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.