Naught May Endure but Mutability

The gaps between blog posts are usually when the most interesting shit goes down. When words don’t suffice, when I can’t find the time, or when I spend a year living on an island in the Pacific Ocean because my life has fallen apart. I’m not just talking about the presidential election. I’m talking about the fact that everything I’d counted on happening after my last blog entry nearly two years ago, did not.

My return to Zambia wasn’t meant to be. None of my grants came through, and promises made to me were not kept. In hindsight, everything is a blessing and does in fact happen for a reason. Since a blog post is an open forum, I’ll just leave that there. Suffice it to say, in the end, it wasn’t up to me. I left behind teaching materials, and I trust that the Zambian teachers are doing an amazing job at helping the chimpanzee keepers and their families learn English. I myself learned many hard lessons from the aftermath of that experience. One of those is this: I will never again leave everything I have (my beloved cat, my cozy home, my amazing jobs, my gorgeous furniture, my incredible friends, etc.) based on someone else’s word that I have a job waiting for me, as well as their support. Not unless a written contract is signed by both parties, in blood. (JK…sort of)

By the time I realized I wasn’t booking a flight to Africa anytime soon, I was in Portland Oregon. That is where some of my (extended) family lives and graciously offered to house me, temporarily, while I figured my shit out.

While spending two weeks in Portland, I came to terms with the fact that my many lives in Chicago had ended. I’d sold my belongings and stored what I couldn’t part with. My jobs were effectively eliminated regardless of my leaving (Trump in charge = international students don’t want to learn English in the Midwest anymore because can you blame them?) and my beautiful boudoir in that adorable coach house was occupied by someone else. Even my regal cat, Cooper, had to find a new home, since I no longer had one and couldn’t have taken him on such an uncertain journey.

My heart broke. I like Portland, but I don’t belong there. I’d landed there only because I had nowhere else to go. This felt like utter failure.

At first it was somewhat quant living on the lamb. In an attempt to get on my own two feet, I left Portland to do the work/trade thing and spent a month in a tree house, aerating future grapes on a vineyard in middle-of-nowhere Washington.

I listened to audio books and the sounds of infinite creatures at night. Birds swooped in the open window and visited me beneath my mosquito netting. The compost toilet was outside, the “town” was a two-mile walk, and there was slow WIFI two hours a day, five days a week. My ex-boyfriend graciously mailed my pillow from Chicago because I did not grow up camping and my body does not sleep well on wooden boards and crumpled laundry without seriously complaining the next day. Eventually I found a cot, and ways of cushioning my exhausted bones at night, but that month overall toughened me up: I became resolute in my recovery. I may not have been in Zambia, my life may have imploded, and I may have been living in a tree house Thoreau-style, but hell if I was giving up.

For five months, I lived off my retirement. At 38, it was between that and prostitution (which means, it was the only option). After my month on the vineyard, I found another work/trade situation on one of the San Juan Islands, at a “rustic” resort. I arrived during the height of summer, which at this particular hideaway meant ample nudity, drinking, and escapism. Being in mourning, I dove right in. Much too old for such behavior I pretended I wasn’t having a mid-life crisis and took advantage of the legal weed, naked spa, and copious drifters who had also left the mainland behind. It was a blissfully ignorant time of music festivals and communal living (yes, that was sarcasm).

Then the weather turned, and those with concrete life plans left to follow them. I stayed because my plans had fallen through. At least there, I was living rent-free while making (shit) money, and I knew I couldn’t get that anywhere else. Also, for the first September in nine years I wasn’t prepping for classes or having stress dreams about not grading all the papers on time. Maybe I needed a sabbatical? That must be it.

Thus, I found myself living on this rather majestic island, in a 7”x14” cabin, working in the maintenance and house keeping departments of said resort: replacing light bulbs and scrubbing toilets, but also using their spa in my off hours (for free), going on hikes, watching sunsets, and enjoying the daily view of the ocean.

Try not to turn green with envy. I was also talking to my little squirrel friends in the woods and asking my evil stepsisters why I couldn’t attend the ball, but that’s another blog entry. It was rough…I will never not tip a housekeeper again (in a hotel…I’ll never not clean my own home). I will also never underestimate the privileges I enjoy due to where and how I grew up.

Living on a resort where the white upper-middle class nouveau riche hippies take their vacations was quite an education. Those who work at such places are forever on the outskirts of the Seattle elite’s revelry. Hence, my co-workers (generally speaking) were not interested in discussing the “real” world, being activists, thinking critically, or making life plans. It was much easier to get stoned, go to the local watering hole, hang out under the stars, and let the days pass. It’s all too easy, when everyone else nearby is on vacation, to vacate from your own life. For someone like me, this is a dangerous cocktail. Vacillating between depressed resignation and fierce retaliation, I didn’t fit in. Which, I realize, is a Godsend.

Lucky for me, last winter was the wettest, coldest, darkest one the Pacific Northwest has seen in many years. I plugged along, continuing to live on island time with people I probably would never have befriended if I weren’t stuck on an island with them. My retirement money was gone. I had a freelance gig, but that cash hadn’t come in yet. Meanwhile, while ingesting many more pieces of humble pie, our current President was "elected". Like many others, I stood dumbfounded with tears for days and ranted and raved and wept some more. I de-friended family on Facebook and became mouthy online. I didn’t care. The world had clearly gone shit-creek crazy. I had zero fucks left to give. I was a maid living out of a suitcase, and I’d lost everything. I thought this was the bottom.

And yet…there is an olive branch segment to this story. I may have been listening to Lemonade on repeat, daily, while sweeping countless cabin floors, but I’m also a pretty lucky lady. Case in point: although this country is bonkers, my friends do actually give a shit about the state of our states (and me). One of my oldest and dearest pals called me right after the election. I didn’t know it at the time, but she called to save my ass. This is a baller of a woman I went to undergrad with who is now raising two kids while writing her dissertation. As you do. I could not have been happier to hear from her at that moment in time. Our conversation went something like this:

“What the hell are you doing on --- island?”
“I’m a house keeper.”
Silence.
“What do you want to be doing instead?”
“Getting back to the work I’m supposed to be doing. The work I started in Zambia.”
Pause.
“You need to come here, get your PhD, and get your ass back to Africa.”

Hail Mary Mother of Jesus there is a God and her name is Wonder Woman.

To have a plan, after months of feeling like the gutter aint’ so bad, is a beautiful and sacred thing. I like plans. Plans like me. I get them done.

I applied to said PhD program at said east coast University because I wanted to get off that island more than the entire cast of Lost combined. The freelance gig mentioned earlier, that luckily came my way via a primate conference the summer before, turned out to be lucrative enough to allow me to leave the island (eventually) and move on. At this primate conference, I’d also seen that most people doing what I wanted to be doing (or, close to it, as it’s not yet being done) had their PhDs, or were working towards them. I saw the benefit of having a University backing your work. I realized that being part of a larger entity was what I was missing. No one was going to risk investing in someone who had beta-tested her work only once, in a non-native ape habitat, with a degree in Humanities. My nine years of teaching and six weeks at an African primate sanctuary wasn’t enough. My dear old friend was right. I had more work to do, much more. It was time to up my game.

It was suggested that I visit the University in person before the admission decisions were made. This happened to be the same week of the march in D.C. to protest the “elected” President.

It also happened to be the same week my beloved cat passed away, without his Mommy, in Chicago. It was the same week of my birthday. The same week I got bronchitis and food poisoning, simultaneously, and barfed up my birthday cake. But because of my amazing friends in Philly, Virginia, Jersey, and Boston, I got through it. Regardless of my heart breaking and lungs aching, I met the faculty face to face. I sat in offices talking to Professors while choking on my own phlegm (wish I was kidding, but I’m not…it was gross). I dragged myself through snow and freezing rain, with a fever, to impress upon these academics the merit of my work. I was not giving up; I was going to do this, even if I couldn’t breathe through my own mucus. I must have scared them into submission, because on Valentine’s Day, I received the acceptance letter.

Whoever said ‘it’s always darkest before the dawn’ deserves a goddamn Pulitzer.

It was March. I had a plan forward on a viable path. I was finally, eventually, leaving the island of the lost. And yet.

Since the previous spring, I had been saying yes to things I didn’t want to do because my previous plans didn’t pan out. I said yes to working under bosses I did not respect. I said yes to living on an isolated island without a single traffic light because “it was free”. I said yes to earning $12/hour because the gig included housing. I had said yes so many times I wanted to scream no, that my former self was eroding. The woman on my resume was disappearing like a ghost. I wasn’t doing what I was put here, on Earth, to do, and this was eating me alive. People around me could see this. I’ve never had much of a poker face. Turns out, those same (male) people, who also live on that island, are not all good people. Some of them came there to escape something big from their past. Some of them are predators who can smell their prey, and waste no time pursuing it. And when you come into a predator’s pathway, it’s only a matter of time. My defenses were way down. I didn’t see it coming. I never thought I would be on the other side of that statistic. Until I was.

As Roxane Gay writes in her book Bad Feminist (2012), “Writers cannot protect their readers from themselves nor should they be expected to”. Dear reader, I do not know your triggers, but I do know we all have them. Hence, for the sake of opaque transparency, I will share a poem I wrote about last March, and leave the rest to you:

---
I love the men that let me leave
Which is all of them, to be fair…
Although my list contains a copious crew,
Few enter the depths of my lair.

I love the men who snore after sex
As I burrow into the nest upon their chest
A slowing heartbeat and deep exhales
Euphoric buzzing amidst measured gales.

I love the men who love cats
Treat me to breakfast and cups of joe
Then help me pack and ship a box
Melting my chest full of rocks.

I love the men who do not take
What they know is not theirs.
Supine with wine ne’er equals consent
Even if my body doth relent.

I love myself but cannot stay
‘Twas a temple, ‘til he took it away
Once again I depart, but this time --
I journey ahead to reclaim what is mine.
---

That was the bottom. I left the resort, and the island, six weeks later. I reported the incident to ensure that this particular predator will not be seeking his prey there any longer. I lived, and am still living, with the physical repercussions of that trauma. I am not the only one. I have since sat at dinner tables, holding my girlfriends’ hands, looking into their eyes, as they revealed they too understood, and they will always be there to support me. And I am utterly grateful to all the help I received to get me back to Chicago so that I could spend a summer with people and places I love after enduring one hell of a year.

One year later, I am here. En route.

On the path I didn’t know existed until everything else fell apart. As it does. As it has to.

I will be starting a MA/PhD track program in Geography at an excellent University in the fall, while also teaching at said University, and I could not be more excited. Why Geography? Because my work is site specific. It involves discovering whether, and how, ESL instruction could be used as a conservation tool on primate sanctuaries in Africa and Asia. Sanctuaries are contested zones of interspecies conflict. Human primates are vying for that resource rich land to survive. Nonhuman primates require that land to continue living. And yet, many of them are now critically endangered. This is a global problem. This is the result of climate change, but also the culmination of so many other issues that all intersect in these small but sacred spaces. There is so much I don’t know, and I will not tackle this issue again until I’m much better prepared. I require further theoretical knowledge to back up participatory action oriented research. Hence, going back to school.

Since I don’t plan to have children of my own, this work is my baby. This is the next thirty years of my life. This is what happens after you fall off your horse (I mean that figuratively, but also literally, as I did fall off an actual horse this year and holy shit that hurt).

We got this, dear readers. As the one and only Queen Bey says, “Ima keep runnin’ cause a winner don’t quit on themselves”. Onward.

Out of Africa [pictures galore]

What strikes me the most, as I sit wide-awake in my office at 4am (cat on lap, African dirt still caked into the soles of my feet), is the separation between “in” and “out”. At Chimfunshi, one was always outside to some degree. To go to the toilet, I had to walk outside. To fix a meal, I had to walk outside to the kitchen. To type on this (now filthy) computer, I had to wander outdoors to the Education Center. To teach one of my classes, I sat on the hard packed ground under a grass roof in a hut with no walls. The windows in my room were never fully closed. The outside was never not in.

And yet back “home”, I just awoke from jetlag not aware of the outdoors, but rather in a hazy cocoon of my own trappings. My fan was blowing to block the noise of neighbors, who woke me at 2am Saturday night/Sunday morning with their drunken cell phone conversations appropriately convening on their back deck for all to hear. My window shades were drawn tight against the porch lights of those who live feet from this cozy coach house. The outside very purposefully kept out so that I may attempt sleep. Whereas in Zambia, the sounds of the night were my intoxicating lullaby.

I’m lucky enough to have a roof top deck in Chicago. As soon as I realized I was awake for the day, I escaped there to see the moon. Just waning now, it was full and breathtaking at Chimfunshi. The city crickets sang their song in the predawn hours as my cat came to see what I was up to on this particular insomnia jaunt. He sprawled on his back for a belly rub, ready to soak up much needed attention from my two month absence. For him, I’m happy to be back. For me, I’m neither here nor there.

I didn’t say goodbye. I said see you later. Exiting Chimfunshi was hard, but only because it will most likely be many months before I can return and I hate leaving my students for that long without support. Although a stack of materials remain for them to use, independent study is hard without accountability. Those who work there already have their hands more than full, and taking on additional teaching duties is not their job. Yet here I sit, stateside, because there are bills to pay and an unfinished chapter to complete.

The return trip was smooth and sad. Going to the airport felt like I was simply going into town and would return later that night to greet the sanctuary dogs and abundant starlight. Instead, I sat in the Ndola airport feeling displaced. Six weeks was long enough. I learned in Indonesia that your friendships back home don’t change: you do. The city remains the same: you do not. All part of the learning curve that comes with traveling. Those who do probably all experience this. Bottom line beneath the clichés: I was so happy there. The challenge now will be not allowing place to dictate self, even if it already has been significantly altered.

Don’t get me wrong: efficiency can be quite pleasant. Returning to the country via the Washington DC airport, I was taken aback as I encountered automated customs machines. You still had to have a human stamp your passport, but prior to meeting the immigrations officer without having slept, a till scans your documents and asks you questions about your travel activities. I was stunned at how slick the process now was. How well lit and clean the space. Everyone sounded like me and looked like me and this bothered me. I felt like I was on a film set. The process so polished. The people so similar. Commence reverse culture shock.

But then the world is small. The morning after I landed I managed to get myself to my local coffee shop in full zombie form: still wearing the t-shirt from the plane and a greasy head of hair concealed under my cap I found my way down the street breathing and walking but not quite awake. The woman in front of me couldn’t understand the cashier’s accent. They were both from other countries. I jumped in and asked her, “England, or Australia?” She looked at me. “South Africa, actually.” Feeling quite daft but blaming it on jetlag, I told her I’d just passed through there yesterday. She asked why, and I explained where I’d been. “I’ve been to the Copperbelt. I used to work in their mines”. I shit you not.

As I adjust to my former world of convenience and ease, I think about the looks on my students faces when they saw their writing in type written format for the first time. For one of their assignments, I asked them to tell me their future goals and dreams (utilizing certain verbs we’d be learning). Over a few days time, we edited their paragraphs and I typed them onto my computer, printing out copies for each individual to keep. They don’t know how to use a computer themselves, and were fascinated by my nine-year-old fossil of a MacBook. For them, going to the Internet café can be a four-hour journey and cost the same amount of money to feed their family for a day. Thus, when I handed them back their revised words on paper, neatly typed in black ink and Times New Roman font, they stared. I expected them to read their work, of course, but I caught them glancing over and over at them during class with something like awe.

Recalling moments like that fills me with gratitude and I have to thank those that allowed part one of this project to happen. Thank you to the School of the Art Institute for the Faculty Enrichment Grant. I’m honored to be a faculty member at your institution and I have loved working with such talented teachers these last eight years (and will do during the following four months). Thank you to the Pollination Project for your support, both financially and in the public relations/media departments. And finally, a deep thank you to the forty generous souls who donated via my online Gofundme campaign. Without you all, I’d not have been able to write these words or take the photos included in this post. Thank you high speed internet for allowing me to post so many photos in under two hours, and thank you to modern phones for having cameras in them since my little camera is no longer with us.

Before I end: the big question. Will I return? Most certainly yes. The bigger question is when. That depends on forces outside my control. Until then, I’ll return to the wonderful jobs I’m lucky to have here and the home I left behind. On weekends, I’ll be working my tail off to write grants so that I may become a full time teacher at Chimfunshi, if they’ll have me. I fell in love with the place and the people. I feel like I’m stepping into something huge.

Stay tuned, dear readers. I’ll be back.

Rollin’ with the Hommies

Less than two weeks remaining and someone has pushed fast forward. But oh so happy and grateful…beautiful Mother Africa. Full of surprises, daily delights, and a few snags. [Since my camera is missing, I'll include this photo taken on a lazy Sunday morning on the Kufue River...sorry for the lack of visuals but that's the best I can do for now.]

Like getting stranded in a muddy ravine at sunset. A weekend or so ago I went with three other ladies to see the magnificent sun setting (there was room in the car this time). I love living where the sun rise, or set, is an event. Like the movies. Only shorter. Armed with wine and tunes, we were off. We left in a hurry, meeting the others who’d already arrived and got there just in time. Blankets were out, food had been consumed, people were dancing in the plains. Once we’d reveled in the majesty of the kaleidoscopic colors, we headed back to base a few minutes behind the others. Only, with no lights overhead and blackness stretching on all sides, we missed the “road” (a fancy word for tracks in the dry bits of the field), and fell into a shallow part of the river. Fell as in the muffler was blowing mud bubbles as we tried to gun it out. No dice. Three girls in flip flops, only one in boots. We were stuck city. Zero cell reception. Nothingness for miles.

Those of you who know me well know I don’t do fabulously when my blood sugar gets low, when I’m tired, and/or when I’m cold. I was all three of those things. The ladies I was with have been here for months, so they were nonplussed. “We need more wine!” was their response to our predicament. I was panicked. Thankfully, the driver had a CB radio on her and it was actually charged. She radioed for help. When a voice crackled through on the other side asking if we were ok, I could have flopped in the mud with relief. Someone would be coming. Just hang tight. Sure thing. Except I couldn’t feel my toes. The temperature drops about 30 degrees when the sun goes down (it’s technically winter here although it gets into the 80s during the day) and I didn’t wear proper shoes because I thought we’d be home by now. There were extra work boots in the truck. I put them on. Better. I ran around in circles in the mud as the ladies danced to the music blaring from one of their phones. We waited. It was pitch dark aside from the headlights. An hour or so passed. My panic increased. I was surely going to die in the bush. “Embrace it! It’s Africa!” was my consolation. I begged for someone to call back and confirm help was on the way. It was. More waiting. Then a faint white glow appeared on the horizon. Five minutes later: headlights. “Here comes Big Red!” Big who?

“Big Red” is a huge farming tractor with monster truck wheels and a crane. They knew him well. As it approached, I noticed that two of my students were at the wheel. They had lanterns and were wearing overalls. After they got out, a chain was attached to the front of our vehicle, and we were pulled onto dry land. As we whopped and hollered our thanks, we realized the drivers were laughing at the American, Australian, Brazilian, and Spaniard stuck in the bush. As we drove away our relief was short lived. Maybe ten meters later we got stuck again. Thankfully, Big Red was just in front of us. We hitched the chain once more around the front of the vehicle. More laughter. Everything is hilarious in the bush, apparently. Not to make the same mistake twice, one of the drivers told us to wait as he found dry land, on foot. Like a jackrabbit, he skipped all over the plains with his lantern, jumping through dry grass and puddles as if he’d choreographed a dance ahead of time, practiced it for weeks, and was now putting on a show. That’s when we got the giggles. It was actually hilarious to watch him bobbing in and out saying “This is good…come this way…no, wait, that’s not good, hold on…here…no, that’s a puddle…maybe here?” My American anxiety vanished. We were going to live. Pulling us to safety again, this time we found the tracks and rode back to base. Greeted with a bonfire and concern from the others we’d failed to follow hours before, we fired up the grill and ate. I passed out as my blood sugar leveled back to normal, thanking Big Red as I fell asleep in my warm bed.

During the week, I’ve been teaching at the chimpanzee enclosures to provide extra help to those who have quite fluid English ability. Thus, a few days later, I went in for a lesson and met the hero in overalls with the lantern. I thanked him again for ensuring no one froze to death in the plains; he laughed at the memory. Then we worked on grammar and mechanics for an hour. Afterwards, we ate. Nshima and sardines. The guys have been making lunch for our lessons, so we either eat before or after class. Sitting on the hard packed dirt ground in a tent topped with a grass roof, bowls of food in the middle of us, we first wash our hands in a tub of water. “Wash” is a liberal term. The water is cold and there is no soap. However, to them, this is getting sufficiently clean. Who am I to argue? NOTE: since this blog was written soap has been provided at all the ape enclosures for proper hygiene.

With my right hand, I take a ball of nshima (boiled pasty corn meal) and kneed it into a soft roll. With my thumb, I make an indentation like a spoon. With that, I scoop up whatever other dish is there to accompany the staple food. So far it’s been collard greens, cole slaw like “salad”, and this time: tiny salted fried fish (heads and all). They now make me my own plate because my sensitive (spoiled) American hands not used to extreme heat make me wince when I’m grabbing a chunk of nshima. Hence, they scoop the mushy but tasty substance out for me to cool first, in my own bowl, so that I can work with it without burning my palm. So sweet. We eat and talk about life. I’m learning so much about their culture and they’re amazingly open minded about mine. I still pinch myself in those joyful moments when I realize where I am and what I’m doing.

Another such pinchable moment came a few nights after that. I was teaching the men in the school: the nightly lessons I’ve done since arriving at Chimfunshi. We’d just begun when the door opened and a girl walked in. Dressed to the nines. Shy. She sat down at her own table with a notebook and pen in hand. Ecstatic, I asked her her name and to whom she was related. She was the brother of another one of my students, and the son of a driver on grounds. One of my regular advanced students asked her to sit with him, and he explained in Bemba what we were doing so that she could catch up. I was beyond thrilled. Thus far, this class had been comprised of only men. Not my rule. I’m happy to have anyone there who is interested. However, the women are usually busy with children or cooking or housekeeping. This one brave trailblazer is fifteen years old. Childless. And since school is out for their “winter” break, she was probably a bit bored. I could have skipped around the room with joy. This was a big deal, and seeing her embraced by the others was fantastic. She returned again the next night as well. It only takes one to start a revolution.

Part of the reason for my shock at the new female addition to my class came from classes at the Farm. Chimfunshi has a farm full of cattle and food they grow for the chimps and for profit. Families are spread throughout, paddling around on the ground with the chickens, geese, and other birds. My classes at the Farm are filled to the brim. I’ve run out of supplies, so people have to share. Although there is a formal start time, people come and go. This is not a mandatory class and I’m not here for long, so my normally strict policies have mostly lapsed due to cultural necessity. Also, there are zero materials in the room aside from seats, and what I bring, so when I write something out on my tiny white board, I have to write it again on two more white boards as well and pass them around so that the entire group can see. This doesn’t seem to bother them and I so appreciate their patience.

When I started teaching there, girls would enter the room and be literally dragged out by their arm by an older boy. There seemed to be a set cultural norm that girls didn’t go to school here. Trying hard not to be disrespectful of their way of life, I had to bite my tongue and sadly observe this behavior. Eventually, I couldn’t bite hard enough and I very subtly started passing the girls pens and white boards, smiling at them with encouragement. The dragging stopped. They were welcome here and I’d apparently made that clear. As the chickens flew into the open door and the babies crawled on the floor, mothers breast-fed as they wrote and listened. To me, it seemed the entire compound was there and although they chattered in Bemba to themselves for translation purposes, something was getting across.

Due to the lack of materials and the limitations of that space, I had to resort of Bob Marley. I recall songs I learned in seventh grade French class to this day although I have very little grasp of the language itself. Music gets in your brain and stays. With this group, I had a hunch it would do the trick. Another method to my madness is laughter. It unlocks resistance to new stimuli. Alcohol does as well, but that’s not an option. Here is where my theater training comes in very handy. Not only are we learning a Bob Marley song to sing together, but we’re incorporating dance moves as well. In fact, they’re more like interpretative dance moves that mirror the meaning of the words themselves. The first time I showed them what to do they were giggling quietly. Then we got to the “freestyle” section of the song and they were bent over in hysterics. I purposefully danced like a complete fool and they were whistling and hooting all the way across the plains as they started to shake with just as much abandon. Suddenly the windows were black with faces as the children outside pressed themselves to the iron bars. Everyone was smiling. I about died with happiness. It seems to have worked, because on the way out that afternoon, I heard a few of them singing the tune under their breath. This week I’ll add more complex choreography as we try and learn the whole thing from start to finish. I can’t believe this is my job. Luckiest girl I know.

Of course, with every job comes the pain in the ass part. My final story (of this entry) involves this past weekend and how it was spent at the Immigration office. When I arrived at the airport a month ago, I asked the Immigration officer for a tourist visa. Twice. Despite my extreme jetlag I remember requesting this vividly. He scribbled a few words in my passport and dismissed me, barely raising his eyes to my face. I’d been given thirty days even though I asked for two months. At that time I didn’t know that tourist visas are only given at thirty day increments and you can extend them twice, up to ninety days, at which point you have to pay for more permanent allowance. I thought nothing of it and caught my ride. Around the time I knew it would expire, I arranged a trip to town for the extension. That was last Thursday. Of course the man who could help us was not in the office for another two hours and we were told to come back. Changing our plans to oblige, we returned only to be told I was actually on a business visa and that could only be changed at the airport by the Immigration officer that administered the visa. I had to go the next day, as that’s the day my thirty days expired. I was told I could get arrested if this didn’t happen. This meant missing three classes to drive all day for a five second stamp in my passport. Or so I thought.

Friday I caught a ride with the vet and we drove the three plus hours back to the airport, arriving around noon. Again, we were told the person who could help us was not in and to come back later. An hour or more passed. He arrived, and motioned for me to follow him around a corner. Oddly, he wasn’t going to an office, but to the toilet. I wandered outside and two TSA type officers were sitting by the door, looking at me. They asked if I was lost. I said I was told to come out here, at which point they snickered. Nothing about this struck me as funny, and I went back inside. When I saw the man again minutes later, I asked him what was going on. The only person who could change my visa was the man who administered it, he said, and he wasn’t in today. I’d have to go “to town”. When we asked where, exactly, that was, we were told “in town”. This is when I started to get really pissed off. Two wasted hours waiting for someone to tell us to go elsewhere and everyone who told us probably knew there was nothing they could do in the first place. Hilarious indeed. Best pop some popcorn because this just gets better.

Arriving at the official Immigration office after reluctant directions were given, I waited outside cubicles as people chatted and talked on their phones, seemingly not attending to any type of business at all. At least thirty minutes later I was asked what I needed and told to wait a bit longer. When I finally got in front of an officer and explained my situation, I was asked why I didn’t come yesterday and how did I not know my visa was incorrectly issued. I said after twenty-four hours on three planes, I assumed I’d been given the visa I asked for and didn’t know that “BV” meant business visa. Again, the snickering. My case was taken to the big boss, and she told me I needed to provide a type written letter explaining my case and photocopies of my passport. The Internet café was across the street. We found it, only to be told the power had just gone out.

Returning to the big boss, we told her the situation, and she said to wait a bit as it would surely come back on. Power outages are not a rarity in Zambia. They happen often, and at long durations. We asked if a handwritten letter would suffice, and were told they did not accept handwritten letters. They were closed on Saturday, and we could not come back tomorrow as my time was literally running out. Sitting outside on some benches, I fumed. This was too much. Profanities filled my brain as Thalita, the calm and wonderful woman she is, told me to relax. My temper was just about to blow when another officer informed me that they would accept a handwritten letter and to write it now. Done. After it was written, more questions about what I was doing at Chimfunshi, how long it had taken me to save up for the flight, did I like Zambia, why didn’t I take care of this sooner, and if I had copies of my travel documents. Nope. No copies, just my own and the internet cafe with the copier was worthless so they could all just sod off. Internal monologue. Outside I just stayed placid and polite as I was taught a teacher from American should be. A document ordering me out of the country on the day of my flight was drafted and signed. The bloody stamp finally inked. We left. Oh, the joys of inefficiency.

And here I am. Less than two weeks remain. I am legally allowed to stay until I must go. It seems now I’m meant to return. Stay tuned…

A Walk in the Bush

The more that happens, the less time I have to tell you about it. Dear reader, I sit on my front patio with visitors from all over the globe eating dinner outdoors, by candle light, while all the staff/volunteers are off watching the sunset or canoeing without me. People are leaving tomorrow, so the typical final fan-fare is a viewing of the departing sun with wine and music on the now dry flood plains. However, since I am not about to leave (and the car was full) I’ll have to wait until it’s my turn. Car space is coveted here, as vehicles are no match for the Copperbelt. Few rides to town have occurred without a breakdown of some sort. This past Saturday, I went to town to grab a few treats, and on the way back the temporary rental meant to replace the vehicle currently in the shop had major issues and we had to pull over. This is normal in the bush. The dry season breeds red dust and rocky roads riddled with rivets. The wet season apparently breeds impassable terrain.

Two weeks of classes have passed. Week three has begun. The numbers in attendance waxed and waned (from 2 to 14), but I now have a dedicated core group that I look forward to seeing each night. This past Friday, the volunteers from Africa Impact came to assist as conversation partners for my students who are struggling to maintain chitchat with English speakers. I’d set up “conversation stations” around the room with lists of multiple open-ended questions, mini white boards, and back-up questions for them to use should the words fail to come. Before anyone showed up, I was hanging a world map on the wall and playing dance music for my own amusement. Very quickly, I found I was not alone. Kids from the nearby compound came in and started dancing in the middle of the room. During a wiggle break, they went to find me tape and scissors and helped me hang the world. It was incredible. Smiles, giggles, curiosity, clapping and hips swaying, I was too enamored to stop for my camera.

Six students shared five fluent English speakers that night. The volunteers were from America, England, Iceland, and Denmark. My students had been practicing all week at how to introduce themselves while shaking hands, asking questions, and encouraging an authentic exchange as opposed to smiling, pointing, and walking away with embarrassment. They executed their intros like pros. The back-up questions were never touched. They soared. I beamed. It could not have gone better. The fifteen minutes we’d set aside for this exercise turned into thirty and could have gone longer but it was dinnertime and dark. I walked home that night with the corners of my mouth wrapped around my ears. But not before my students made me crumble.

As they were helping me pack up to leave, we talked about my remaining weeks. A new schedule was just approved wherein I will teach four classes instead of one. Victory! This will allow me to reach those who can’t currently attend my adult English literacy class because they live too far away and don’t have transport. A car will be provided to take me to them, starting tomorrow. I’m also offering smaller classes to those with special needs: for example, my men who need to study for their 9th grade equivalency exam. I have men in their 40’s who never went to high school, so passing this test is a big deal. With five kids and a full time job, they still want (and need) to learn. This is very exciting, and they’re thrilled for the additional help. I was telling them what to expect for the next three plus weeks when they asked when I was coming back. They didn’t want me to leave. What will they do without me? How long will I stay when I return? I swear my heart melted and I had to hold my hands against my chest to keep a puddle from pooling at my feet. During our photo session that night, they’d all started chanting my name. This, we did not practice. I knew the need for this type of instruction was there, but actually facilitating it is a different thing. Humbling doesn’t even come close. More like breath taking. Jeepers crow if I didn’t want to hug them all right then and there and not let go.

Things are getting better on the personal front as well. I’m no longer the loner on base. The volunteers have gotten used to me. I think it was the gin and tonics. Or the candles, canoes, Kafue River, and card games. It happened because of the apes, which is the best part. But let me preface this with a disclaimer.

I do not condone the use of apes for human amusement. They are wild, powerful, highly intelligent, potentially dangerous animals that should not be concerned with humans. And yet, Zambia does not have native apes. We’re too far south of the equator. The apes here are all orphans from countries further north: some were privately owned, some witnessed their parents slaughtered for bush meat, all were rescued from other less respectable environs. The apes of Chimfunshi may have miles to roam, but they are captive. They are allowed to breed. They do not adhere to zoo standards. Coming from a very reputable zoo, I have to stop myself when I fume at the contents of their diet or lack of enrichment items. Compared to most sanctuaries in neighboring countries, they’re doing pretty well.

Like all institutions, this one has to make money. Part of their income is a result of “bush-walks” where one keeper, a few chimps, and a handful of visitors walk into the woods together, making physical contact for a memorable tourist experience. These apes are well behaved and mostly well mannered, but everyone is cautioned and told to expect the unexpected. Everyone who goes is taking a huge risk, as chimps are unpredictable animals. That said, these apes know what to expect and appreciate the treats waiting for them in the pockets we’re all required to wear as we walk.

I went on a bush walk a few days ago. I wanted to see what actually happened, and since I am in Africa, I couldn’t go home without this experience. Because two of our volunteers leave tomorrow for their homes (Belgium and Copenhagen), this was their final bush walk and there was room in the car. I was told to pack a lunch and prepare to be gone most of the day. Rubber boots were provided before we left: a full body suit was provided on site. We were allowed one camera that the keeper had to carry, and we had to remove all jewelry. Our pockets we stuffed with bits of bread (this is one of the many moments when I cringed…processed flour is not part of their native diets and I’d never seen an ape eat white bread, but it was too late) for them to forage. Walking through two sets of locked metal doors, we entered their world. They approached nonchalantly. The chimps ranged in age from 5-14. There were males and females. We sat on a fallen tree as they expertly took their treats from our pockets down to the last crumbs. Sitting next to us, on our laps, and turning us over and around with their strong hands, we were literally manhandled for food. It took me a while to get over the surreal feeling of their fingers on my body. This was against everything I’d been taught and my conscious was fully aware that I was breaking countless rules. But the keeper had us covered and pretty soon the alpha female took one of us by the hand and headed into the trees. It was time to walk with the apes.

The next two hours were a combination of bliss and alarm. I had an ape jump on my back for a ride, and then on my front for a ride. I groomed an ape. I watched them climb gracefully high up into the trees above to pick new, tasty leaves. I even used my hands as a cup so that one of them could drink cold water from a pond without getting her face wet. Being there, alongside them, was intense. On alert for anything abnormal or sudden, it was hard to relax into the surrealism of the experience. The most peaceful moment was while grooming. The female who let me dust the dandruff out of her fur closed her eyes and peacefully surrendered while my fingers worked. These moments I will never forget. The keeper told us how relaxed they were with us. Thankfully everyone I was with was intelligent and mature and knew how to handle themselves. I was the oldest of the bunch, but perhaps had the least amount of anthropological knowledge. No one lost a finger. We were very lucky.

Afterwards, we met Sheila, the founder of Chimfunshi. She’s lovely, but quieting down with age. I told her what an honor it was to be here and that I read her book before coming. That pleased her, although she said little as she passed around the guest book for us to sign. Then it was off to canoe in the Kafue River, which the sanctuary boarders. As it was myself and five volunteers, three people in each boat, there was mandatory bonding as we navigated entrance into the river and down it. By that point, we’d survived the bush walk and a level of trust had been established. Observing someone in the direct company of apes is quite telling. How they behave, what they say, what they expect: it speaks volumes. The weather was perfect as birds soared above us and the occasional local waved from the shore. After paddling awhile, we found a place to pull over and eat our picnic. Someone had brought speakers that hooked up to their phone (these darn kids and their gadgets) and we chomped away to music and story telling. Then the deck of cards came out. I was in. They taught me a few games. It was good old-fashioned frolic.

Two nights later was a marathon of cards and alcohol. Lit by candles and the moon, we trash talked our way through victories and loses. The next morning, a bit worse for wear, we all bathed in the sunlight on the patio of the Education Center with our books and hangovers on the cool cement. I can survive this place as long as I have this: a connection with my ape family. The ones who speak English, are learning English, and communicate by gesture in the universal language we all understand.

A Week in and a Mind Blown

“We all want to learn English”. This sentence was spoken by one of the chimp keepers yesterday on my first walk (45 minutes from my door to the enclosure) to visit them at work. I’d gone to inquire about whom else wanted to join my daily English classes, and to see the apes they care for. First thing after breakfast, I ventured out into the bush with three researchers: two women from Germany, one from Spain. It was my first attempt at exercise since arriving and man was it overdue. I stank like a truck driver by the time I returned, but I doubt anyone cared or noticed. Life is rugged here. No vanity, no luxury, no frills. Case in point: everything depends on the sun, which equals power. Today was the first cloudy day I’ve seen since I arrived; thus, we had no electricity until 10:30am, and no Internet (they run on the same circuit). The horrors (says this spoiled American)! Waiting for Internet/power due to overcast skies? Thank god this isn’t the rainy season.

I need to backtrack and talk about what it means to be a teacher here because my first experience in the classroom (just to have a look at the room itself) was quite powerful. About five days ago, I walked into the school before the afternoon classes had begun, to a room full of kids between the ages of 10 and 14. All in the required uniforms, they were staring at me. Really staring. And standing. There I was, speaking to Clifford, one of the Zambian teachers about logistics, and the room went dead silent. All 40+ students were on their feet, at full attention, not moving a muscle. I smiled nervously at them and whispered to Clifford “Why are they doing that?” He told me they were showing respect to their elders (us). I motioned for them to sit down, and they promptly obeyed. I’ve had students bow to me before, but never stand at full attention. I almost saluted them.

Then, at the end of my second night of teaching, I was packing to leave the classroom. One of my students hovered in the doorway. He asked tentatively, “Excuse me, Madame, do you have a torch?” It is pitch black by the time I finish class and without a flashlight, getting home is impossible. A lot of British English is used here, so I knew what he was referring to. I told him yes, I did, and thank you for asking (I bring my headlamp with me everywhere after 6pm). After I was out and he and another student locked up (the school seems to be the only thing people lock around here), we started walking down the dirt path. Maybe a minute into our silent plodding, they stopped and asked me politely, “Excuse me, where are you going?” Home, I replied. “You’re going the wrong way Madame.” Oh. Apparently I was. In the dark with trees all around and strange constellations in the sky, it all looks the same in the murky black. Had they not told me I’d taken a wrong turn, I would have walked clear into the middle of the bush and been bitten by a snake. Bless their hearts for steering a teacher lost in thought onto the right road.

Incidents like this one seem to be common. These men really are the most polite students I’ve ever had. Grownups, some older than me, sitting at desks built for children they gather in a schoolroom nightly under dim lighting and work diligently. Last night I had nine men, the largest number yet. My being at the ape enclosures during the day helped. The more they see me and the more we talk, the more they understand what I’m doing here. Trust has to be built, and that requires time. Yesterday I was asked to help prepare lunch (a milestone), which was fried chicken over an open fire seasoned with onions and tomatoes. I was given the task of cutting the onions and tomatoes with the dullest knife in creation. No cutting board. Just cut into a bowl filled with water and add to the pot. Some of the other men were making nshima (pronounced “en-sheema”), which are balls of corn meal held together by first boiling the meal until it turns into a sticky paste, and then forming the paste together with your hands (photo included in this post). They eat nshima every day as a staple item: like rice in Indonesia. It has zero nutritional value, but it fills you up. The chimps love it. I’ve yet to try it but I’m sure I will.

After I’d walked around, taken photos, and chatted with people, I decided to walk home alone as it was about time I got acquainted with the place when the sun was out. The walk was brilliant. Bright and hot, the breeze and butterflies were my only companions. I saw one vehicle in 45 minutes. I passed by some more chimp enclosures. I was alone and content. I’d made it. I was in Africa teaching English. Holy shitsticks.

This was a huge relief from the day before, when I’d spent the morning with the vet and some volunteers, vaccinating cattle. Chimfunshi has between 500-600 cows and some of my students are farm workers who tend to them. Baby calves and bulls with horns, they roam acres and acres of land. To keep them healthy, they need their shots. The vet is lovely and takes anyone who wants to help with her on her rounds. I went with her needing to get away from base and do something different. Now that I’ve been, I need not return. As soon as I get back to Chicago and can be picky about my food options, I’m going 100% vegetarian.

If anyone reading this is familiar with Temple Grandin’s work (she’s an American professor of animal science and a prolific author. There’s a movie called “Thinking in Pictures” starring Claire Danes about her that you must see), you know that cows are herd animals that respond to very specific stimuli which tells them where to walk and when. They are easily confused and form tight maternal bonds, mooing loudly when separated from their mothers or offspring. In the middle of cow paddies and long grass, the workers got the endless number of cows lined up one by one into a wooden corral. They were prodded single file into a squeeze cage (their heads the only part not restrained), where they were held fast in order to keep them still for the injections. Some needed two; some didn’t need any at all (lucky cows). Each animal has a number on his or her ear, and one of the Africa Impact volunteers was recording the numbers while the vet told her what the cow was to receive.

My job was to be the gatekeeper at the end of the line. After the vet saw to the cow, they stumbled/ran to freedom through the iron gate that I unlocked and opened. Heavy and made of rusty iron, sometimes the cow was strong enough to push past the squeeze cage and I had to close the gate fast to keep them inside so vaccinations could be administered before they escaped. Slamming a door on a cow’s face, with horns strong and sharp as they gallop towards you with fear and panic in their eyes, is not an easy job. I also had a direct view of their faces as they were confined to the cage getting poked: some were frothing at the mouth and thrashing maniacally; most roared (yes, cows can roar) loudly when stuck with the large, hollow needle; some bled at the injection site afterwards; some had tears running down their faces while in traction; others bellowed for their babies who were waiting for them in the open fields (calves didn’t receive shots, thank the gods). Letting them out into pasture was a relief, and soon they were back to quietly chewing on the grass. My time working at Planned Parenthood a decade ago came back to me: a woman on a table frozen in stirrups, by choice, able to articulate her experience. Now here I was, working on a Zambian farm within a sanctuary, watching helpless cows squeezed between bars of steel trying desperately to get out of temporary bondage with rage spewing from their mouths. The things we do as sentient beings to stay healthy.

To conclude: I finally asked about the education system in Zambia. So far, I’ve only taught one male worker who made it through high school even though all of my students are of college age or above. Apparently, according to the head teacher here, secondary school is not free. Many Zambian families have multiple kids plus extended family at home to look after. When all is accounted for, there is hardly any money left for school fees. Those in 8th grade or above must pay for their supplies, uniforms, the cost of building maintenance, etc. If they’re lucky enough to have someone pay for grades 8-12, there’s usually never money left over for the even more expensive college. Graduate school is a dream and most likely out of the question. It’s an issue of finances, which trump education. Reason #1,027 why I’m here now and why we need to hire more English teachers a.s.a.p.

That’s week one. Thanks for reading and enjoy the photos dear readers. [Photo descriptions from top to bottom: our morning walk to the enclosures, momma and baby chimp, piggie backin' primate style, the making of nshima, sanctuary signage, & the vast expanse of one enclosure's corner-- taken on my solitary walk home.]

The Bonfire of my Sanity (with photos)

A full night’s sleep may save the world. It may have been the wine, the late night, or my body’s final submission into this time zone. Regardless, I am truly here and no longer some drooping woman walking around in shock and disarray.

First: let’s establish the basics so you can see what I see. Chimfunshi is quite far from “civilization”. Once you are here, you don’t leave unless it’s necessary due to the road conditions (see previous blog entry). This vast sanctuary runs on solar power, which means when it runs out each night (around 8pm) you rely on your headlamp, the stars, or a bonfire. There are no TVs, no radios, no distractions. The Internet is available, but not reliable or fast. Our hot water is heated by two wood burning stone fireplaces connected to the water pipes. The fires are started around 4pm each day, and if you want a hot shower, you must bathe according to that schedule. This has become tricky for me since I teach a class at 5:30PM (after the workers are done for the day) so I have to get in a quick shower before walking to the school. Hot showers in the morning are out of the question. The toilets are small outhouses, with no doors, and live behind each main house. You walk in to a concrete enclosure, turn a corner, and see a raised concrete seat with a plastic toilet top to sit on. A deep hole lies under you. There is no flusher, just a wooden sign on the window that you flip over, which reads “vacant” or “occupied” when you’re inside. Many people have already forgotten to turn the sign over, so asking before you enter is wise. Laundry is hand washed and line dried, with the line running from the back of each house towards the toilets.

I live in a house that contains only three bedrooms. Mine is the smallest, and it has two twin beds (soft mattresses on metal springs), a dresser, and a night stand. One lone light bulb lives in the ceiling. No one wastes precious electricity here so the bulb only burns when it has to. I sleep under mosquito netting and my bed has two wool blankets on it for the cold nights. It's like sleeping in a hammock as there is no boxspring. This may have contributed to my sleepless hours in the middle of the night.

The temperature fluctuates between extremes daily. You wake up, bundled, and it’s around 50. By mid-day it’s in the 80’s and you're stripping off your layers. By evening, the temps are dropping again and you wished you brought a hat. In the middle of the night if you should wake up to use the toilet, you can see your breath in clouds of mist before you. Because we’re in the middle of the dry season, the air is quite lacking of any moisture. This does no favors for my skin or hair, which is starting to look a bit like the Scarecrow’s and not terribly flattering. No one wears makeup (I find this such a relief). Trash is burned, and ants on your food in the morning are not considered an emergency.

There are two kitchens: one for the volunteers and one for the researchers/staff. However, the one refrigerator we all share is in the big kitchen for the volunteers (because there are generally more of them on grounds at one time). I’ve gotten used to walking between kitchens to grab what I need. Breakfast is over at 8:30 each morning, when the cleaning crews of local women begin their sweeping and mopping and scrubbing. No sleeping in, or you’ll have to wait to use the facilities until they’re done, which is closer to lunchtime. Lunch is usually on an individual basis and you catch what you can. Dinner is a group endeavor when we all meet up, in the dark, to discuss our day. Last night’s dinner event was a game changer, which I’ll get to…

The students: there is a two-room school building down the road and two Zambian teachers handle about 100 kids ranging in age from 4-14. Each classroom is equipped with desks, chairs, and a white board plus a chalkboard. There is ample room to play outside the school, which I often see kids doing. A school bus picks up the kids from distant compounds, and the others who live closer walk. They all wear uniforms.

In the evenings, after a day of working with the chimpanzees and doing other necessary jobs, the local adult employees attend English Literacy classes. That’s where I come in. The (male) chimp keepers, farm workers, and general maintenance employees all need English (and all seem to want it). Their ages range from early 20s on up. The average level of education they’ve received previously is around the 8th grade. What happens after that, and why no one has seemed to have continued school past the age of 14 is still a mystery to me: one I plan to solve soon.

The wives and mothers of these men are a different story. They don’t seem to have received the same level of education and some don’t have first language literacy (meaning, they can only speak Bemba, the local dialect, but cannot write it). This will pose a much greater challenge for me, but I intend to teach them as well. I’ve inquired about having a translator present for those classes, and since they’re free during the daytime, that is when I’ll begin their classes sometime next week.

Last night I taught my first Adult English Literacy class alone with a group of five men: two keepers, two general workers, and one son of two sanctuary employees (ages: 19, 23, 28, 40 & 41). It blew my mind. So eager to learn, we spent an hour discussing the differences between statements and questions in English and how to use a grammatical formula to remember how to construct each type of sentence. Their Zambian teachers were surprised that they seemed not to know this already, but I think having a class conducted 100% in English is throwing them off: in a good way. Since I cannot use Bemba as a crutch, they are forced to focus much harder on my words, and I have to slow my speech down quite a bit. But that’s part of the job. I had them up and about, writing on the board and reading aloud. There are pronunciation hurdles (in Bemba the letter “r” does not exist for example, so it’s very hard for them to say), and gaps in knowledge. We had a great time. They were laughing, thinking, questioning, and fully engaged. At the end of the class when I asked them how often they’d like to meet with me, there was a resounding “Every day Madame!” Holy heck I’ve got my work cut out for me. I compromised with a 6 nights a week schedule as I'll be teaching other classes at other times for other workers, and very quickly be much busier than I am now.

I walked home from that class elated. Yesterday had been a rough one, but teaching always pulls me out of any funk. I encountered my first major culture clash moment earlier when the workers had climbed my roof to remove the bats that were calling it home (and defecating inside my bedroom). We’d asked for them to be relocated. However, that request was lost in translation. I came out of the Education Center (pictured in this post) to see two men on my roof and three women (researchers and staff) on the ground, frantically picking up small dark objects with sticks. The men were flicking the bats from their slumber onto the concrete below: killing most of them. Some died on impact. Others broke a wing and were trying desperately to escape. There were over twenty of these poor creatures littered all over the ground and the sanctuary dogs were having a field day picking them up in their teeth. The panic in the eyes of my fellow colleagues was evident. Since I had not received my rabies shots before departure (too expensive), I stayed away, watching in horror. We tried to tell the workers that we didn’t want the bats dead, just moved. They didn’t understand.

Bats poured from the sky and slammed to their hard fatal demise (Hani: if you’re reading this, I so wished you were there for help). It was awful. Eventually, we rounded up two groups of bat bodies: the ones that were still, and the ones still moving. The dead (or unconscious) bats had to be burned so as not to tempt the dogs. The moving bats we put in a box up high in a tree in case they could eventually fly away on their own. There were a few that were alive, but with little chance of survival covered in blood and clearly in distress. Those we had to kill before we set them on fire. Again, I stayed back, helping to transport the dead bats, but not getting near the ones who could possibly bite me. One of the researchers, a vegetarian from Germany, had the task of bludgeoning the badly injured ones to death as we figured death by burning would be worse than the suffering they were clearly enduring. All three of us shed tears as she pummeled them until they were still. Poor, tiny creatures. They did not deserve this. Bats are intelligent, useful animals and I never wanted to see them end up this way. All because the men brave enough to climb up to my roof to help a girl out from possibly ingesting feces didn’t understand English. Reason #1,876 why I’m here doing this work.

The rest of the afternoon I couldn’t forget about those tiny fractured bodies and how that whole situation could have gone so much differently had we had a translator present. Severe culture shock set in and I flopped onto my bed, unwilling to get up until I had to. This was the angry phase of culture shock when I realized how good I had it in Indonesia: my sleek black motorcycle to ride away from home and/or work at a moment’s notice; the city I was living in and all the amenities it offered; the ability to come and go as I pleased. I was spoiled rotten and had no idea. In fact, I recall being resentful then too. What an idiot. What a spoiled American fool I was.

I mustered enough effort to get myself together for my evening class and do my job. By the end of class, I had forgotten all about my pity party and was propelled by the energy and joy they gave me. Their gratitude was an elixir. I was so lucky to be here and hadn’t I worked hard for this chance? I almost wept with thanks, but instead just grinned up at the twinkly stars. Note to reader: this blogger cries a lot because the alternative is much worse. Deal with it.

I returned to the base with glee and met new visitors who had just arrived, plus the usual humans I see daily. A bonfire was scheduled for that evening, and everyone was grilling meats, veggies, and drinking wine and beer over a huge grilling station. WINE. AND. BEER. I had clearly arrived in heaven. Where did they get this beautiful liquid substance? Generous individuals offered me glasses of red wine and we sat down to a delicious dinner of steak, corn on the cob, and sweet potatoes: all cooked to decadent perfection. The volunteers, new arrivals (tourists), and staff sat around a roaring bonfire, full and happy. Music played while stories were told. Those circled around the blaze were from Australia, America, France, Brazil, Spain, Germany, Portugal, Iceland, Denmark, Norway, South Africa, and Zambia. Languages were spoken (Icelandic RULES) and jokes were cracked. I stayed up late and slept through the night. The whole night.

My last tidbit comes from the Zambian man who I met before the bonfire. He’s not an employee, but a traveler, at Chimfunshi as a tourist. He asked me how I liked my stay so far. I replied the hardest part was getting used to having zero distractions and living without instant gratification. No lightning fast Internet playing videos of Amy Schumer or previews of upcoming attractions or things to dream of buying online. No ordering out from my favorite Thai place. No going to a bar ten minutes away with friends or having to figure out what kind of shoes to wear. He watched me with a smile, paused, and asked: “You don’t need all that stuff anyway though, right? Isn’t it good to be without it?”

When you have bonfires, eager students, wine, and new friends from all over the world: indeed it is.

PHOTO DESCRIPTIONS FROM TOP TO BOTTOM:
-my little house
-the gondola in the center of the "base" where people eat and gather. The "base" = the Education Center, Gift Shop, bathrooms, kitchens, and housing (for staff, volunteers, researchers, etc.)
-a section of the base
-Education Centre sign
-Gift Shop (with solar panels to the left)
-my makeshift "office" located in the Education Center
-one of the toilets
-my bed

Time after time: the journey

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Time is so weird, and I am so jetlagged. A few days ago, I left from Lopez Island, one of the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington state where I was attending my cousin's gorgeous wedding. From there, I took a ferry to a shuttle to the Seattle airport to begin my transition to Zambia. At 10PM I boarded a red-eye from Seattle to JFK in NYC. It's been five years since I've been inside an international terminal, and when I arrived the next morning, I was working on maybe 2 hours of sleep. I forced myself to eat breakfast at the airport diner and waited until I could check in. Thus began my longest flight/travel experience so far.

Eight seats across (I had the window). A movie screen in each seat back. Eye mask, ear plugs, blanket and pillow provided. Oh, how I missed this pampering coming from Spirit and then Frontier Airlines where the water costs money and the tray tables are 5 inches deep (because a full size tray table was out of the budget). South African Airlines was posh. The first half of this 14+ hour flight was spent with the shades drawn against a blazing white sky so us passengers could settle in to the time warp of spending the equivalent of two full nights in a row in a reclined position, eating carbs, dairy and sugar (they ran out of the “chicken” meal option so I got the calorie loaded vegetarian meal) next to a total stranger who also happened to be traveling internationally to do the world some good. As I was marveling at the luxury of it all, I wondered: does one watch a string of bad movies in a row and then cry at the almost good one because she was already sleep deprived? Does she try to sleep, multiple times, and fail despite the doses of melatonin? Perhaps she repeatedly shakes her head for leaving all of her power chords in the bag they made her check before this flight because it’s full of books and why the hell did she pack like someone immune to gravity? Apparently, one does all of those things. And then one realizes about half way through her train of thoughts and free in-flight films that the ring of white light no longer lines the window shades and curiosity strikes.

When I opened the oval curtain to peak, instead of the sun blinding me, I saw a split sky. Since we were heading east, to my right (west) on the horizon sat a lip of blazing sherbet with a thin blanket of prom dress pink atop it, before melting upwards into various shades of navy blue and finally asphalt gray. This extreme and stunning color combination stretched from the middle of my view to the tail of this massive bird. To my left: bright stars filled a completely black sky. We were smack in the middle of night and day. Then the glass got foggy because I may have smashed my face up against it and cried some more. Damn you Jason Bateman and Tina Fey and your stupid Hollywood movie playing in my seat back that didn’t suck enough for me not to blame this flood of tears entirely on jetlag.

These past few weeks many wonderful people have asked if I’m excited about this trip. The answers varied between half hearted “I’m sure I will be” to "Um, yeah, theoretically", or something equally as trite as that well-intentioned question. To be frank, I had my own hurdles to contend with that preceded this new chapter in my career, and now that those were behind me I could appreciate what was outside my window in the middle of that flight. A visual thinker to a fault, having never been to the continent of Africa before, this adventure was a blank canvas in my mind. However, on the plane ride over, that sky cut through the emotional exhaustion and became something tangible. It also could have been the uncomfortable and hot compression socks I was wearing for the first time which must mean I’m a grown up doing something very important. Or it means I grew up listening to Madonna and she’s fierce but needs to stop with the facial enhancements already because she has aged and I apparently have too. Either way, shit was about to get real.

And how. I'm not a good plane-sleeper, so when we touched down in Johannesburg, South Africa, I was silly with fatigue. I still had one more flight, and a long car ride waiting for me. The "J-Burg" airport was fine, aside from the fluorescent lights and dingy ceiling tiles. I found my connection after having to go through security again, and settled in on the floor outside my gate. No electronic devices I had on me worked, and I was too tired to care. Travelers from all over the world gathered around as we loaded onto a bus that took us to our plane. I heard accents from Australia, Europe, South Africa, England, as well as languages I couldn't identify. This is partly why I love my job. These timbers of language thrill me. Mingling together like a cultural tapestry, the world became very small as all of us gathered in this bus heading towards our final destination. A man from Nigeria sat next to me. He introduced himself and asked where I was going. I told him, and he said he'd seen me in NYC, waiting to board for South Africa and I'd looked very busy typing away at my computer. He was headed to give a presentation on renewable energy and told me he'd lived in Baltimore for the last thirty years. Something about his easy demeanor soothed me and although I was so exhausted I could have stretched across that floor and passed out, I was thankful for his friendly conversation. Bless his heart and confident handshake.

The 2.5 hour flight from South Africa to Zambia was quick. One minute I was looking at the plump, adorable baby sitting on the lap of her mother next to me and the next we were touching down in Ndola. So much for not being a plane-sleeper. I literally blacked out.

The terminal in Ndola is tiny. Two rooms: one for customs and the other for baggage claim. I didn't have to fill out a single form, just showed my passport, paid the man, and told him how long I intended to stay and where I was going. That was it. I now have a 30 day VISA I have to renew once in the nearest town, and I was free to go. I didn't care to question why that was so easy. Not unless that question led to a bed near some chimps.

Outside, a man with a sign that read "Courtney Berne Chimfunshi" waited for me. I have never been so grateful to see a stranger in my entire life. After exchanging my US dollars for Zambian kwacha, we jumped in his car and headed out. Pleasantries were exchanged in broken English (on both our parts...at this point I was fairly non-verbal) and he told me his name. It was not the name of the driver I was told would be coming for me. Huh. I asked some more questions to verify he was legit, but the more I asked, the less he wanted to talk. The air conditioning was broken and this guy apparently didn't like music. Perhaps I was about to be driven into the bush and no one would ever hear from me again? Sure, he had my last name and destination on a white sheet of paper, but these days, information like that is not hard to find. As I contemplated my options should we not end up at Chimfunshi in a few hours, I passed out again...the unattractive passing out where your head bobs forward and back on your neck and your mouth opens like a puppet with severed strings. I was woken up repeatedly by the massive caverns in the road. I don't say pot-holes because these were not holes. They were tiny vertical caves the car dipped into and slowly out of for the entire 4 hour drive. Evans, my mysterious driver, was to his credit very good at making sure our tires didn't pop. I don't know how cars here survive on these roads, and I forgot to care as I slipped in and out of consciousness on a potentially life-threatening car ride to my kidnapping.

Evans was not a serial killer. I blame my delusional paranoia on lack of sleep. We arrived at Chimfunshi around 5PM Tuesday evening. That, dear reader, is where I will leave you for now. Stay tuned...so much more to come.