Kariba Dam...a walk into Zimbabwe

Last weekend I finally got out of the city and into some more remote areas in Zambia. It was great to just be on the open road with endless open space on both sides, with no traffic or crowds, road tripping down to the Zimbabwe border with Courtney, Helen, and Ingo (our Namibian banker friend who drove from Luxembourg to his home town of Windhoek, Namibia in a fire truck he rebuilt for just this purpose). We decided to head to Kariba Dam on Sunday just to get out of the city and see what we could see. With nothing but our female (plus Ingo) directional intuition (don’t laugh Jeff) and a 30 year old map of Zambia, we actually successfully navigated our way south to what was once the largest, most impressive dam of it’s day (in 1959).

Notably, on the way to Kariba we stopped at the Kafuwe River to take our first picture of the day. Probably on account of our incredibly white legs, we managed to attract the attention of a crooked cop who wanted us to pay him for taking a picture of the river. Ummm, no. I don’t think taking a picture of nature costs a fee. The guy definitely tried to pull a gun on us as we drove away the first time, so Ingo stopped the car to have a chat with him. Lucky for us Ingo is a native African who does not give in to the shadiness of cops who want bribes. Helen managed to snap this incrementing shot from the backseat of the car. Lucky there is no “Inside Addition” here in Zambia to report this story of greasy palms to.

Aside from the fact that we were again stopped for not having the proper police clearance for the car, which warranted us receiving the “Admission of Guilt” citation, the rest of the drive was quite pleasant. We stopped on the road and bought some nice tourist hats just to make sure everyone we met knew we didn’t belong.

We had a nice long lunch and swim at a guest house on Lake Kariba where we ate carrot cake and convinced the owners that it was Courtney’s birthday until she blew our cover. No harm done though. No one had to sing except Helen and me. After we were all pooled out, we got ourselves together and headed to the dam.

Here’s the best part. The dam wall connects Zambia to Zimbabwe across the lake. In order to go on the road through no man’s land that leads to the dam and into Zim, you have to check in with immigration on the Zambia side and get clearance. I had my passport, no problem. The rest of the gang, though, had nothing of the sort. Ingo had his Namibian drivers’ license, Courtney had a credit card with her picture on it, and Helen had nothing but an old business card and a glamor shot of her BF Fraser. The guy at the immigration window thought about it and said that she couldn’t go with us unless she could leave him with some document that had her picture on it. So, Helen gave him an envelope with her 10 passport sized photos in it. They didn’t have her name or any identifying information on them, but they were pictures. So clearly, he let her pass through immigration! Are you kidding?? I felt like I was taking crazy pills!

So all four of us pulled up to the gate that led into no man’s land and were denied access again because we didn’t have proper police clearance. Apparently they didn’t care that we had already admitted our guilt and had been forgiven. Definitely not a grace atmosphere. We decided that just to spite the border guard we would walk the 2.2 km down the hill in the hot sun of that thousand degree afternoon. That would show him! When we got to the dam, I thought it was impressive but not that impressive in light of the 2.2 km we still had to walk back up to get to the car. But regardless, we were there and might as well take it all in. Courtney was already toast and her flip flops were wear through, so she decided to hang out on the Zambian side and have a midday date with the border guard.

Helen, Ingo, and I took the opportunity to stare into the deep water over the dam and race each other to Zimbabwe. I didn’t really think that they would actually let us go across the border, so Helen and I went ahead of Ingo to wow the guard with our feminine powers. It worked. We walked across the border and had a friendly chat with the guard and his friends who were sitting in the heat with nothing to do. We introduced ourselves as being American and British volunteers and the first thing out of this guy’s mouth was, “Oh, you have come to arrest our President?” to which Helen replied, “Not yet.” I laughed inwardly. The nice Zimbabwean guard clearly had sense of humor and didn’t even blink when we asked to walk through across to take our obligatory “Welcome to Zimbabwe” picture. After playing a game of checkers (Helen and I actually did manage to outwit the border guard on this front) we headed back across the dam only to be picked up by a heaven-sent pickup who was also going back up the hill. We jumped in the back, pried Courtney away from guard on the other side, and headed back to retrieve our “identification” before beginning our return journey to Lusaka.

All in all, I think it was a successful first venture out. Full of mystery and intrigue…or at least shady cop with a gun, good cake, and a game of checkers on the border of Zimbabwe. Excellent!

Admission of Guilt citation

Hell Revisited

Is it bad that today, on my 6th visit to the Ministry of Immigration, I found myself, in the midst of the chaos, hoping to be deported just so that I might be spared from the aggravation of one more journey into the 7th ring of Hell? Seriously, I can’t even begin to describe the way my blood pressure rises as I walk through those grimy, dilapidated doors. I applied for a temporary permit (basically a legal document that proves I am in the country as a volunteer doing nothing but throwing my money into this fine economy) almost a month ago. It was supposed to be approved within 2 weeks. In fact, my tourist visa has already run out. So here I sit at the mercy of this government. God help me.

Today was priceless. The entire immigration staff takes a full 2-hour lunch from 12:30 to 2:30. On this occasion like many others before, I showed up in my usual fashion about 2:25 to catch their afternoon session of harassing foreigners. At 2:34, the large woman that occupies the small desk in the unmarked room that I have now come to vaguely understand the purpose of (due to my many visits and many observations of someone thumbing through the pile of kindergarten scribbled, construction paper folders that never seem to have my permit in them), doing lord knows what, slammed the door closed with a shout that about why wasn’t time to open yet when the man in front of me knocked on it expecting to be waited on. “Oh, I guess she hasn’t been able to finish her goat sandwich in that short 2 hour lunch marathon,” I thought.

Finally, after a long enough line had formed outside of her door, the woman beckoned us in and methodically seated her first three victims while another man took my receipt and shuffled through these makeshift files, in no apparent order, in search of one with my name on it. After some time, he went to his desk and began to flip the pages of a large legal ledger pad with thousands of names and numbers written in it. Then, all of the sudden, he tossed me the ledger and told me to look through it and find my name! What!? Was he serious? There had to be 6 million names in the tablet and I’m pretty sure that a) it’s not legal for me to be in possession of all these people’s personal stats, and b) more importantly, THAT’S HIS JOB NOT MINE!!! I could have screamed. After a 2-hour lunch you would think this guy would be raring to go and excited to fulfill his employment duties that involve facilitating me raising the GDP of his country. Clearly not.

All the while this was going on, the large woman sitting there behind her desk sucking the goat our of her teeth was carrying on a conversation of a personal nature with the other large women in this office that is about the size of a small bathroom. The second woman was showing off her fine multitasking skills by keeping up her interoffice conversation while simultaneously yelling out the window to her husband? lunch date, reminding him what a “naughty boy he is.” Definitely not something I wanted to hear.

So, after a pretty half-hearted, exasperated effort to find my name in the vastness of this list (btw, I had NO idea what this was a list of and why that lazy man thought my name should be on it), my mind drifted off somewhere to the Fall in the Blue Ridge Mountains that I was missing at home and a strange thought of finding just one competent government employee and the realization that I would most definitely have to endure this day yet again. And then suddenly I had an intense desire, right then and there, to be deported. Weird.

Talladega Nights

We are very fortunate here in Lusaka to have a movie theater. And since I am so far removed from what is really happening in the world for the most part, I don't even notice that the movies we have playing are apparently months old. Who cares. It's still good-time fun to spend a mindless night at the movies. So, I went to see Talladega Night on Sunday after a long day of configuring computers and installing software at the office. I was so excited to see that a stand-up, intelligently done classy American film had come to Lusaka. Courtney and I went with Helen, our new British economist friend. Helen says things all the time like, "You Americans and your _____." It's funny to see how our former colonizers view us. We really like Helen, despite how I feel about my recent interactions with London and British Airways.

Since I was fortunate to have seen Talladega Nights in the US with my very funny friend Laurie, I remembered it with fondness. And since I thought it was funny, I agreed to indulge Helen and Courtney's wishes and see it again. Especially since the other movie, The Guardian, seemed like a crap Coast Guard imitation of Top Gun. Blasphemy! Here's how I felt about the movie. It was ok the 2nd time - pretty funny in some parts, but there's nothing quite like seeing a really crude, idiotic American movie with a Brit. I cringed at every single awful Southern or American stereotype that seemed to be way more blatantly offensive when watched in the company of someone not from our own culture, surrounded by tons of Africans who must believe that we are all like Ricky Bobby, Walker, and Texas Ranger...not to mention Carlie. My driver here told me that he believes that everyone in the US carries a gun! Really!? I think it must be because they play every CSI regional drama under the sun at least 3 times a day here. But in view of the "baby Jesus" prayers (which I found to be the most hysterical part of the entire film) around a supper of KFC (not even Bojangles!! Those directors really should have done a better job investigating what people actually eat in NC) and Taco Bell, together with Karin the Cougar, the homophobia, Southerners apparent hate for jazz music and anything foreign, and Reese's presentation at Career Day, I must be honest that I was slightly embarrassed. THAT is the movie they chose to distribute internationally. Awesome. As if people don't hate us enough. They might as well just broadcast George Bush saying stupid things about foreign policy or some Southern redneck being interviewed on the six o'clock news next time. Just as funny. Just as detrimental to the reputation of our great land. And if watching CSI makes people here believe that we all carry guns, what must Will Ferrell movies make them believe about our population?? I mean, don't get me wrong. I love Will Ferrell and his sense of humor - maybe more than most people should. I just wish it wouldn't leak out of the country. You know what I mean?

Strong Women

Lately I have been working to prepare for a five-day training of former victims of property grabbing who have been restored to their property in these last three years that IJM has been working in Zambia. We are trying to expand our impact around the city in order to more effectively reach out to at-risk victims within the compounds surrounding Lusaka. So, we have decided to identify and train some exceptionally strong and enthusiastic former clients on the laws of succession as well as sexual violence. We want to equip them to be focal points for IJM in their communities so that they can advise their neighbors or customers in their day-to-day interactions, as well as be personal testimonies for our work in a more intentional way. I hope that this endeavor will be yet another way that our work can serve to empower those who are most vulnerable.

On Tuesday the women came to our offices in their best dresses and they sat around our conference table and shared their stories with each other over tea and “biscuits,” and they laughed and cried and it was incredible to see them, for the first time, connecting with each other. To see their thrill in meeting other women who have been through the same trials as they had struggled through. To recount their hardships and their stories of victory over injustice to each other and to hear them praise God for both their trials and for bringing them through them. I thought to myself, “This is why I have come to Zambia.” To hear these stories and really witness how God redeems those he has promised to redeem. We are doing good and glorious work here. No matter how frustrating it might be at times, these women have had their lives changed and I know that we are doing something small to work towards that mission. I just need to keep my eye on the purpose I have been called here. Contrary to most of my thoughts throughout the day, I have not been called here to live a super comfortable, super not frustrating, super uncomplicated life. Zambia is hard for me on so many levels. Trying to be a professional in Zambia is even tougher. But my petty trials are NOTHING compared to what these women have seen and lived through in their days here on Earth.

Venus, one of our most successful clients sat at or conference table last week and listened quietly as Colonel explained to theses women their mission. She patiently waited for him to translate what he had just spoken into her native tongue. She has never been able to go to school or receive any kind of formal education and she knows very little English as a result. After her husband died, his extended family moved in and took everything from her and her three children. They kicked them out of their home and took away their market stall and left them destitute with no way to make an income. One of Venus’ sons died of malnutrition, the other one was crippled, and the third became gravely ill. Venus grew very thin. Her family had nowhere to go and nothing to eat. So she walked all the way to IJM from her compound to ask for help. And she walked back many, many times after that first visit. Colonel told us how she would arrive with dust up to her knees just to check on the status of her case. She faithful pursued justice and it was given to her. In less than a year, IJM successfully won her case and was able to get her home restored and her market stall reopened in her name.

I visited Venus two weeks ago. When Joy and I walked up to her in the market, a huge grin came over her face and she beckoned us inside her shop. She was thrilled to show us the new deep freezer she has been able to purchase to keep the food and drinks that she sells cool. She now has two successful businesses in the market and is doing incredibly well. One of her sons has been restored to full health and the other, the one who was crippled, is still recovering from malnourishment but is improving. But what I find remarkable about this family is that even at the lowest point of this unbelievably tough season in their lives, they did not resort to so many of the alternatives that so many widows and orphans here are forced to resort to. Venus never sold her body for money and her children never became thieves or beggars. They had a real faith that the Lord would provide and would redeem them and they truly trusted in that.

As Colonel told Venus’ story to the women around our table, tears began to stream down her face. As she listened to her own testimony I think she realized just how much she had come through. How hard it had been and how thankful she was that time in her life was over. To see her sorrow and gratefulness meeting each other at that moment was one of the most moving experiences I have had here in Zambia. She is a tough, faithful lady. She has been redeemed and has been lifted out of her valley. And now she is going out to help other women do the same. The circle is beautiful, isn’t it? I love that I have been given this opportunity to see how God has used the struggles of these women to prepare them to help others who are going through what they have already come out of. It is how it should be, I think. How God intended us to be his advocates here on Earth. To use our experiences to encourage others. I hope I am able to live up to this task one of these days with even a small amount of grace that these women possess.

Some early pictures...

Some kids at the Fountain of Hope home for street children and orphans. I visited them 2 weeks ago and hope to get back there to play with them again soon!

At dinner one night with our security training team. Great chinese food here in Lusaka. Dave, Conceptor, and Courtney listen to witchcraft stories over cashew chicken. Extremely illuminating evening!

We have made friends with the general manager of the Holiday Inn in Lusaka. So every chance I get I go over to the pool to swim laps and take a real shower. Last saturday, however, my pool time was interrupted by the South African soccer team (who had just lost to Zambia). As soon as they all jumped in the 4 feet of water, they also threw in the life saving rings and used them as floaties...very entertaining day of observations by the pool.

The first week I got here our entire staff got trained in CPR, First Aid, and self defense. Here we are with the excessive first aid kit that Dave and Jessica brought over from HQ. Note: the large man in the back weilding the knife is my boss! eek!

The Real Africa

Lusaka is unlike any other African city I have been to. There is this dramatic dichotomy of wealth and poverty coexisting virtually right next to each other here. On one hand there are paved roads and wireless internet cafes and modern supermarkets...and just outside the fences of each are beggars and women who sit all day selling produce by the side of the road and street kids living under bridges sniffing glue. And all around this city of tree lined streets and big beautiful homes filled with ex-pats are the dusty compounds of wall-to-wall shacks and dirty streets where the majority of Zambians live.

Maybe I am naive. I guess most cities have this class division of wealth to some extent and I have just never paid that much attention to it. Maybe it's because I am confined to the walls of my cushy ex-pat life with no transportation to see what's beyond them (at least not yet). They call Zambia "The Real Africa," but to me it seems like any other big city with all of its traffic congestion and bureaucracy and hormoned chickens and fruit treated with pesticides and people who walk past you without acknowledging you’re there. Not like the Africa of friendly folks and slow-paced living and awesome fresh food and wide expanses of nothing but bush – what I used to think of as the real Africa. I don’t want to compare this place to somewhere else I have been. I want to love it for its uniqueness and revel in the fact that this place has become what lots of development projects wished it would become. I want to be so thankful that there are plenty of schools and qualified teachers and roads without landmines and fully stocked hospitals and democratic elections. But sometimes I can’t help but long for those quiet starry nights and my little green tent in the middle of nowhere eating a mango that some little bare-footed child has climbed a tree to get for me. Some part of me wishes that Africa would never become developed or crowded or adulterated with our western culture. What would our world look like if we made every place just like the one next to it? And another part of me knows that to some extent, this is good. It is good for people to have proper water sources and access to education and a stable government. It is good for those who live here and good for their children to come. But why can’t we have these things without losing what makes a place like this truly unique? Why does “better” have to be cookie cutter? Why does development have to mean metropolitan and urban?

I don’t want to put my own expectations and views on how I think this place should be. How I want it to live up to my vision of “The Real Africa.” But each time I hear that I scoff. In my head I am thinking, “this is DEFINITELY NOT the real Africa! Where are the open spaces and huts and wild animals??” And each time I here beautiful booming African voices singing tame Southern Baptist hymns instead of their joyful melodic praises to God, I am sad. But why? Why can Africa only be one way in my mind? Why must it be underdeveloped and farm-like? Is it my wish for this place to remain primitive and nomadic to suit my preconceived visions and expectations of the way Africa should be and should remain? Yes, part of the reason I love Africa is because it is underdeveloped and simple. Because it is a break from the norm – from the hustle and bustle. Because people here appreciate things that many times our western cultures no longer sees as valuable. Because life just seems sweeter and less cluttered here. But I know that is unfair. I know that is me exploiting it and perhaps using it as my own personal haven from all things busy and American. I never knew this was “The Real Africa”, but this one seems like NYC and I think I prefer the fake one right now. I know I haven’t been out at all, but I can only make a guess that this is not the real Zambia. Getting out is refreshing. Each time I get to go to one of the compounds and visit our clients in their homes, I long to go back and wish I could feel connected to this city like I did to that place. There is so much more life within the walls of those shanties than within the walls of this concrete jungle. And I bet that getting into the bush will be even better. Every place has big cities and unfortunately this one is where I am living for the next little while. Bit thankfully, the people make up for what the scenery and city life lacks.

Oh the trials...

Plagued by inefficiency...Bureaucracy exists here too. I recount this episode out of sheer amusement...no hard feelings at all.

I went to the immigration office yesterday in an attempt to get a temporary work permit, only to get yelled at by a fat man in an awful Hawaiian/ African shirt and 2 cell phones that would not stop ringing in the middle of an overcrowded office while 2 apparent subordinates also vied for his time to get something or other approved. I just sat back, took it all in, and reveled at this office catastrophe of filth and inefficiency while he was busy attending to everyone else but me. And then there was the other white lady on the waiting couch behind me who stared a hole into my face cause she thinks I cut in front of her in line, but really the fat man just TOLD me to sit down at his desk, so I did. I apparently didn't have the right forms to get my work permit and I was also not the one who was supposed to be applying for it...that is my employer's job. So he told me to go to reception to get the right forms after I convinced him that I was there for my perspective employer and that I would be sure to have them fill out all of MY personal information required on the form, and that one of them would return to file it. Reception (and I thought that meant a place where SOMEONE receives you) is really this big box looking desk with tons of photocopied forms strewn all over the inside of it. Apparently it IS actually someone's job to man this box, but not today. It was abandoned. So instead of waiting on figment the imaginary Zambian worker to come and give me a form, I shuffled around back there and got one for myself...until a shrill, tall lady came and told me that was UNACCEPTABLE, to which I replied that I didn't have all day and where the HECK was the person who is getting paid to stand behind this box and give me bad quality immigration forms. She loosened up after that. So, no work permit yet. And I am sure with my cheery demeanor they will give me one super soon.

then I had the pleasure of going to the American Embassy and almost getting shot on the curb by the guard there. Apparently, my driver was not supposed to stop the car and let me out on the sidewalk in front of the embassy. BIG no no. But I obtained an absentee ballot and registered with the warden in a most efficient way (I even got a confirmation email from the very friendly lady who works there and offered a job as the social coordinator for the embassy - too bad I can't take it. Can you imagine, throwing parties and planning trips with an embassy budget?! Heck yes I can!)

but seriously, things here are really not bad...just a little frustrating at time...but then again so are 99% of government entities in The States. And Bradford says that dealing with foreign bureaucracies is good preparation for children...thanks for the advice on patience Bford.

ZamStacey

One of the first things I noticed here in Zambia is that everything under the sun is called "Zam" something. Zampost, Zambeef, Zamilk, Zam Zam Zam. So, I thought it only approriate that I should be ZamStacey.

Almost there...

10-5-06

The sunrise over Africa was pretty incredible from 33,000 feet in the air this morning…After two incredibly long days of frustrating travel, I am 30 minutes from my new home and anxiously await my first glimpse of this sky from the ground. What Lusaka and her people will be like, I can only guess, but from the fiery sky that beckons me closer, I think God has a wonderful treat in store for me.

Thankfully I slept for quite some time on this long flight from London, and together with this blessed cup of coffee I am wide awake and ready for the day ahead. I am nervous to begin work at IJM and nervous to be back in a real office and in a real suit. The thought daunts me this morning as I look at this huge expanse under me and this gorgeous morning and want nothing more than to be out in that grass waiting to encouter my first giraffe or Zambian bushman!