.  We are almost to the 100 day mark (I think today is 112 until wheels down) but it feels like the distant future.  The two years we spent in DC have flown by with lots of time to see family, develop new friendships and continue old friendships, and re-Americanize ;).







I am almost finished earning a Master's degree in Secondary Education and Matt has accomplished some amazing work with Somalia, Eritrea, and Djibouti.  Prithvi, our fox-like Indian street dog, has enjoyed trips to the Shenandoahs and swimming in Rock Creek Park.  We had a blast during the past two years in Washington and look forward to our future postings here.

Zambia will be Matt's third post in the Foreign Service and will be the fourth country each of us has lived in!  We are still homesick for our first post in Chennai, India but are looking forward to falling in love with a new place.  Unfortunately, there is not nearly as much information about Zambia as there is for India so my mental preparation is not as far along as it was before we moved to Chennai.  I can either find travel guides or histories written about European colonialism; not much in the memoir department.  I have been most successful in my Zambia research by reading stories by expat bloggers.  Thanks for sharing!

Perhaps because of the glut of information out there about India, I had constructed an image of the place in my mind before I ever set foot there.  "Chennai is a coastal town with miles of beaches!" turned out to be miles of fishermen's huts built a bit too close to the water.  The wheeled shopping cart we bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond that has been quite useful in DC was utterly useless on the no-sidewalk/cow-in-the-way/too-much-traffic gauntlet that we endured each time we walked to the grocery in Chennai.  Thinking back on my naivete pre-India, I wonder what misconceptions I have about Zambia.  Will the weather be as nice as I imagine?  Will the garden I am planning on Pinterest grow into reality?  I hope so but know better this time.  Inevitably, some of the ideas I have about Lusaka will seem silly upon arrival.  That's the fun part! 


We were very happy to receive our housing assignment from the lovely embassy staff in Lusaka this week; pictures of your soon-to-be home make the move come into focus.  For the first time since we moved out of our parents' homes we will be living in a house and for the first time in Prithvi's life she will have a yard of her own!  We might need to make her one of these signs like her friend "guard dog" had in Chennai:

In the mean time, I will try to read more blogs and start thinking about the logistics of the move.  Prithvi is still blissfully ignorant that we will leave this apartment.  Those of you who know her can attest that she is a nervous sort of dog who likes her routine.  She doesn't even like it when we get out Christmas decorations.  Hopefully she won't figure out how soon she will face the pile of boxes again!

-Abbie