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…
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