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.

At the corner of Liberty and Elizabeth: The Backstory

Part One: Rewind (in Four Parts).
[SIDEBAR: Grab a beverage. Or three. This entry is a novella. You’ve been warned.]


There are moments when life punches you in the gut with a realization, like a love-punch from a friend you haven’t seen since college. Your reason for living on this planet materializes and bites you, takes hold, the grip of its teeth changing all subsequent choices irrevocably.


And then (more commonly) there are realizations that take years to show their significance. While on a boat in Borneo in March of 2010, I didn’t get what was taking root until perhaps November of 2013…when a less subtle cartoon light bulb lit up directly above my head.


I returned from teaching in Java feeling like I had come home to be a real artist. I went back to the theater (thank you Adam Leskis) and performed in the best show I’ve ever been a part of. Best script, best cast, best black box stage, most affected audiences: it had everything. Including a certain piano player I fell in love with while also playing the saxophone (it was my character’s decision) with whom I shared a very cozy bench for two hours each night.


One evening early in the run of said play, our little show was slated to be reviewed by the Joseph Jefferson Awards Committee (the “Jeff” Awards are the Tony Awards of Chicago theater). However, this committee of experts walked out before intermission. Was it the show’s controversial topic (abortion), the racially diverse cast (I was one of two white girls and flattered to be among a group of uber-talented performers), or was the whole thing just too fringe for their tiny pea brains to wrap themselves around? I’ll never know. But it bothered me. The Holy Judges of what was considered “Art” in Chicago couldn’t even stick around for the end of a show that I could not have been more proud to call myself a part. Shame on them.


It took fifteen previous auditions with other theater companies putting on lesser shows to land this role as the saxophone-playing barmaid in the summer of 2011. By 2012 I was a cast member of Fucking A by Suzan-Lori Parks with Urban Theater Company and loving every minute. The collaborative air, Ms. Parks’ writing, the illicit note passing between the piano player and myself while we were supposed to be frozen in a dark corner of the stage equaled bliss. To say I was insulted when the Theatre Gods deemed our show unsuitable for keeping their flat, white rear ends in their seats is underplaying it. I was disgusted, annoyed, pissed off, but not all that surprised.


You see, dear reader, I’ve never been fully comfortable with the baggage that comes with being an actor, e.g.: type casting. It grosses me out. Subsequently, I’ve always done edgy theater with a socially relevant bent (I was in The Vagina Monologues twice and wrote a show called Choice about my days working at Planned Parenthood during the Bush administration, or as I like to call them: The Dark Ages). The marriage between art and activism is beautifully symbiotic in my mind and I wanted to keep reaching audiences that way. To make a living in theater, however, meant understanding and accepting that hot actors in mainstream shows sell more tickets. The juxtaposition between the established edges of commercial theater and my predilection for pushing the envelope clashed in a way that echoed in my brain and left me with a migraine. I suddenly no longer cared about the pithy predetermined standards of the Theatre Committee Elite. I had turned a corner.


I now know that I can credit an orangutan momma and her adorable infant for the road I currently find myself walking on.


Part Two: For the Love of Kipper.
[SIDEBAR: names have been changed in this section to protect the privacy of institutions and non-human primates.]


The stacks of plays in my office library are now rivaled by shelves filled with bindings that read: In the Shadow of Man, Bonobo Handshake, Walking With the Great Apes, Gorillas in the Mist, Next of Kin, Reflections of Eden, etc. I started reading ape related literature because I wanted to be happy again. I had left the theater and felt listless. My last blog entry four years ago cited the weekend in Borneo as one of the best of my life. I needed to remember why.


“Apes: go where the apes are” a non-schizophrenic voice kept murmuring in my ear. This search for the next fork in the road led me to volunteer at the local zoo and enroll in an anthropology course on primate behavior at a nearby college. Although being a guest relations volunteer wearing a green polo shirt and khakis was pretty sexy (if you wanted to look like you did in fifth grade marching band), I started to resent my time away from the ape house during my seven-hour shift passing out maps to the bathroom. The only choice I had was to boldly apply for a behavioral research intern position in the ape house having just completed my first ever anthropology course (while teaching full time) and not failing it. I was hired, probably on a dare. For the entirety of 2013, I got to know the non-human primates at the zoo while recording their every move two days a week on a hand held palm pilot, for free, all the while continuing to teach English the other three days of the week. It was humbling. And awesome.


Keep in mind; I transitioned rather swiftly from the Meisner technique into data entry and scientists in lab coats who studied the cognitive functioning of gorillas playing computer games. I was a former ARTIST (insert hand flourish and faulty British accent) in a world of humans who worked with animals because they perhaps lacked certain people skills. No more shoulder massages during rehearsal breaks, or gay men telling me I was simply gorgeous, or acting coaches yelling at me in scene study class to just slap/kiss him (my co-actor) if I felt called to during a particularly charged moment with this very good looking co-actor (god I miss that). Nope. Those days were gone.


This was the world of PhDs, research for publication, and nerds. The really really smart kind. Sure, I have an advanced degree (thank you Grandma Berne) but it is in the Humanities. An area of study I still cannot define. In this new pool, I not only did not know how to swim, there was no life guard waiting at the top of the ladder to hand me a towel when I emerged soaking wet and snotty with my suit wedged up my butt and ears full of chlorine. Spoiler alert: I am not a scientist.


But I do love apes. Oh, the love. It is deep and real. Apes are hilarious, beguiling, playful, inquisitive, empathic, surprising, mischievous, gloriously unique individuals with complex personalities. I fell for them hard. For one in particular: Kipper was a wild caught chimpanzee from Africa who used to get dressed up for patrons at the zoo and perform tea party skits with real teacups, pinky finger extended. He was a favorite with the public until he grew to be of a certain age, at which point he was transferred off-exhibit into a private, retirement enclosure with a few other older female chimps.


Since Kipper was used for entertainment before it was politically incorrect (and correctly understood as inappropriately cruel towards animals), he had a particularly unique personality. He required you to greet him when you walked in to work. If you did not say hello, he displayed at you and raised hell as punishment. Although a pane of thick glass separated all apes from humans, Kipper would sit right up against the clear divide and play mirror with his fingertips and yours, tracing patterns together for what seemed like hours. [ASIDE: “Playing” with the apes was frowned upon while working as an intern. Rightfully so, as it encouraged behavior that was unnatural for the apes since they should be unconcerned with us humans while we impartially observed them. However, Kipper was essentially raised by humans, and human contact was what he craved. It just wasn’t in my heart to ignore him].


Sometimes when feeling anxious, Kipper would present his rump for you (pressed against the glass) to pat as assurance that all was right with the world. He always gazed directly into your eyes/soul with understanding, and he understood everything. He loved to play chase and hide-and-seek. He demanded to see your shoes and approved of them, or not, depending on if you’d chosen wisely. Elderly as he was, he was still male. Thus, his anatomy still responded to those he found exciting in a manner according to his body’s instructions. This was unnerving, but he was an ape, and apes walk around naked. He was also wise, handsome, quirky, and fully present. Each day I knew I would see him, my heart swelled. The days he was moody or hiding out of view were just not as fun.


I’d made friends with other apes and even occasionally visited my gibbon boyfriend in the primate house during my lunches, but for me, Kipper was King. The day he passed away peacefully from heart failure in his mid-50s, I had to leave work early because I could not see a foot in front of me due to my constant eye leakage. At home I openly wept, in waves, for the entire evening. Thankfully my actual human boyfriend Jeffrey (the piano player from Fucking A) was there because I’d called him and he knew how much I loved this ape and how shattered I would be. He lay kindly and patiently with me on my bed as my heart broke and I demolished a box of Kleenex.


Kipper taught me that apes have so much to teach us arrogant humans, if only we can stay present enough to learn. My whole life I’ve had a hard time being “in the moment” (says the retired actor). But when I’m with apes, I am nowhere else. And wouldn’t you know: that place is unicorns and rainbows.


Part Three: The Light Bulb.
[SIDEBAR: Names and locations have been changed because it’s the polite thing to do and I could get sued.]


Kipper passed away nine months into my internship and try as I might to chin up and move on, being there without him sucked a little. That said, I was determined to stay at least a year. Working for free was trying, but I was learning so much and had finally decided that the lack of shoulder massages and gay men were not personal.


In November of 2013, a research scientist employed by the zoo came back from Africa. While in Chicago, he graciously gave the interns a power point presentation about his work with apes in the wild. It blew my mind. In my opinion, he clearly had the best job ever and I hung on to every word with avid focus. He then stopped on one particular shot of his research assistants who were all local men smiling in t-shirts and cargo pants amidst the lushest forest I’ve seen since Indonesia. These men were interested in learning English. Hence, they were being sent in pairs to the States for 4-6 months to do so. It was then that I stopped breathing.


Wait. What? Sent to America TO LEARN ENGLIGH!? Cue cartoon light bulb.


English is the international language of science and conservation. It is a necessary tool for all those working to save great apes in their native habitats to advocate on behalf of the preservation of these critically endangered creatures. I am not a scientist, but I am a teacher. Of English. And I am passionate about apes and their survival. I also love to travel. Holy mother of all things ohmygod my hands were sweating.


After that day came to an end, I walked into my boss’s office and told him I had a crazy idea and could he indulge me for a minute or forty? This is why I was here, I exclaimed (insert hand flourish and faulty British accent). This is why the second oldest intern who was really a teacher/former actor was moonlighting next to these intelligent, actually scientifically minded youngsters two days a week without pay. I was here because I was supposed to be at that meeting and hear that presentation and receive that punch in the gut/light bulb flash telling me to get my ass to Africa and teach that English. Because it was needed. And I could fill that need. He nodded. I was dismissed. Plans were underway.


Knowing that my tenure as an intern had come to its conclusion and that apes were also cared for in sanctuaries as well as zoos in the United States, I got another internship at a sanctuary in the southern part of the country where I spent my winter break. This internship caring for chimpanzees and orangutans would not have been possible without my time at the zoo and the gracious people who sent recommendations elsewhere on my behalf. It was also quite evident that I was more suited for sanctuary life. I couldn’t write a scientific research paper (I was aptly told I was more of a “memoirist”) and my heart expresses itself loudly through my face whether I like it or not. That month surrounded by palm trees and pant-hoots (a type of vocalization made by chimpanzees) nourished and propelled me. I was working on a grant to go to Africa to teach English and had found the reason why I had walked this zigzag path all my life. This was a time of major transition and multiple panic attacks.


Part Four: Here I Go Again on my Own, or how Whitesnake was right on.
[SIDEBAR: see previous sidebars.]


“The best laid plans of mice and men go often askew”. This is a rough translation of a line from the poem “To a Mouse” (1785) by Robert Burns, which was then adapted by John Steinbeck for the title of his seminal novel Of Mice and Men, which is shorter than this blog post. This is also a metaphorical teaching moment/snobby literary reference to explain why it took over a year to find the right sanctuary in Africa where I could do my work. Oh, the patience I never had and apparently need as an adult. I hate adulting.


I learned that flexibility and ignorance are not compatible in my search for a place that has hot water, electricity, occasional Wi-Fi, apes, and potential students of English. I knew almost nothing about this new frontier I was pursuing and was thwarted twice before the career fit came. It came by the grace of people who believed in me who listened when I gushed about ape conservation and teaching English and how I was put on this earth to combine the two. Bless those people and the therapy (thank you Lia) it has taken me to join them in their belief.


Exactly one year after my internship at the zoo ended and days before I was to leave for my second Christmas with the apes in Florida (I mean, down south…shit), I went to a party for the ape house to celebrate the exceptional work that they do. I also went to be with my ape loving people and catch up on ape gossip. Having switched gears, I was straddling a new divide with one foot in the known (teaching English in Chicago) and one foot in the very dark unknown (teaching English in the jungle). I was missing the artistic expression inherent in theater and watching my gifted boyfriend write music for shows day after day with a twinge of envy that I wasn’t proud of. On other days I was crying on my therapist’s couch and agonizing over why I’d listened to that schizophrenic voice that’d told me to follow the apes. Jump and the bridge will appear, eh? Jump emphatically if you’re also terrified of heights. Which I am. Well played Berne.


That night while drinking beers with my ape people, I was introduced to a saint dressed as a woman who did her PhD research at a sanctuary in Zambia that was actively looking for an ESL teacher for their employees. Cue the strobe light (bulb). That night she gave me the name of the airport I will be flying into a week from today, and the email address of the Chairman of the Board of said sanctuary who I would Skype with only weeks later. That night I went home and tried to put my heart back into my chest while it danced around with unicorns farting rainbows out the tips of my jazz hands. This goes to show: thou shalt network, network, wait tables so you know how to drink beer, and network.


It was decided that I would go to Chimfunshi Wildlife Orphanage in Zambia to pilot an ESL program on grounds for the local community as soon as possible. I did my research and applied for four grants. So far, I’ve received two. Still waiting on the other half. I am grateful as can be to the many people who made it possible to book those tickets and buy those classroom materials that are making my luggage weigh as much as I do. Indeed it does take a village. I could not have done this alone.

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Which brings me to the present. When I taught in Indonesia five years ago, I did so with ten other experienced teachers also going to the tropical archipelago and the support of the US Dept. of State providing a net beneath my feet. Now, I’m older and wiser, it’s true. I’m also scared as shit because the government is not supporting me and I’m (to my knowledge) the only person who has ever been crazy enough to carve herself into this tiny niche. But as the brilliant Emily Dickinson once wrote, “If your nerve deny you- go above your nerve…” (Yes, I read Wild and saw the movie and have a crush on Cheryl Strayed’s work like I did on Leo DiCaprio in college what of it?).


I guess this is the upshot of having a family that resembles a stained glass window minus the soldering wire. I’m blessed to have friends and mentors that inspire and support me when faced with yet another realization that the stork who dropped me had a sick sense of humor. I’m kinda tough, even if I still look nice enough on the outside for suburban tourists to constantly stop me for directions on the street. Also, that listless feeling that only subsides when I’m in the presence of apes or teaching a fairly smooth lesson has prompted me to accept that I wouldn’t have been satisfied with anything else.


Jane Goodall, Beryl Markham (thank you Aunt Nan), and yes, Cheryl Strayed are pioneers, lionesses, and badass ladies just to name a few. They live lives people make movies about. When I stopped trying to get cast (as an extra) in movies about other people, and stepped into the thing I was born to do, the doors that periodically slammed in my face as an actress opened with ease, whispering, “It’s about time old lass. Welcome.”