The Holidays

It’s been a while, I know. But silence by no means signifies inactivity or loss of inspiration. In fact, it often means rather the opposite for me. It’s the holiday season, which obviously means some level of commotion. And my life has recently been full in new and different ways. However, as I round a few significant corners in my time here I have been surprised by the decreasing sense of novelty and increasing sense of overwhelming stagnancy. Even with a lot of travelling, I have experienced a steady shift from ideal, to real, or an attempt to find the evolving reality in which I live. But I do feel as though I am understanding things more deeply (or understanding that I don't understand), even though I know I’m still relatively new here.

What has provided me a semi-transformation in the last month is the strengthening push-pull feeling that comes to exist in most service workers’ hearts, between optimism and pessimism. Moment to moment the tides in my being change, and my degree of frustration fluctuates. In some ways there are just too many anecdotal tales to tell, and too many emotions to articulate, so it snatches up my energy and motivation. But I know quite well that it is also a therapeutic release to emanate even a fractional piece of the landscape I see, and to share with all of you.

So by back-tracking only a bit, I’ll give you a taste of the holidays in Zambia, trying to give only an appetizer size portion of the feast-like smorgasbord of experiences I have to choose from.

The Holidays:

I run over to the car window among the sea of women vendors. And as it slides down, it reveals questioning eyes scanning the crowd in pursuit of fresh fruit. Focusing in on the bundles of bananas, oranges, and apples, the older white woman catches my gaze accidentally and stares with hesitance. Her face contorted, she looks struck by my presence; strange sight as it were. And listening to my practiced oration with confusion, she watches me carefully as I lift my bushel into her view and ask “Bananas? 5 pin”. A proposal meaning 5,000 kwacha – approximately 1 dollar – for 15 or so. Fated only to look awkwardly into the land rover full of ex-pats giggling, I try not to be too embarrassed by the bemused silence. But she smiles sweetly easing the tension, and we laugh together at the irony of it all. A white woman literally shoving her way into the life of most Zambians. It somehow encapsulates my presence here for the last 5 months. How strange I must look participating in the verve and mere existence of people here. And how easily I forget how odd it all is sometimes.

But it wasn’t necessarily routine vending for me. It was yet another unexpected wrinkle in the plans. What else was there to do but join the women selling by the side of the road? Jocelyn and I decided to pull up a rock and squat next to the others when we found out we’d be stranded. And we remained there for the next 6 hours, re-learning the art of patience, a skill well known in Africa...the woman didn’t buy my bananas but maybe next time.

Who knew how long it would be until the car part arrived just a few kilometers north, much less, when it would be installed and the vehicle would be ready to come pick us up. We were dropped off by the mini-bus that morning in hopes that our friend Mweemba would arrive there to escort us for the last half of the journey to Lake Kariba. After school was out, I was fervently anticipating this vacation from school (since the month of December is my break, and I'll be teaching again starting in January). But things usually aren’t that easy…I should have known.

Renalda, my friend visiting from Latvia, had joined Mweemba and Chris in Lusaka, and they travelled together in a rented vehicle to meet with Jocelyn and I. Rentals + Zambia = disaster. I couldn’t have been more excited to see Renalda, considering we hadn’t been together since concurrently studying in Lithuania 3 years ago. But wait more we did. So close, yet so far, we sat at different spots on the side of the road, she and Chris baking in the sun just kilometers away.

Eventually the car part came though and we were off, arriving at sundown in beautiful Siavonga. The hills and colorful purple sunset were reminiscent of my ex-home in Santa Barbara, and I was told they signified our arrival to the largest man-made lake in the world. We spent a long weekend cooking fresh fish, boating, swimming and conversing with the local children, visiting the sights like the Kariba dam (which contributes the majority of the power in the country), and walking over to Zimbabwe. Yup, we felt like rebels standing behind the “Welcome” sign, but our legitimacy was unfortunately squelched since our passports weren’t stamped.

All in all though, it was a relaxing and rejuvenating time. I could take showers, eat what I wanted, and generally experience a freedom I don’t have with the isolation and intensity of the village. It was great, but it couldn’t all be silky smooth…that would falsely represent life here. Of course, we didn’t make it more than a hop and a skip out of town before another breakdown occurred on our way back. At least the army men stationed nearby filled our bellies with kapenta, and we easily hailed a truck before the sun set. It just added to the fun and adventure, but the element of illness was another factor that slightly marred and complicated our trip.

Renalda had taken an anti-malarial before arriving in Zambia, unaware of the pharmaceutical company’s plans to take it off the market because of the terrible side-effects. I’m sure now she’d be more than willing to give her testimony of hallucinations and anxiety attacks in support of that move, but it was too late to avoid the frightening experience. She was in and out of hospitals and clinics 5 times in 4 weeks, and battled food poisoning and ironically, malaria as well. She was a trooper through it all, but we were still disappointed at being forced to sit still longer than hoped, giving up some planned adventures. It did allow us an opportunity to catch up, to vent, and to question the meaning and purpose of it all…the simple topic of life, that is. We spent a lot of time resting, while trying not to pull our hair out in frustration (even though we ended up chopping much of Renalda’s off), but we still were able to visit the falls, get spoiled by the Smith family in Choma, and make a short, but much anticipated guest appearance in Nakeempa. We managed to do a lot, even when beaten down by the bug.

And somehow I too acquired parasites, but malaria came just in time for my parents to nurse me back to health :). It truly wasn’t as severe or debilitating as I had expected. However, I basically convinced myself that I wouldn’t let it get me down. How could I be stuck in bed when there was limited and crucial time to be spent with Mom and Dad? Nope, I wouldn’t have it. In fact I’d rather throw myself off a bridge…and I did! I’m saving the real thrill of bungee jumping for when Matthew comes to visit, but I stepped off the same platform to experience the “bridge swing”. The 110 foot drop sent me soaring between the cliffs of Zambia and Zimbabwe, and I felt like I could nearly touch the kayakers maneuvering the rapids below. I flew for minutes in solitude and I think it healed me :) Even though my parents weren’t as thrilled as I was, they still managed to enjoy watching the ant size version of me waving at them from deep down the gorge, but don’t worry we had other pleasant moments as well.

We hiked around the Vic Falls area, but also took a day trip into Botswana where crocodiles sat swallowing their fish, and a female lion roamed in search of the right time to snag herds of impalas grazing by the water. Where zebras and giraffes forage the wilderness, and hippos just feet away, nearly tipped our boat. And since most Zambians I know have never seen a game park, and don’t really know what a safari is, I felt spoiled, and fortunate. It’s an expected part of African travel for us, but it really is a touristy adventure that most nationals are never exposed to.

Soon enough though, I removed my parents from tourist travel, and we drove our diesel into the bush. 2 nights and 3 days were more than enough time for them to experience life in the village. They met the other Ashley, the baby to which they were titled and perceived as grandparents. And from headmen and individuals, were given live chickens, slaughtered turkeys, eggs, and many mazuku fruit....these huge gifts were humbly accepted, because food is usually all there is to give. And they reciprocated by bringing many of their own gifts (M&Ms, and ball caps were such a hit). They also shared their words, and each was asked to speak at church...people were surprised that my Mom had caught onto the Tonga word for thank you (twalumba), and that they had and mastered the handshake with nearly a thousand opportunities to practice in the line-up afterwards. Bucket bathes, and cooking; exploring the fields. They even lived out the hierarchy expected of men and women, my dad getting treated like roayalty. But “This is kind of fun, it’s like camping” from the first day, became “I don’t know how you do this” by the last. The realities of my daily life became apparent in new ways, and I also realized how important it was for me to have someone there with me to know it through experience, and to be a sounding board for the joys and frustrations I rarely (if ever) get to share with anyone. I am ever grateful that they were here to be with me in that way and I know they will continue to be critical companions as I stride and stagger through each day.

I knew it would be sad to have them go, especially on Christmas day, but my wish was granted when we walked into the airport to see the bright orange letters announcing the cancellation of their flight. Just icing on the cake which gave me yet another opportunity to lecture them about the necessity of lowering all expectations. Parental role reversal is a funny thing. But hey, it gave us time to celebrate the season together over pizza in the rain…perfectly peculiar, but wonderfully weird. After hours of negotiation, they got on the flight the following day, and I’m still waiting to hear if they’ve actually touched down half a world away.

In some ways it feels like I simply skipped out on the whole of Christmas, its symbolic activities, and its real meaning. However, in others, I feel filled and fulfilled because so many of you are here with me in spirit, and have put so much prayerful time and effort into staying connected. I have realized through your healing and strengthening presence with me that the true joys during Christmas and throughout life don’t come through the number of presents under the tree, but rather through the generous giving of grace and love. Thank you for providing me with that, and I hope that each of you continues to have a peaceful holiday season, and a new year filled with joy. Merry (belated) Christmas!