Thursday, August 17, 2006
Anecdotes
I am aware that my rambling, bookish posts can be tedious in the best of times and mind-numbingly boring in the worst... so here are arguably the three most interesting stories that I have for the past month of travels.
#3: Visiting the Cheif
A month and a half into working in the town of Kaoma in western Zambia, I figured it was time to pay a visit to the cheif. After booking an appointment and slogging for a couple of hours along a sandy road leading out of town, my contingent of three friends and I arrived at the palace of the districts senior cheif and member of the Lozi royal family, Cheif Isititeketo. While waiting for the okay to enter from one of the court's pages I met with the Prime Minister, who needled my about being related to Ian Smith (the racist ex-dictator of neighboring Zimbabwe.) Eventually we entered the walled palace (my friend Margaret went through a seperate door since "she has periods") to the cheif's home. But first we had to kneel and clap half-a-dozen times on the way to his throne, where we dropped to a crawl up to his feet. The cheif, a stout grandfatherfly looking man shook my hand and gestured for me to sit, while the others were left to grovel for a little while longer. I talked briefly about my volunteer projects in Kaoma, but this was his show and he quickly steered the conversation to his favorite topic: the United States. He had gone to school in California and was eager to reminisce and even talk a little politics (I got in a couple of good digs at Bush.) Some 45 minutes later it was time for me to present our gift, a woven basket and tie-dyed material from the local Women's Center. He liked it. Exchanging pleasantries, we crawled backwards (harder than it sounds), periodically clapping our way out of the palace. This was my brush with royalty.
#2: The Tobacco Floors
In Malawi tobacco accounts for two-thirds of their foreign currency earnings; a critical chunk of the economy, and one which I wanted a closer look at. Boarding a mini-bus I weaved my way north through the streets of the capital Lilongwe to my destination: the Kenango Industrial Compound. Luckily, it was a windy day and I was able to follow my nose (and the sweet smell of tobacco) to the auction floors. Here a smartly-dressed worker named Maxwell whisked me past security to his post in the loading docks. Trucks, trains, and conveyer belts waited here to rush the recently purchased bags to nearby processing factories. We were refused a tour on such short notice so I stealthily snuck past the lines of growers waiting for their pay into the massive, airplane hangar sized auction floor. On a walkway suspended above the floor I watched bare-chested men racing to and fro with the bursting burlap bags of tobacco on dolleys. It didn't take much coaxing for me to jump down to help out and the hall lit up with hoots as I charged with my load the length of a football field, twenty men in V-formation behind me! Really fun. The stern looking boss told me I had read my UPC code wrong and this bag was in the wrong spot. After righting this wrong he broke into a smile and told me to be in the next morning at 5 am for work. So, hey, if things don't work out when I get back to the States I always have a job waiting for me with big tobacco, at a cool $2 per day!
#1: Mother Tiger
It started as an innocent trip to go see Kazanga, a traditional ceremony of the Nkoya tribe of northwestern Zambia. Brother Rogers, Brother Peter, (former) Father Ronald and I walked a good distance out of town to the field where the festivities were being held. We didn't stay more than an hour (the crowds of drunken young men were a bit too much for my holy companions) but I did get a chance to cause a scene by joining one of the performance groups dancing in the main arena. On the way out we helped push a little pickup truck named Mother Tiger that had stalled outside the main gate. Next thing we knew we were speeding downhill back towards town. It was then that Br. Peter said he didn't think that the truck had any breaks. Fr. Ronald added that he knew the man driving as a drunk. I immediately dismissed these comments: how could this man be taxying people to and from Kazanga all day if he had no breaks? I mean, what would he do when he met someone on the one-lane bridge at the bottom of the hill?! Of course, we barreled onto the bridge with a shiny SUV already half-way across. The other driver flashed his lights and beeped the horn; since we had neither of these our driver simply started yelling out his window. As I braced myself for the impact Br. Rogers jumped overboard at a run, managing to stay both on his feet and out of the river some twenty feet below. Fortunately the other driver started to reverse so the crash wasn't too violent, with the guardrails easing us back off the bridge. Nevertheless, the grill of the new SUV was badly damaged and as the men began to push my driver for his stupidity I feared they would beat him bloody. Since everyone was unharmed they contented themselves to haul Mother Tiger and its owner into the police station. My friends and I had a good laugh after fleeing the scene of the crime. But when they began to blame the fact that the bridge only had one-lane, I had to interject. Mother Tiger had to accept at least partial responsibility. They shrugged their shoulders, afterall, this was transportation in Zambia.
#3: Visiting the Cheif
A month and a half into working in the town of Kaoma in western Zambia, I figured it was time to pay a visit to the cheif. After booking an appointment and slogging for a couple of hours along a sandy road leading out of town, my contingent of three friends and I arrived at the palace of the districts senior cheif and member of the Lozi royal family, Cheif Isititeketo. While waiting for the okay to enter from one of the court's pages I met with the Prime Minister, who needled my about being related to Ian Smith (the racist ex-dictator of neighboring Zimbabwe.) Eventually we entered the walled palace (my friend Margaret went through a seperate door since "she has periods") to the cheif's home. But first we had to kneel and clap half-a-dozen times on the way to his throne, where we dropped to a crawl up to his feet. The cheif, a stout grandfatherfly looking man shook my hand and gestured for me to sit, while the others were left to grovel for a little while longer. I talked briefly about my volunteer projects in Kaoma, but this was his show and he quickly steered the conversation to his favorite topic: the United States. He had gone to school in California and was eager to reminisce and even talk a little politics (I got in a couple of good digs at Bush.) Some 45 minutes later it was time for me to present our gift, a woven basket and tie-dyed material from the local Women's Center. He liked it. Exchanging pleasantries, we crawled backwards (harder than it sounds), periodically clapping our way out of the palace. This was my brush with royalty.
#2: The Tobacco Floors
In Malawi tobacco accounts for two-thirds of their foreign currency earnings; a critical chunk of the economy, and one which I wanted a closer look at. Boarding a mini-bus I weaved my way north through the streets of the capital Lilongwe to my destination: the Kenango Industrial Compound. Luckily, it was a windy day and I was able to follow my nose (and the sweet smell of tobacco) to the auction floors. Here a smartly-dressed worker named Maxwell whisked me past security to his post in the loading docks. Trucks, trains, and conveyer belts waited here to rush the recently purchased bags to nearby processing factories. We were refused a tour on such short notice so I stealthily snuck past the lines of growers waiting for their pay into the massive, airplane hangar sized auction floor. On a walkway suspended above the floor I watched bare-chested men racing to and fro with the bursting burlap bags of tobacco on dolleys. It didn't take much coaxing for me to jump down to help out and the hall lit up with hoots as I charged with my load the length of a football field, twenty men in V-formation behind me! Really fun. The stern looking boss told me I had read my UPC code wrong and this bag was in the wrong spot. After righting this wrong he broke into a smile and told me to be in the next morning at 5 am for work. So, hey, if things don't work out when I get back to the States I always have a job waiting for me with big tobacco, at a cool $2 per day!
#1: Mother Tiger
It started as an innocent trip to go see Kazanga, a traditional ceremony of the Nkoya tribe of northwestern Zambia. Brother Rogers, Brother Peter, (former) Father Ronald and I walked a good distance out of town to the field where the festivities were being held. We didn't stay more than an hour (the crowds of drunken young men were a bit too much for my holy companions) but I did get a chance to cause a scene by joining one of the performance groups dancing in the main arena. On the way out we helped push a little pickup truck named Mother Tiger that had stalled outside the main gate. Next thing we knew we were speeding downhill back towards town. It was then that Br. Peter said he didn't think that the truck had any breaks. Fr. Ronald added that he knew the man driving as a drunk. I immediately dismissed these comments: how could this man be taxying people to and from Kazanga all day if he had no breaks? I mean, what would he do when he met someone on the one-lane bridge at the bottom of the hill?! Of course, we barreled onto the bridge with a shiny SUV already half-way across. The other driver flashed his lights and beeped the horn; since we had neither of these our driver simply started yelling out his window. As I braced myself for the impact Br. Rogers jumped overboard at a run, managing to stay both on his feet and out of the river some twenty feet below. Fortunately the other driver started to reverse so the crash wasn't too violent, with the guardrails easing us back off the bridge. Nevertheless, the grill of the new SUV was badly damaged and as the men began to push my driver for his stupidity I feared they would beat him bloody. Since everyone was unharmed they contented themselves to haul Mother Tiger and its owner into the police station. My friends and I had a good laugh after fleeing the scene of the crime. But when they began to blame the fact that the bridge only had one-lane, I had to interject. Mother Tiger had to accept at least partial responsibility. They shrugged their shoulders, afterall, this was transportation in Zambia.
# posted by Josh @ 11:44 AM 
