Friday, July 31, 2009

Last day...

Out of breath and sweating in the waiting area for South Africa Airways at Lusaka International Airport, I thought about how my subconscious defense mechanism against teary-eyed goodbyes is packing and leaving for the airport at the last possible minute. This way – I am so overwhelmingly stressed about missing my flight that I do not realize I am actually leaving.

In the case of departing from Zambia, I decided that I needed to leave for the airport at 11am, which to me meant putting off packing until the morning of. After a couple of glasses of wine with friends the night before, I had a later start than expected the following morning. Then I quickly learned the 9 hand-woven baskets I bought were not going to fit in my carry-on bag and I needed to get something to transport them in. I decided I would run to the market and get one of the plastic carriers that all the Zambians use. Most of them are decorated with Winnie-the-Pooh or Disney characters. However, I did see one with the Zambian flag on a previous visit and was hoping to find that one. Although, the thought of showing up in Boston, with a huge pink bag with Winnie-the-Pooh painted across the front was also appealing.

The usual fan club cheered me on as passed them running to Kamwala. Several stall owners were very willing to help me find the Zambia bag as I reached the market. However, I was down to my last kwachas and refused to pay more than 10 pin ($2) for the bag. Musungu price is always quite a big higher – especially for something that could be considered a souvenir. My helpers were quickly able to find a bag, but would not go lower than 20 pin and claimed no one would. I turned down the offer and was about to go buy Pooh, which was selling for 6 pin, when I decided that I might be able to negotiate better if I tried on my own. I ditched my helpers and took off, weaving through the many aisles of the market. I found the bag and used my hard-earned skills after three months in Zam to negotiate the right price . As I sprinted out of the market, now running quite late, I shouted to the helpers, “I got it for ten pin…hahahaha”. They shook their heads and laughed. I could hear murmurs of ‘what did she say’ and then someone mimicking my response, even down to the accent.

The next hour was a whirlwind of making cds for the staff people at the backpackers, shoving what I could into my backpack and giving away the rest. I may have learned to negotiate in the last three months, but I still had learned African time. My friends were due to pick me up at 11am and of course did not show up until 11:30. How could I have forgotten that you have to tell someone to be there at least a half hour before you need to leave, if you want to leave on time? Then we stopped at the bank and for gas. As we entered the midday traffic, I was in total panic mode. I heard, “Stop chewing your nails off” from the back seat and turned to see my friend sipping on a warm beer, probably left from the night before, and smiling, not a care in the world.

When I arrived at airport, I needed to drop off my camera at the Proflight office. I was giving the camera to my friend in Mfuwe and needed to send it through a flight attendant he knew. The airport was very confusing and I left my bags near the security area, as I could run around in search of the office. I found the office, stuffed the camera in an envelope and then was off again. But by the time I returned to my bags, there were three security guards staring at them. “They are mine….they are mine”, I shouted as I ran towards them. The one guard replied, “Madam you cannot leave your luggage alone”. I smiled and said, “Oh I am sorry, I didn’t know that”, the whole time thinking about the States and the constant code orange warnings that are announced every 15 minutes in the airport.

After making it through security and immigration, I was able to make all the last minute phone calls to say goodbye. I was feeling very proud that I survived without crying. Just as we were boarding, a final text message came through from a coordinator that I spent a week driving from clinic to clinic on the worst roads in Zambia… ‘I will miss you my daughter. Safe journey’. And suddenly, I was no longer so brave.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Gift from MOHZ

They remembered how much I loved the falls!

Colleagues at MOHZ

Going away party

Nayonda...(I'm Going)

The last entry will be written from the plane and posted from the States. I have an affinity for red wine on international flights, so it should be an interesting one...

Thanks for reading,

Musungu

People I will miss...





Sunday, July 26, 2009

Goodbyes

Just a week ago --- I told my mother I was ready to return to the States. But now, with just a few days left in the country, I find it hard to sleep and wake up each morning with racing thoughts. The work is far from done, but is it ever really done? While being faced with a rather impossible ‘to-do’ list contributes to the anxiety – the main culprit is that in three days I will have to say goodbye… Goodbye to friends in Lusaka…goodbye to colleagues at the MOH… goodbye to the many Zambians who have touched my life over the last 11 weeks.

I have been incredibly fortunate to visit 20 rural health centers, staffed by some of the most committed people I have ever had the honor of working alongside. Equally amazing have been the women who have opened up their lives and shared their stories.

I have seen long queues of people waiting for treatment and providers working into the night to ensure all patients are served. I have slept on the floor of health centers, with the hum of villagers singing lulling me to sleep. I have crossed rivers in dugout canoes to reach a clinic and watched the sick transported on oxcarts down long dirt roads. I have seen extreme suffering and pain, only matched with overwhelming courage and strength.

And it is this courage and strength that will remain with me long after I leave Zambia…

Backpackers

With most of my time spent in rural areas, it made little sense to rent a flat in Lusaka. I instead opted to stay at the Chachacha Backpacker. The nice thing with backpacker living is that you can always find a friend to share a beer and a conversation. The bad thing with backpacker living is that those friends always leave you. Getting left is usually worse than leaving.

Of course there were a few other ‘lifers’ like me. There was Tom from Australia, working tirelessly to set up a school in Misisi Compound. But he left me at the beginning of July. There was Reck, who intended to travel throughout Southern Africa for 7 weeks, only to leave Lusaka for Malawi after four weeks gone. And then Lisa who was interning with the UNDP, but she also left to chase Reck to Malawi. And finally there was Doc, who after four months of living in at tent at Cha, took off for the Congo.

So in my last week at Cha, it was suddenly just me. Well not exactly….30 high school girls from London filled the gap. And boy did they fill it…

I was struggling to find conditioner and a razor. Meanwhile, these ladies came equipped with blow dryers, hair-straighteners, and the biggest offense of all…ROLLER SUITCASES. Um…it is called backpacker for a reason. While I tried my best to inculcate them with the beauty of simple living…they had a different idea of beauty. I returned from a run to find the room cleared, but a stack of Cosmo and Glamour magazines on my bed with a post-it…”You should read these”.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Animals are fun...but health promotion is better!

Rural health center waiting area.
Poster on wall of rural health center.
Baby weighing station
Low-cost, innovative wheel chair, with tires for dirt roads.

Guides start out all safaris by asking the clients which animals they are interested in seeing. 'Leopards...lions!', everyone typically shouts in unison.

'Hippos', I cry out when the talk of cats has died down.

One guide, Phillemon, laughed and told me that hippos were the last animal created by God, getting all the leftover parts...'short feet, short tail, big stomach, ugly teeth and wiggling ears'.

Fortunate for me, South Luangwa has the largest population of hippos in the entire world. The cats are pretty cool too....



Monday, July 20, 2009

I just saw a leopard eating a puku in a tree!
The ultimate camouflage....find the leopard.
South Luangwa National Park
View from the bar at the campsite.
Leopard eating puku (sort of antelope) in tree.

Big Love = Big Mistake


A certain degree of sacrifice is necessary when spending three months hopping between rural health centers. Although, I am typing this from my laptop,inside a tent with an attached bathroom… Nonetheless, sacrifices are made.

Take for example when I ran out of conditioner. I lasted about two weeks without, but then decided I was losing far too much hair trying to get a comb through the rats’ nest that was developing. I went to the store in one of the rural towns and decided on “Big Love”. Big Love advertised that is was suitable for all hair types….except apparently mine. Instead of just a rats’ nest, I acquired sticky coating to protect the knots…and this coating attracted all the dust and dirt Zambia could spare. Mmmm.

A couple days after chucking the conditioner in the trash, I lost my razor. I returned to a similar store in search of a ‘stick’, as this is what I was told it was called. No one was aware of this so-called stick, so I demonstrated shaving my legs. My charades routine failed…not a big surprise since leg-shaving is probably not a priority in such rural towns. I then acted out shaving my face…which they understood, but they looked at me strangely for wanting to shave my face. The store owner gave me a blade and it was my turn to be confused. What was I going to do with just a blade? He noticed my confusion and said I would have to learn to shave like an African. He then came over to me and tried to demonstrate how to use it on my face. I thanked him – and then tried to once again explain it was for my legs….I couldn’t bear to leave the store with everyone thinking I shaved my face. But then again, they would probably think it was even stranger that I would take the time to shave hair off my legs…

WWJD


Prologue

This entry could have easily been called TIA (This is Africa) Part II, but WWJD seemed more appropriate. While as you will see, God does make his way into this story, the ‘J’ in this WWJD stands for Jon (not Jesus). Perhaps because my first real travel experience (and many to follow) was with Jon or because we manage to have crazy adventures without ever stepping onto foreign soil or because he is my most loyal blog fan (sorry, Mom), he often comes to mind when I get myself in precarious situations. I wonder, ‘what would Jon do?’ Sometimes I take the path less traveled, as Jon always does…and other times I say, “oh, hell no” and stick with the tarmac. On Friday, I found myself thinking WWJD on more than one occasion, and consequently ended up back on the road with the man size potholes.

WWJD?

After the last epic trip to Mfuwe, I vowed never to return…at least on public transport. But one weekend in the smog of Lusaka made me anxious to find an alternative, especially with only two weekends left in the country. Since Petauke, the most recent and last site visit, was just four hours from Mfuwe, I decided to give it a second chance.

Finishing up my site visit in the morning, the first two hours of the journey were simple, as I hopped a bus to Chipata. However, the only option to get to Mfuwe from Chipata was on the back of a lorrie, filled to the rim with potatoes, beer and mattresses. WWJD? That one was easy…he would take a lift with the cargo.

Turns out I was not the only person with this plan. After an elongated period of packing (and actually the worst packing job I have ever seen, including a piece of rebar jutting out from the back, with the smallest piece of scrap plastic indicating it was there), twenty people appeared out of nowhere and started clambering to the top. It was the shit show of all shit shows. I ran to the truck, threw my remaining backpack to the top and someone how squeezed into the last remaining spot on the vehicle. Fortunate for me, this was on top of a mattress and not a sack of potatoes.

We didn’t even make it out of town before we were flagged by the police. All of the passengers were kicked to the side of the road and the vehicle was impounded for carrying passengers on a cargo truck and overloading (see video). On the side of the road, the other passengers and I debated what was to happen. Would the drivers pay the fine and come back for us? Would the vehicle be released? As nightfall crept closer, I decided action was necessary. WWJD? I conspired with two other local men I had been chatting with and we grabbed a hitch back into town and to the police station. We were informed the vehicle would not be released until morning and we should find a place to spend the night. With only two nights in Mfuwe, sleeping in Chipata was not an option--- I had to leave that night. The driver said that he did not have money to refund us until the morning and my new friends seemed to think the situation was helpless. However, still committed to reaching Mfuwe, I threatened to go in and tell the police and made it just a few feet away from the station door, when suddenly the money appeared. ‘But only money for the madam…’ So I had to once again put on the mean face and demand my new friends get refunded as well.

With our money and packs, we took off for the road, hoping to find a hitch. Unfortunately, it was already dark and no one seemed interested in picking up three strangers at this hour. A taxi driver did pull over and offered to take us to Mfuwe for 350,000 kwacha. Not an entirely bad deal since the 130 km dirt road drive was horrible, but the price was a little steep for the group and my budget would not allow me to make up the difference. However, we decided that if we could shove a few more passengers in the car, we would be set.

At this point the rest of the passengers were following our lead and making their way back to the police station. Two were willing to join our mission, but again we were faced with the task of refunds. The first man left his wife behind to collect the money in the morning (typical). However, the additional woman could not afford the taxi without her refund and she really needed the taxi ride because she had to be at work at 7am in Mfuwe the following morning.

Again my co-conspirators were ready to give up. WWJD? I quickly changed from enraged musungu to charming volunteer and made my way to a police officer. I asked to use the bathroom and as the officer escorted me, he asked how I was doing. At this point, I retold the story, tugging at the heartstrings. He fell for the bait and took on my case. Unfortunately, the driver wasn’t lying this time and really had no money until the morning (his boss had take the stash and ran). To everyone’s surprise, the policeman pulled out 40,000 kwacha to personally refund the woman, so she could get in the taxi with us. He said he would deal with getting the money from the driver in the morning. The entire group looked at me in shock...apparently policemen are typically as corrupt as the drivers and this was completely unheard of. We didn’t waste another moment and ran out the station, hugging and high-fiving, as we piled into the taxi.

The taxi driver drove like a maniac, and the music was blaring, but I didn’t care…we were going make it to Mfuwe! Two of the men only need transport to a village about halfway to Mfuwe. Three of us were left in the taxi. We only made it another 20 km, when the taxi driver began fighting with the two in the backseat. At first, I had no idea what was being said, but quickly deciphered that he was demanding more money. I looked at my cellphone…no service. I looked out the window…pitch black. Shit. WWJD?

I started out with reasoning. He wouldn’t reason. I resorted to yelling. He wouldn’t budge. (Side note: I have never yelled so loud and I even shook my fists). Then I tried to play on guilt…bringing his mother into the conversation. Finally, in a very dramatic finale I said, “In your mother’s eyes, in God’s eyes and in MY EYES…you are thief, a cheat, and a HORRIBLE person.” Then I got out of the car, took a picture of his license plate and said I was walking to Mfuwe, at which point I would report him to the police. The other two passengers looked at me in disbelief. I slung my bag over my shoulder, not knowing what I was really going to do…a huge lump growing in my throat. Within minutes the taxi was trailing me and the driver was pleading for me to get back in. We paid the original price and we sped off…the music once again blaring as we continued to Mfuwe. Ten minutes later, the taxi man had the audacity to ask if he could be my friend. After laughing uncontrollably for a few minutes (I was still calming myself down from the earlier episode), I took the opportunity to explain to him how friends treat each other. As it turned out he didn’t have a lot of friends (at least trustworthy ones) and was orphaned at a young age (which explained why the mother strategy was not effective). By the time we reached Mfuwe an hour later…I probably was the closest thing he had to a friend. And there is no doubt in my mind that Jon would have been too…

Epilogue

My friend, a safari guide in Mfuwe, not at all entertained by my stories, refused to let me take public transportation back to Lusaka on Sunday. He somehow organized a ‘resident rate’ ticket on the one plane leaving Sunday afternoon. And since I did not have to show ANY form of identification at the Mfuwe International Airport, no one seemed to know any better.

Although I love public transportation adventures, I was ecstatic to spend more time with the wildlife and take a one hour flight at the end of the day, instead of a 13 hour multi-leg bus ride.





Monday, July 13, 2009

Musungu Sings

I somehow tend to end up in karaoke bars in foreign countries…and Zambia did not let down. Saturday night a crew of us went to one of the 'nicer' spots in town for drinks and to my surprise - karaoke. The restaurant looked as if I clown was in charge of the decorating, and the accompanying music was just a synthesizer playing the famous tunes we would eventually sing. Nonetheless, it was an incredible night. The group desperately wanted me to sing ‘Born in the USA’, but I refused. Another option was a duet. My friend Alex and I find it far too entertaining to refer to each other as musungu (white) and mufita (black), so we thought it would also be very fitting if we sang Ebony and Ivory, but neither of us actually knew the song, so it was a failed attempt. I debated 'Sexual Healing', but finally settled on ‘I Will Survive’, followed by ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’, which the crowd really liked. (Becky – I did my best to impersonate you impersonating Cher).

Missus Compound

Having spent a year working in Guguletu (Gugus), a township outside of Cape Town, I was very interested to visit one of the compounds in Lusaka. While the compounds are not a result of the blatant separation of people based on race, as in South Africa, they are definitely a symbol of the deeply entrenched poverty in Zambia (also very much related to race). And are a staggering contrast to the rest of the neighborhoods in Lusaka.

With only a few weeks left in the country, I finally convinced a friend, Awiya, to take me into a compound. Most people are not keen on bringing musungus into these settlements, but when he realized I was going with our without him, he decided it was best to accompany me.

Misisi (pronounced missus) Compound is the oldest in Lusaka and used to be a place where the British folk resided during colonial times. One older white woman continued to live there, even after the rest of her kinfolk flocked back home or to different neighborhoods. Everyone referred to her as ‘Missus’… and the name stuck. Oh the legacy of colonial times…(David) Livingstone, Zambia….Victoria Falls…and now Missus Compound.

There is one long, dusty road that stretches through the entire compound. We followed the road from start to finish….which is enormous. I was overwhelmed. I had seen plenty of poverty and desperation in the rural villages, but this was so different and I can’t even pinpoint exactly why. So many people come back from visits to poor areas throughout Africa, saying “they are poor, but they are so happy”. This irritates me a bit, as I feel that it is a way to shake off responsibility to take action…but I can also see their point at times…especially in many places I have visited in the last two months. I didn’t see much happiness here…I just saw children playing in piles of disgusting trash, women engaged in exhausting manual labor, and men drinking shake-shake – the local brew. Community water pumps and toilets were sporadically placed and after an hour of walking, I only saw one school. I asked if children go to town for school and my friend said it was too expensive – most children in the compounds don’t go to school beyond the primary years.

Awiya asked if we had areas like this in the US and I tried to explain the so-called projects and other disenfranchised communities. I also explained the welfare system and our government’s attempts to mitigate the problems. He mentioned that the Zambian government didn’t care about the people in the compounds… ‘And they know that no one cares about them’, he said. ‘Why do you think there are so many churches…the only hope that people have is that God cares about them’. It was true, we had passed by a church on every block….which was usually directly across the street from a shebeen (bar). I thought about if I was living in the compounds….would I have faith in God or faith in the shake-shake to save me? I bought a carton of the shake-shake on the way out.

I don't think you're pretty....

As I walked to the market on Saturday with Alan, he explained to me how he had finally saved enough money to put a tombstone on his father’s grave, and was going to do so that afternoon. It had been a year since his father died and several years since his mother passed. At age 32 he was an orphan. He talked about how he was in college when his father died, but had to drop out to take on the responsibilities of raising his younger siblings. His story, though very sad, was not unique.

A woman approached as we neared the tracks, the part of town where the poverty becomes much more visible. She stopped Alan and began talking to him in Nyanja. He sincerely listened to her story and then retrieved 5,000 kwacha ($1) from his pocket and gave the money to the woman, no questions asked. Now Alan works as a cleaner at the lodge where I stay – which means he has a job, which is better than many Zambians, but he is by no means making a lot of money. And whatever money he does make is used to support many people, as he had just explained to me.

As we continued walking, I asked him if he was worried that he was being scammed. Two months in Zambia (and five years in San Francisco), I was growing cynical. He told me the woman’s story and said there was no reason not to believe her. (I can think of a few, I thought to myself). I then asked him how he distinguishes if the truth is being told in other situations…I had yet to master this art and was constantly leery of being manipulated. He replied that it was not up to him to question the integrity of others. But is up to him to help those in need…the burden of being more fortunate. (Fortunate? An orphan who had to drop out of school to raise his brothers and sisters….I thought).

We parted ways and I continued thinking about his unwavering trust and faith in the good in people. I also thought about the countless people that I said, “Sorry”, before I even heard their full story. I then thought about the man who threw the sandwich back in my face because he wanted money for alcohol and was not really hungry, as he claimed. Or the homeless woman who said, “I don’t think you’re pretty….no I don’t think you’re pretty at all” as I passed by her begging in Dolores Park. I decided that while Alan was an incredible person – I would continue to help with discretion, but perhaps ease up a bit on the cynicism.

I bless the rains down in Africa...

Not even a week had passed since my first visit to Livingstone (Victoria Falls) and I was itching to get back. I had also heard that the Falls were open for viewing during the full moon each month – a fact not mentioned in any of the guide books. Locals mentioned that Victoria Falls was the only place in the world where one can see a lunar rainbow. Determined to not miss the opportunity and also doubting such a moon rainbow could possibly exist, I hopped on the six hour bus to Livingstone, barely touching ground in Lusaka since the last trip to the bush.

The weekend was amazing – rafting down the Zambezi during the day, jogging through the town at dusk and dancing at the disco till dawn. I needed to catch an 8:30pm bus back to Lusaka on the night of the official full moon. Fortunately, the park was open for the couple of days before and after the full moon. After a huge seafood meal with friends, we all smashed into a Land Rover and headed to the falls. We arrived about 10:15pm and had 45 minutes until closing. The sky was full of clouds, but the falls were still illuminated by the moon and the sound of the crashing water was even more intense than during the day. We walked the narrow path in the dark…there were absolutely no lights guiding the path or even another person in the park. As 11pm crept closer, I realized that the clouds had ruined my one chance at seeing the lunar rainbow. But I was so amazed by the sight of the falls at night that I didn’t even feel disappointed…

That is until the next day, in which I spent the majority debating whether or not I should attempt to go back to the park one last time before my bus left for Lusaka. The sun set just after 6:30, so this would give me over an hour in the park before I would have to rush back to town to catch the bus. About midday, I decided it was too stressful to chase the rainbow again….at about 4pm, I decided I had to at least try. I convinced Maya to return with me and we set out at 6pm, to ensure we were the first ones through the gate. I again walked the entire path, in search of the elusive rainbow. The wind had picked up, which meant we were absolutely soaking wet from the mist in less than five minutes. Other rainbow seekers stayed at the viewing point closest to the gate to avoid getting wet, but we marched on. Actually – marching is probably the wrong term, since we tripped every other step given the darkness combined with an extremely slick pathway. Safety precautions and railings are nonexistent and with each step, we were one step away from going over the edge…literally. The moon continued to rise as we made our way to the end of the path, but there was no sign of a rainbow. I entered the final viewing point, looking down to make sure I didn’t lose my footing. As I lifted my head and looked out to the bridge from Zambia to Zimbabwe, there it was… “RAINBOW”, I screamed, shocking Maya, who was still struggling with her footing.

I will never forget that first moment I spotted the rainbow...but it only became more pronounced as we made our way back to the gate. By the time we arrived at the bridge in the path, there was a full rainbow stretching from Zambia to Zimbabwe. The bridge is an incredible viewpoint, but also the wettest portion of the walk. Therefore, I would normally run across as fast as I could, head tucked down to keep the mist of my face. But this night was different. I stood in the middle of the bridge, the entire falls stretching before me, the lunar rainbow overhead and sang Toto’s ‘Africa’ at the top of my lungs with the mist streaming down my face. Now raise your hand if you you think I am one ridiculous musungu (my hand is raised).



Sunday, July 5, 2009

It's just a ball...

I have been in Zambian long enough now that I am starting to revisit the villages. I was quite excited to return to Mukubwe. I visited this site before I became overwhelmed with the challenges at the clinics… the days when I had time to give into-to-English lessons with the roomful of children and followed by hours of chase. A group of the older boys had asked if I could bring them a soccer ball (what they were using barely was deflated and torn to pieces) when I returned. I nearly forgot the promise and had to scramble around town looking for a ball to buy the night before I set off for the visit.

After several hours of retraining the staff (for a third time) on the protocols, I made my way across the field from the clinic to the school, the usual frustration and anxiety taking over my thoughts. Immediately children appeared out of the elephant grass and ran towards me. I knew they recognized me, as all children run away from musungus, not towards upon first meeting. With each hug, my earlier frustrations became less and less urgent and the anxiety dissipated.

I found the headmaster to give him the ball, as I didn’t want to make a scene. I remembered the days in Guguletu in which visitors would bring gifts to the after-school care program and without fail, there was never enough and I would have to deal with the disappointed children. The headmaster was very pleased with the gesture and insisted we deliver the ball to the field, where a game was already in session. Thus, the scene that I was avoiding became magnified. A train of children followed behind me to the field, as if I was playing a magical flute. The soccer game stopped as I approached and the ball was spotted in the headmaster’s hands. The coaches left the sidelines to shake my hand, and the ball was closely examined, passed, kicked and bounced, as grins spread from face to face. Then the inevitable… everyone sang a song for me. The clinic officer said on the way back, ‘you have made everyone very happy today – they will celebrate’.However, I only felt like a giant ass…. the great musungu saves the day with a $10 soccer ball. I wish I would have just left the ball on the school steps with note… I wish I had brought more…I wish I could do more.

I went to bed that night still thinking about all the events of the day, particularly all the challenges at the clinic, and woke in the morning in need of a clinic. It is hard to pinpoint who is to blame. As I look through the pictures from that day, every child had a runny nose and one coach even picked his nose before extending it to shake my hand (yup a folk, that is right— I still shook his hand). Nonetheless, my throat was raw, my nose was running and every bone in my body ached. No time to nurse a cold though. With each pothole on the rural road, my body screamed back at me. We traveled from 7:30am until 12:30am that day, only reaching two clinics. As I stared out the window, feeling bad for myself, I thought of the many women I have described with pregnancy-related complications, in far greater pain than me, who had to make life-saving journeys on these roads and only in a vehicle if they were lucky. Suddenly, my discomfort was not so important.





Saturday, July 4, 2009

How does an angry woman get to other side of the river?

As I have articulated over and over again in my posts, fidelity is very hard to come by in Zambia. The part that I struggle most with is how women accept it as a fact of life. But not all women…

The village that I visited on Thursday can only be reached by a pontoon boat, crossing a river full of crocodiles. I was told a village man kept a wife on one side of the river and a girlfriend on the other side, where he went to fish. The wife caught wind of the girlfriend and set off with her sisters early in the morning to take the pontoon across the river and confront her husband. However, that same day, the husband and his girlfriend were on the other side of the river, hoping to catch the pontoon and sell the fish in the village. In a panicked state, the man jumped in a canoe and tried to quickly paddle around the pontoon to escape his angry wife. But his paddling was no match for the wife, who plunged into the water and swam (or some version of swimming that was apparently more effective than it looks) to the canoe. After throwing all of the fish back into the water, I was told she began to beat him, while everyone watched in shock from the pontoon. I would have asked for her autograph.