The Great Coke Zero Shortage of 2012

I have my guilty pleasures in life.  I'll own it.

One of them is Coke Zero.

I know it is not good for me.  I know there is no nutritional value whatsoever.  I know it's bad for my teeth, and we get delicious and clean water delivered.  I know all this.

But I love my Coke Zero irrationally and without any sign of abating.  There are some things that aren't worth fighting.

Oh Coke Zero!  You make the worst days seem not so bad...

There is a problem now, though.  We used to be able to order Coke Zero anywhere.  At Nando's, at Galitos, at the various local restaurants (such delicious Indian food - who knew I would find such wonderful curried delicacies in Africa?).  I could get it at the supermarket and at the small stores - bottle or can, Coke Zero was everywhere. 

It was a beautiful time. 

All good things come to an end, however, and my dalliance with Coke Zero was no exception.  We've been able to find it in glass bottles in a few places, and sometimes the cans are available at one grocery store or another.  But lately the pickings have been sparse and far between.   It has been a bit of a let-down to indulge in a Peri Peri wrap at Nando's and wash it down with water.

Spoiled, I know.  But it was the experience of the whole thing, and that experience included Coke Zero. 

It makes me a little nervous.  I know there is no Coke Zero shortage in the United States - actually, I usually go with Coke Zero Cherry there, which I refer to as Coke All the Things! - and I'm fairly sure Coke is not in any imminent danger.  But then, I didn't see the death of Hostess coming, so my business sense might be off-kilter.  I'm not sure when I'll recover from that one.  I would have stockpiled if I had known it was coming.

Which leads me to the African shopping (for food) experience.  

I currently have 8 packets of Butter Chicken sauce in my pantry, six packets of mushroom sauce, several gallon sized bags of Splenda packets, and nine different types of noodles (just a sampling).  In the United States we call people with these sorts of numbers hoarders and humiliate them on national TV before sending them to treatment programs.  Here, it is a necessary survival mechanism.

For instance, last week the husband and I were at the store getting the necessary items for dinner when I spotted the packets of mushroom sauce.  

Me:  WHEN DID THEY GET THESE?  HOW MANY ARE THERE?Husband:  SixMe:  Take them all!  Quickly!  Before someone else sees we are interested in them!

The husband quickly grabbed the packets just as another woman was swooping down upon us, sharp eyes spotting the sauce from the other end of the aisle.  I was familiar with her glare - I've given that look many a time myself when someone else has snagged the last bottle of teriyaki from under my nose.  It's the look of a practiced Third World shopper - someone who knows that, unlike a US Safeway, that may be the only cornstarch that ships in for six months.  You have to act now and act fast if you plan on making any pie.

It took me one week of living here to go full-shopping-commando.  One week.  

This means that trips to the grocery store are never for one item.  You never buy only milk or yogurt - excuse me, yoghurt.  And anyone who runs in and out of the store without perusing every aisle is crazy.  You might miss the pretzel sticks!  

Don't get me wrong - there is plenty of food here.  A person is not going to starve - there is always some sort of fruit and/or vegetable, always meat, always mayo, always mealie meal, always flour, etc.  It's the specialty items that cycle in and out, seemingly on whim.  And the prices of some of the things we take for granted in the US - like Crisco and Spaghettios - are astronomical.  

Did I mention tuna?  Dolphin safe tuna in cans that aren't expired can get pricey as well.  One of the local stores had a special on tuna that saw me battling it out with another lady for the last four cans.  The Hunger Games had nothing on the scene that unfolded in Game that day.   

You develop an entirely different attitude living here when it comes to shopping and food preparation, even children's clothing!  And I can't say that it's affected us in a bad way.  

One thing I appreciate about my children, about the people we meet living here who are originally from the US and Europe, is that there is a sense of absolute appreciation for how easy things are back home. It took coming to live here for my kids to understand you can't always solve things with a trip to the grocery store.  

Unfortunately, it also means that every trip back to the US involves about four hours staring at the many varieties of salsa in Target.  

Whatever.  Six months ago I would have thought that hunting for Coke Zero and buying ten packages of Bolognese sauce would be the end of the world.  Now I see finding and bringing home the last six packages as a form of victory.  It's the new version of completing a successful hunt.  I launch myself out of our car and dash into the house, purchases held high and bearing the scars of battle, shouting, "TONIGHT WE WILL HAVE LINGUINI ALFREDO!" And the children greet me like a conquering hero.  

Sketchy Roads, Sleeping Technicians, and an Ode to Twinkies

It's kind of hard to update a blog when your internet is not working.  And this, in the last three weeks, is the predicament we found ourselves in.

One of the biggest problems here is customer service - as in, there is none.  So when we notified our internet provider (which I won't name directly, but happens to rhyme with the phrase "Shmem-Tee-Mem") that our internet was cutting out and making it not only impossible to download anything but nearly impossible to even check or reply to email, they said they'd fix it right away.

Three weeks later, it was still broken.

It seems to be mostly fixed now, although the internet is still "flickering", as I call it.  But the icing on the cake was when the technician came to our house to reinstall the equipment they claimed was faulty and fell asleep in my husband's chair at his desk.

I just wasn't sure how to respond to that, other than to wake him up and tell him it wasn't acceptable.  And that was how a five minute job turned into a 45 minute job.  Well, three weeks and forty-five minutes.

I've also turned into quite the daredevil driver lately.  There's really no way to remain timid here and get wherever you need to go.  You must force your way into lanes, hold out your hand and hope someone slows down as you dart into the oncoming traffic.

They don't always slow down, in which case it becomes a game of Chicken - who will blink first.  In order to win this game of chicken, you must have a larger car, a pointing finger that you shake at someone, and a stern expression.  In addition, you must choose your opponents very carefully - it would never do to try and dart in front of someone important; they will run you over, get of their car, pull you out, and proceed to teach you the lessons your mother should have beaten into your head before you hit adulthood.  It's just not polite to challenge someone more important.

I should also mention that there are traffic lights here - most of them just don't work.  And apparently it is acceptable to run a red light if no one is coming.  At least, I see it several times a day.

In addition to low speed Chicken (you will never get above forty miles an hour here, and that's hauling serious ass), you have to figure your way around and be willing to drive in some sketchy places if you run into an accident.  It could take hours to clear, and you don't want to be stuck on Alick Nkhata Road for hours.

A traffic accident is how we ended up on this road one day.

As you can see, there is enough room for our truck and about three inches on either side.  Had another car decided to turn down this road (which wasn't a one way), we would have been in quite a pickle.  Had someone decided to walk down this road, we would have had to do some quick thinking.  

Luckily neither of those things happened, and one very helpful local offered to run to the end of the street and wave off any possible oncoming traffic for us, for which we tipped him several pin.  He waved quite exuberantly when we turned and drove off.  

Another fun game we like to play is Identify the T-Shirt.  Usually this consists of seeing college t-shirts or sweatshirts and matching them up to whichever friend we have that attended that college back home.  So far we've matched Auburn, A&M, George Mason, Michigan, Nebraska, and Notre Dame.  We've seen several colleges we haven't matched as well, Dartmouth being the top of the list and including (but not lastly) University of Maryland University College.  

But the best shirt we've seen so far (other than the guy wearing the Little Mermaid shirt) was the one from a dental clinic in Webster, Texas.  

Why is this so awesome, you ask?  Because we've been there.  And it makes me giggle to encounter Webster, Texas in Africa. 

I'll close with this thought - Twinkies.  

When I'm here, there are things I miss about the US that leave me daydreaming about a return visit, and Twinkies are pretty high on that list.  It comes down to a dead-draw between Twinkies and Zingers, and the winner fluctuates.  

So with the news that Hostess has gone under and my next trip back to the US won't involve the guilty pleasure of hiding away in my hotel room with a plate of nachos, a box of Twinkies, and trashy reality TV (I may have a problem that requires some sort of 12 Step program), I'm wondering if it is even worth it to take time for that visit.  Out of a sense of sanity self-preservation, I learned to make Twinkies from scratch here, and they are good.  Very good.  Actually, I think the filling I use is light years better.

And it is good for my waistline to have to make Twinkies anytime I want to eat Twinkies.  There are no midnight sneaks down to the pantry while everyone is asleep and when calories don't count (or so I tell myself).  

But still.  It is the end of an era, indeed.  And the generic Swiss Roll version of Ho Hos just doesn't float my boat.

In Which We Go to the Bank and the Rains Fall

Every month when we pay our housekeeper, her preference is for us to deposit her pay directly into her bank account rather than handing over a stack of money for her to carry home via minibus.  She's just not comfortable hauling around that much cash on her person, and doesn't want to be a tempting target for thieves.

I get that.

So I must include among my daily adult activities (1) VISIT TO THE BANK.

Visiting the bank in Africa is nothing like stopping in at the bank in the US.  Absolutely nothing.  I used to complain at lines at Bank of America - but I was always in and out within twenty minutes.  Oh how quick-paced our lives seem now!  After five minutes I'd be tapping my feet.  Within ten I'd be asking the people sitting behind desks in various portions of the bank (and whose jobs are never immediately obvious) if there was anyone who could help the tellers out, because SOME OF US have places to go.  Things to do.  Panera French Onion Soup in a breadbowl to eat.

Oh Panera, how I miss you.  

Anyway, there's no Panera here.  So I can scratch that off my list.  And with the loss of Panera visits, it is assumed I don't need to get in and out of the bank within twenty minutes, either.  What else could I possibly have to do?

The answer is nothing.  Because I know what the situation is and made the bank the only thing on my afternoon list.

My housekeeper has her account at Standard Chartered Bank, a South African institution that has been described as "simply the best." It has also been accused of laundering money for Iran.    None of this is really that important to me, however.  I just want to find a place that reliably has couscous and tahini in stock and enough time to get there before the store closes.

As I have said, what is important to me at this moment is time.  And Standard Chartered has a pledge to its customers about that:

FAIL

We walked into the bank just after lunch and balked when we saw the line of people stretched all the way across the room.  The line appeared deceptively shorter than it was in reality, because several people - sick of waiting - had told the person behind them that they were not leaving the line but merely sitting down until their turns came up.

There were two tellers working and four people walking around behind the desks.  Eventually, after we had been in line forty minutes, another teller opened up.  

It would be frustrating except that such a situation is pretty much par for the course here.  

And also, there's no French Onion soup - so what do I really have to look forward to anyway?  

I would have like to find out about that whole donation to charity thing - like, how do I know they're giving a dollar for making me stand in line for an hour?  What about the nine people ahead of me and the six behind me?  Not a mention was made to us of the purported donations our time in line supposedly earned.  

But today was not a total loss!  For one, we had a braai.  Those always make me very happy.  And our housekeeper made us two days worth of nshima, which meant my kids were healthily full rather than cranky and snacking on chips... errrr, crisps.  She really does love it when they run in and shriek, "Nshima!  YAY!"

And today as we were leaving to pick the kids up from school the skies opened up and vomited forth water with some impressive fireworks to boot.  I texted a local friend of mine, "Is this how the rainy season starts?"  

She replied, "Oh girl, it is on now!"  

So I think that humidity frizzed hair season is now here to stay.  

More Compound Shopping

I have returned safely from my trip to the States, and despite the lack of fettucine alfredo with blackened shrimp here (that was four or five meals while I was gone, and I loved each and every one), I was glad to get back.

My days back in Africa have been quite interesting, to say the least.  There was the cold I came down with from 24 hours of recirculated air in flight time (not counting the layovers).  Sinus infections are lovely, aren't they?  Then there was the crazy man who rushed our car the day after I returned.  I've taken to driving with my dog in the back, and as soon as she started her, "I'm crazier than my 35 pound body looks!" routine, Mr. Crazy backed right away.

This particular gentleman is well known around two local intersections, and mine is not the first car he has rushed.  And when I say crazy, I mean that he is genuinely mentally ill.  Very sad, but also potentially quite scary.

Today I went to buy more furniture at my favorite furniture store - Supa Furniture.

I had a picture from the internet of what I wanted, and I knew I wanted it in mukwa.  After about forty-five minutes of much gesticulation and discussion in Nyanja, a price was quoted to me.

My eyebrows shot up, and a general laugh was had by the seven people crowded into the small cement block room used as an office/storeroom/hangout.  Incidentally, I think there were two people there who were actually involved in the furniture process - everyone else was just kind of...  there.  And everyone there was a part of the discussion, too, which makes for a rather raucous negotiation.

I was able to talk the proprietor down a little, but he waxed on quit eloquently about the price of the wood and the cost of labor.  Finally I said, "I know you're quoting me the Mzungu price, and that's okay.  But I don't want to pay THAT MUCH Mzungu price."

Once again the room erupted in laughter, and the price was brought down further to something I was quite happy to pay.

And they promised delivery.

All-in-all, a productive way to spend an hour.  And no crazy people rushing my car, either.

And finally - I missed nshima.  This is the national food here, everyone eats it.  A lot of Zambians will say they just don't feel full if they haven't had nshima.

Our housekeeper started making nshima several afternoons a week for my very physically active children, and it's been a minor food miracle.  She's an excellent cook, as far as this goes, and there are rarely leftovers.  The kids never complain about being hungry before dinner, and it's so much healthier than the snacks they usually reach for, while also being far more filling than an apple or some fruit.  I mean, celery with peanut butter is great (if you can find celery), but kids who are very physically active need more oomph in their diet.  Nshima works great for that.

I'm going to have to learn how to make it before we go back home!

And They Call the Thing Rodeo

There hasn't been a ton of Africa blogging lately because, well, I haven't been in Africa.  I'm going back, of course.  But right now I'm in the US taking care of some business.

Also, attending a Mexican rodeo*.

I grew up in Central and Southern California, so to me things like tortillas and tamales are as American as apple pie.  In fact, tortillas are the number one thing I miss in Africa.  I have to make Texas tortillas (myself instead of asking the lady who sells tamales door to door to bring some with her next time), which are kind of puffy and more like na'an bread.  But I miss the silky smoothness of a real tortilla made with shortening.   Not to mention enchiladas, which I can't make with Texas tortillas.

I did find shortening in the Melissa market, but it cost the equivalent of US $20.  The shock and horror of seeing Crisco more expensive than a gallon of gas nearly caused a cardiac arrest - which is the height of irony when you think about it.  I mean, yes, shortening is supposed to cause heart issues.  But not that way.    

Anyway, being raised in any Latino-heavy area makes you very comfortable with the culture.  It's not just a food thing, either.  I long ago stopped having to translate in my head when someone speaks to me in Spanglish.  When you hear George Lopez's routine about a generation of white kids raised with brown hearts, he was talking about me and my siblings.

 I have so missed the Latino culture.  I miss the food, for sure.  I miss the music - the awesome velvet jackets (in 80 degree heat) with extensive embroidery and the upbeat always perk me up.  I miss the parties, too.  Wow - those get loud.  And fun.  And loud.

We got to the rodeo as the cowboys were being introduced, and I immediately knew I had come home.   The bull riders filed into the ring and a slew of rapid Spanish came through the speakers, with hatted and chapped cowboys stepping forward to applause at the end of each phrase.  My favorite is always when the bilingual announcer fires off the introduction in Spanish and then switches to a perfect California-American accent for the name, "Colby Jones!"  or whatever it happens to be.  

To further add to my delight, the announced proved to be one of those fully engaged speakers who used his hands in huge gestures and would go from baritone to falsetto in his storytelling as voices were required.  

A quick glance around and we saw a sign warning of the dangers of being a cowboy.  You could sustain serious injury and even loss of life, this sign informed everyone (but only in English).  There were quite a few injuries on display attesting to the truth the sign was expounding.

In fact, we also saw a bull rider get stomped on when he was thrown from his bull, so the danger is never far away. 

We hadn't originally planned to attend a rodeo - in fact, we were at a Barnes and Noble getting travel books for Spain and France when the call came about the rodeo being held that day.  Without time to go home and change, I ended up attending the dusty, poopy, muddy event at an outdoor venue dressed in a black skirt, polka dot top, and polka dot Kate Spade bag.  

Had it been any other rodeo, I would have missed it rather than show up in anything but my jeans and boots with a huge belt buckle.  

But this was a Mexican rodeo*, and let me tell you, I fit right in.   In fact, compared to some of the ladies (not the ones in the booty shorts), I was completely underdressed.

Have I mentioned the clowns?  Always a highlight.  Especially when the pain-in-the-ass bull wanted to be petted after the event.  The clown obliged.  Of course.  

Being a rodeo clown is a dangerous job.  They're good at making us laugh while they distract the bulls from the thrown riders, but every so often when you see one getting chased you are reminded that there is a reason that they pay exponentially higher insurance rates than the rest of us.

 Did I mention the guy who had hay bale twine instead of a belt?  I didn't catch a picture.  But it took me back.  Totally took me back.

I haven't seen or heard anything about rodeos in Africa, although I've seen polo events, marathons, and other sporting competitions.  I do have to wonder how a thing such as bull riding would go over.  I couldn't figure out if it would be greeted with a head-shaking but somewhat fascinated, "Crazy Americans!" or something more akin to, "What the hell is wrong with these people?"

With something approaching regularity, we come across people at the mall while we are in Africa who have never ridden an escalator and regard it almost as something that is just waiting to bite off feet and hands (and far be it for me to deny this, as a person who barely escaped with half a shoelace on a JC Penney escalator once as a teenager).  It is the reaction of those people to rodeo I'd most like to see.

I'm sure it is with the same amusement that they watch me try to drive on the left (wrong) side of the road.  After all, that is the *correct* way to drive.  Right?  Or with the amusement of one born into a culture of bargaining watching the American Mzungu get fleeced by the guy who carves the mini Noah's Arks.

* This was the term used, by Latinos no less.  And I'm not about to argue with however they've chosen to designate their own sporting event.

In Which I Have Had Enough

I can deal with a lot of unpleasant things; lack of cheese, lack of Splenda, mosquitos that carry the plague.  I can even deal with snakes.

The biggest crocodile I've ever seen at Kalimba Reptile Park.

I hate reptiles in general.  But I can deal with them.

But there is one place where I draw a line in the sand and make my stand:  regional coding on DVDs.

Maybe they aren't interested in hearing it, but movie studios - you are jerks.  Total jerks.  I am American, and have lived most of my life in one place or another in the US.  Thus I have built up quite a DVD collection.  I *own* these movies.

And yet, I find myself unable to watch them now.  Because of your stupid coding.

Even more unfathomable, you have coded South Africa differently from the rest of the continent.  Just WHERE do you think movies ship here from?  I realize that the ROW (rest of world) probably ranks somewhere around the price of broccoli in winter on your importance list, but since I live here it's pretty darn important to me.

The most stupid idea ever.  Other than The Smurfs movie.

Movie studios, you are deliberately trying to cheat me out of my Harry Potter collection, and keep me from watching the season of Fringe that my husband picked up while he was back home.  I am most certainly *NOT* going to pay the ridiculous mark-up for DVDs I already own so that they are region-coded for here.

In fact, I'll venture to say that your execs who have to travel frequently probably get special unlocked DVDs to watch wherever they happen to be.

Well, I spent good money on your, often substandard  (The Smurfs?  REALLY?  Even my 9-year-old couldn't sit through that!), product, and I expect to be able to use it.

And unless you can get with the 21st Century program and understand that there is a very good chance that the people buying your product don't spend their entire lives in a 50 mile radius of where they were born, I am going to put on my black eyepatch and cheer for the pirates to win.

Okay, I've already broken out the pompoms.

Not that I would break the law myself, mind you.  And I believe that people should be paid fairly for what they produce.  But your actions make the pirates seem rather... Robin Hood, don't they?  Let me answer that for you, since you seem too shortsighted to do so on your own:  YES, they seem like Robin Hood.

And for every frustrated moment where I can't watch something I paid money I worked hard to earn, I wish upon you tears of frustration and anger.  I wish upon you Montezuma's Revenge and all those wonderful gastrointestinal delights that go along with visiting Africa.  I wish upon you warts and painful bloating.  I wish you fleas and roaches and bedbugs in your personal bedroom.  

Also, I hope you discover that you are lactose intolerant while taking a week long gourmet vacation to a cheese maker and winery after ingesting two pounds of goat cheese with chives.

Does that sound harsh?  Too bad.  Let justice be done though the heavens fall!

And Sic Semper Tyrannis.   Assholes.

On the Road, Which is Sometimes Off the Road

We have one of these:

 We were told, "You can't simply use this as a town car!" by a horrified Zambian.

The thing is like driving a bus, no joke.  It's enormous, and quite often larger than the actual street lanes.  The turn radius is ridiculous, which leads to a fairly frequent comedy of errors that looks like that scene from the Austin Powers movie where he's got to back up a little, turn forward a little, back up a little, turn forward a little, ad infinitum.

Of course, problems aside, these are all over the place here.  I think they are probably second in population to Toyota Corollas (I have seen corollas bottomed out and stuck on the unregulated speed bumps here.  It's funny because it isn't my car).  So as ridiculous as I feel driving this, I'm usually on the road with several others at the same time.

Other issues that have arisen with my husband's vehicle choice (I requested a Hilux, just to make that clear) include shifting difficulty on par with the old tractor I used to drive while at my grandfather's farm.  Did I mention that my husband bought a manual transmission?  Right.  He did.

Normally this would not be an issue at all.  Thanks to aforementioned grandfather and my own father's dislike of automatic vehicles for most of my years of existence, I'm quite adept at a manual.

ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE ROAD.  Which means with me driving in the left hand side of the car, which feels like the right side of the car to me, unlike the right side of the car which feels wrong.

Nevertheless, I have figured it out and today was my baptism by fire - the run to school all by myself.  Well, myself and the kids.  So it wasn't really by myself, but it was by myself because there wasn't another certified driver present.  Ahem.

We left about five minutes early, as I wanted to leave time for accidental stall outs when mistaking fourth for second (which happens embarrassingly often to me when turning a corner).  Luckily, although the traffic here is ridiculous, it is also slow.  If you get out of third gear, you're asking for trouble.  The propensity of the Airtel and MTN cell-minutes sellers to jump in front of cars with complete disregard for their own safety can not be underestimated!  Navigating the pedestrians is more fraught with risk than worrying about other cars, really.

This picture was taken while we were moving.  A moving vehicle does not stop pedestrians. 

In any case, I made it down the road toward the school without much incident and dropped the kids off.  They were fifteen minutes early, but I shooed them out of the car with admonitions to study their flashcards (another aside - no index cards available here, so I have to cut my own.  As a dedicated believer in all things flashcard, I consider it a small price to pay to drill the kids in French and chemistry terms) and set off on my merry way, feeling quite proud and accomplished that it had all gone so well.

I should have paid more attention in CCD growing up, because I forgot my Proverbs and my pride and haughtiness was just begging for destruction (note to catechismal scribes - can we have that made into a responsorial for mass?  I know it's not from Psalms, but I need frequent reminders).

About halfway back home I encountered the bane of my developing world driving experience... the minibus.  I love watching these guys when I'm not on the road - they are very colorful, as is the teeming horde of humanity crammed within.  But when I am driving, the ridiculous risks they take as a matter of course incite a bubbling cauldron of rage within me.

Waiting for victims

And so it was this morning when a minibus came barreling down the road in the wrong lane, at the the ridiculous equivalent speed of about 30 miles per hour.  THIRTY miles per hour?  PSHAW!  That is unheard of here!  Just yesterday I thought I was hauling butt down Independence Ave at a whopping 40 KPH - in US terms, about 25 MPH.

It felt like I was flying, no joke.

After a few crucial seconds where my mind played this trick on me, "Is he on the wrong side of the road or am I?", I realized I was about to die and steered the truck toward the shoulder of the road.  Which, of course, was teeming with people walking to work.

Those that walk in Africa are well acquainted with such problems, and for the most part they effortlessly moved themselves aside and out of the way.  One poor man was a little too close, and he resorted to diving, a la Tom Daley.

After removing himself from the area of concern, he jumped up, straightened his trousers, and joined me in shaking a fist and shouting at the retreating minibus driver.   That is the accepted behavior here, by the way.  I haven't noticed road rage like what I encounter (okay, what I perpetuate) driving in Los Angeles, but it is encouraged that you inform people when they are acting like idiots and endangering others.  If it is truly an accident or something a person can't figure out (like when I mistake fourth and second), people are very understanding and calm about it.  And this is the ONE place I've ever been where you just can't travel too slow - no one bats an eye at slow vehicles, even if they go around them when they have the chance.

But people here will not stint to tell you, in a very parental way, when you are screwing up.  I have to say it is one of the most culturally endearing characteristics of living here.  Anyone older than I am is parental toward me and grandparently toward my children.  Anyone younger assumes I am going to boss them around.

And if you know someone, they are your family and are entitled to such familial privileges as telling you off when necessary.  This privilege is also reversed, and I can point out idiocy as well.

Anyway, the diving Zambian and I shared a moment of synchronous rage and then went our separate ways; I being thrilled that he understood I was not the problem in this instance.

I made it the rest of the way home easily (knock on wood for the future), and will repeat the whole thing (hopefully minus the idiot minibus driver) this afternoon when I pick the kids up and stop at the store to see if they have garlic in today, as yesterday they were out.

I Don't Want To Know!

I grew up on an island, and I truly thought I was ready for the adjustment that drives so many who come to Africa downright bonkers.  I mean, on an island the pace of life is slow, things are very laid back.  Things get done at a more leisurely pace.

I thought I could handle it.  I thought so wrong.  And since my boxing equipment has not yet been delivered (it was supposed to be here a month ago and will not be here for another 5 weeks - but probably even longer), I have nothing to hit to make myself feel better.

Let's use another example - say, for instance, our internet installation.  It was supposed to be done one day, but they couldn't get to it that day so it was scheduled for the next day at 9 am.  At around 3:30 the installers showed up.  They could not finish that same day, so they were to come back the next day at 9 am.  I think 9 am is code for 3:30 pm, because that's about when they got here again.  Yet again they could not finish, and yet again they were to get here at 9 am.  They actually got here at noon the next day.  But it was time for lunch.

You see where I'm going here, right?  Maddening.  I am learning to adjust to this different sort of thinking in regards to time.  I just think of everything as a surprise.  The water delivery guy is here before 2 pm on an 8 am appointment?  What a wonderful surprise!  Oh happy day!  

But I do have internet now, so I can post again, and I can post pictures!  I had been burning through my 3G data plan on my iPad like crystal meth in a trailer park, so it's nice to be able to post without worrying about that.

I spoke to our doctor friend again last night.  It's always such a mixed bag to hear him talk about his work.  On the one hand, you cannot help but have such pride in someone like that - he works without days off and figures out how to fix problems in situations that would have many Western doctors, who rely so heavily on machines and technology, throwing up their hands in frustration and despair.  Here, doctors are innovators out of necessity - they absolutely have to be.

I read this article earlier about the plight of doctors here, and the choices they make (whether to go or stay).  I think the title is stupid, but that's the copy editor's fault.  The information in the article is illuminating.

I wanted to tell Desai what it would be like to practice in his old hospital, so I observed Makasa and a colleague fix a man’s broken leg. In the operating theater, there was a dirty-looking scalpel blade on the floor. The assisting staff ambled in late, causing the operation to start 30 minutes behind schedule. The air-conditioner was broken. A nurse took two personal cellphone calls in the operating room. When it came time for the surgeon to drill holes in the patient’s bones, a nurse produced a case containing a Bosch power drill. By way of sterilization, she wrapped it in a green cloth, binding it tight with a strip of muslin.

The cell phone calls during surgery was what got me.

I can understand the frustration of doctors here, as well.  Last night we heard a story about a pregnant woman who presented with a bleeding issue.  It is now standard to HIV test anyone who comes in, and when it came time to give her the results of her test she refused to hear.  "I don't want to know!" she said over and over again, very insistent that no one tell her.

She was HIV positive.  

Being a doctor here is not a safe job - not with the HIV infection rate here.  And it's not a mentally safe job, either.  So often, instead of healing you are watching people die.  That is not what doctors train for - to watch people die.  It is the antithesis of what they do.  

And to stay here, to continue to practice here, they must have a calling to make a difference.  A doctor here will not get rich.  As the NYT article states - $24,000 a year is not rolling in dough.  The doctor stays out of a sense of obligation to the greater good.   

 I'm thinking the greater good would be better served if nurses didn't take cell phone calls during surgery, however.  I'm just not sure how you convince people of that.   

The Local Furniture Store

When we started planning our move to Africa, one thing we looked at was the price of furniture vs. the price of importing OUR furniture.  It was no question - even if we were to stick to the big box stores with the mass produced furniture (cheap in the US, ridiculously overpriced here), we would spend less money buying everything new - and get it sooner!- than if we shipped our own items over.   The cherry on top of the whole equation is the chance to put money into the local economy.  We crunched the numbers and decided that other than an air shipment of necessities (cough - Splenda - cough), we would get what we needed here.

Today was D-Day for major furniture purchases.  We're getting ready to move into our forever-for-a-while home, and we need something to sleep on!  Early on, we decided to buy our furniture from local craftsmen if we could.  What they make is of very good quality, even though it seems somewhat strange to a person from the United States to buy furniture off the side of the road.  In fact, the table I bought today is better quality than the one we bought in the United States.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...

The main place I usually drive by that has roadside crafstmen is called Kalingalinga.

Okay, that isn't such an illustrative picture.  But you get the idea.  You don't see people hanging out the minibus windows just anywhere!

Kalingalinga borders two pretty good neighborhoods where expats live, so while things are definitely cheap compared to what we would pay for handmade items in the US, they are priced accordingly for location.

Malinga thought we should try a compound further out, so we drove to through Garden and Emmasdale until we reached someone he had heard of.  He didn't tell them we were coming ahead of time, so they were quite surprised to see us drive up.  Malinga told me that they don't get very many white people buying things out there.  He said that this way we would catch them off guard and get better prices.

Malinga knows all these tricks!

And one more aside before I continue on - I feel safer in a Zambian compound (which is like a township) than I do in many poor areas of the US.  We were told this is one of the safest places in Africa, and it is true.

So - we decided on this furniture store.  I mean, Manda Hill mall has a furniture store that is merely OK furniture.  This is Supa furniture!  SUPA!  Way better.

That is Malinga in the picture laughing with two of the managers.

And speaking of managers - have you ever seen the movie Coming to America?  Remember the barbershop?  Right, my favorite scenes take place in that barbershop.  "A man has the right to change his name to vatever he vants to change it to.  And if a man vants to be called Muhammed Ali,   gdamit this is a free country, you should respect his vishes and call the man Muhammed Ali!"

Okay, well this furniture store was filled with "managers" that sat around having those kinds of discussions in Nyanja.  Truly.  And as we were bargaining, they were all a part of the bargaining.  It was certainly an interesting experience.  And, dare I say it?  It was fun.  Probably because I don't have to do it every day.  But it was fun.

So, we went to look at what was available, since we have a time deadline and we have some critical items we need right away.  To get to the bunk beds, we had to walk through the skeletons of chairs they hadn't yet finished.

Here's another view (we walked through more than once, because they wanted me to demonstrate EXACTLY what colors, etc, we wanted).

Then we had to walk through some very precariously balanced stock to look at the table.

The table, by the way, is absolutely marvelous crafstmanship.  Truly.  World Market would do very well to visit Lusaka compounds for some of their furniture orders.

We ended up spending much less (about 1/4 of the cost) than we would have for the table alone at one of the box stores in the malls and got furniture of amazing quality that we will be very proud to have in our house forever.  

I love that idea, too, that we will always have Zambia with us - even when we go back to the United States.  

Being sick in Africa is a far different proposition for me, a prosperous American, than it is for the majority of Africans.  Still, getting sick here, even when I stay home, is different from being sick in the US.

I had a horrendous migraine yesterday - the kind that knocks you off your feet and has you throwing up and begging for mercy.  Which I did.  Both.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that this is a result of the Mefloquine I have been taking, and which I will no longer take.  But because the medicine is metabolized in the kidneys, I hesitated to take Tylenol to help with the pain.  There wasn't much else to find by the time I realized I needed something - 24 hour pharmacies do not exist here.  I found myself weighing whether I could take the incapacitating migraine (my kids claimed that I was endangering them with the possibility of rickets by demanding all the curtains be shut tight) or whether kidney failure would be the better option.

Since I didn't have a ride to the hospital, I chose to play it safe, but it was a close decision.

The headache caused another issue - what to feed the kids.  Frozen food here, a staple in most American freezers in case of just such an emergency, is frighteningly expensive.  We don't have any.  Nor is there delivery - no Dominos here!  The kids were on their own with only ingredients in the house.  It was touch and go for awhile, but they managed with the pancake recipe I tucked into our "While in Africa" binder.

I can add this issue to the "Things I Didn't Anticipate" file.

Something that makes me smile every time we're out and about is the abundance of Zambian pride.  We buy bread based on the store we happen to be visiting at the time (we go through a lot of bread), and it comes in all sorts of names, like:

and

Then there is the milk we drink:

The biggest meat distributer here is Zambeef, there is a fast food place called Zamchicken, and one of the billboard advertisements I see around town tells people to be Zambitious!

I love it.   

Death in Africa

One of the things we had to be "counseled" on when we came here was employee relations.  The relationship is nothing like what we're used to in the US, where you hire someone for a set amount for set duties for a set amount of time and negotiate the extras like vacation time, sick leave, etc.

It is sort of like that, but also very much not.  For instance, that employer/employee relationship we're used to?  It's more like adopting an extended family.  You don't employ someone as much as you invite them into your life.  This means that in addition to the agreed upon wage, we also provide money for certain medical necessities, paid time off for funerals, even contribute to the cost of family funerals!  We help with school fees, school clothing, and other items as needed as well.

The relationship is certainly not one sided - we are given ambassadors to a culture of which we are completely ignorant.  Our family/employees keep us from danger and keep us from being cheated (by anyone else,  it is taken as a matter of course that they get "extras" for being family.  This is not cheating, it is considered the same as a brother who comes to the house and drinks your beer).

The funeral issue rears its ugly head very often, and as uncomfortable as it is to speak about, we have to lay ground rules for that, as well.  Paid time off is only for the death of parents, children, siblings, and a spouse.  Although there are those who try to cheat the system - as there are in every culture - the fact of the matter is that death here is far more prevalent than what we have ever experienced at home.

There is one main cemetery, Malinga told us, and business is hopping.  I did not have the chance to take pictures the last time we drove by, but we went by again recently, and this time he slowed down so I could take some pictures from the road.  It would not have been good for me to actually get out and take pictures - it would have been disrespectful.

There were not so many funerals while we were there, which was a good thing.  I was less likely to be offensive with my voyeuristic snapping.

The hills of dirt after the graves of the cemetery surprised me.  I think most of them are left over from recent burials, but there were a few lower ones on which I saw flowers and other indications that they were fresh graves.   Perhaps not, perhaps they were just way-points for things to be stored.  But the idea is bothering me and I'm planning to ask the Zambian doctor we know when I see him again.

There was one funeral at the time we were there, and it was in the far back of the cemetery.

You can see that people show up in mini-busses and whatever other form of conveyance they can manage.  

 I was so struck by the differences in the graves.  There are large, fancy headstones, and even some monuments right next to simple wooden crosses.  In this last picture, you can see the label on one of the outlying hills of earth that made me wonder.

This is Africa.  I can't imagine one of our staid and manicured graveyards here.

On the same side trip I managed to catch a picture of one of our furniture stores:

Evil Blond Child informed me she preferred wicker furniture to solid wood, and so we will be getting several items from here, or a stand just like it.  These are handmade, by craftsmen from the compounds (which is what townships are called here).  You can look at them before buying, and many of them are of exceptional quality at very good prices.  In fact, what you can get at big box furniture stores here is ridiculously flimsy and overpriced, and so very not worth buying that it is a wonder people shop at them at all.

Best of all, buying furniture this way supports Zambians who are trying to earn their living independently.

We do have to bargain, though, but even with the Mzungu mark up I'll pay, it will still be less than what I would pay at Cost Plus stateside.

And finally, a shantytown:

Or, rather, a shantytown market.  Malinga said the people at these are desperately poor.  When I asked where they worked, he said, "Mostly they don't.  They live their entire lives right here."

He also told me that those train tracks are indeed still used for actual trains, but that the people at the market around them can feel the trains before they come and they pick up and move.  He did say that sometimes drunks fall asleep on the tracks and are killed when they don't rouse in time for the express - or whichever train it is that runs through.   He said it in a very matter-of-fact tone, and was quite judgmental of the stupidity of doing such a thing and the just desserts of one killed in such a manner.

It is so very different here...

Not Quite Billy Mays

You know who I miss?  Billy Mays.

I just loved him.  And if you haven't seen his Infomercial about running from the Yakuza, you haven't seen his absolute best work.  Seriously.  Go watch it.  

In any case, everyone is a pitchman here.  EVERYONE.  No one is up to May's level and style, but everyone is trying to sell something, and since their life depends on it, they get quite insistent.  Learning to walk away without causing a scene is an art form, and one that The Husband is still having some trouble with.  

A few times in other African countries he's been screeched at, "WICKED MAN!" for refusing to pay truly outrageous Muzungu mark-up on items he didn't want in the first place.  Also, for turning away beggars.  

Oh, the beggars...  That's one thing we'll never get used to, I think.  People are so desperately poor, and yet if you hand out money, you get mobbed... and robbed.  You have to find other ways to help.

But I digress.  Back to the pitchmen.  

When we first got here, I saw billboards with this guy on them everywhere - and I had no idea who he was.  

I mean, obviously his name is Herve Renard.  And he likes white shirts.  And Boom detergent gets his shirts white. 

All this is easily discernible, but I still had no idea who Herve Renard was or why he looks so irritated when his shirt is so white.  He should be happy.  The internet here is ridiculously slow, so  I asked Malinga about it. He thought I was absolutely nuts for not knowing that Herve Renard coached the Zambian National football team to the Africa Cup.  And people here do take their football seriously.  I should probably pay more attention to that.  

Malinga also told me that Mr. Renard has a bit of the Victoria Beckham thing going on with the smile.  So, I guess he's not about spreading the sunshine.  That's fine, of course.  His job is to win football games, not smile at us.  

And his shirt really is so very white.

Who am I to argue?  I bought Boom to wash our clothes.  I'll let you know how it works.  I am already feeling the urge to pout, though, so there must be something to it.  

Watching Water Boil

Oh what an interesting life we lead here in Africa!

A large part of the background of every day that we're at home is getting water ready to drink.  We can buy it at the store, but at about $3 a pop for bottles of water (more expensive than soda!), it's just not cost effective.  This means that we end up preparing water ourselves, lest we get some rogue and random bug.  Last year, 11 people died of cholera during the rainy season, and while it isn't the rainy season yet, I don't want my Muzungu self to be the first casualty this year.

This process is fairly easy and takes minimal effort, but it does have necessary paraphernalia:

Boiling is only the beginning, you see.  The water has a lot of rather nasty things floating around, so we also have to filter.  That being the cheapo version of a Brita here, you can imagine how long this process takes.  

We also have plenty of extra filters on hand.

And let me also say that it's hard to truly appreciate how much water a person goes through a day until you have to process all that damn stuff.  Last night we had soup, and much to The Husband's chagrin, we undid an entire day and a half of water boiling and filtering for some delicious potato leek.  

We usually start a pot on the stove, then go about our daily activities (lately, for me, I've been in spreadsheet hell trying to manage multiple currencies) until the pot boils.  We have to keep it boiling for five minutes, then let it cool down to run through the filter, then go through the whole process again.  

And lest you think the filtering process might be skippable...  Here's what boiled water looks like:

No, I really have no idea what those floaties are in there and why the water is that color.  But I don't particularly want to ingest any of that, either.  So we boil then filter, boil then filter, etc. and ad infinitum.  

There are much larger scale filters that most of the ex-pats use here, but I have no idea where to find them as yet.  We have to ask the landlord when we move into our permanent housing- which should be anywhere between a week or two weeks from now.  We've also heard that there is treated water delivery, but you can't merely rely on Google or Yelp for such information here.  It's very much word-of-mouth or finding a sign on someone's compound wall.  And I haven't yet seen a wall advertising treated water deliver.

So, as I said, we boil.  

I do feel the need to draw attention to one greatly amusing facet of life here - the outlets. 

Perhaps it is our close proximity to Jacob Zuma that inspired these, but I can't for the life of me figure out who on earth designed such a thing and didn't have the express understanding that people would giggle every single time they saw these things.  Or maybe that is precisely what the designer had in mind.  

In any case, I find my amusement wherever possible.  Symbolically phallic outlets never get old.  

It is a Plague

One of the parts of life you can never escape from in Lusaka is the prevalence of HIV.

I remember distinctly the first time I heard about AIDS.  I was in the third grade and my father, who has had an uninterrupted subscription to Time Magazine since the invention of the wheel, left out this issue.  I can't remember the circumstances under which I picked it up, but it was probably left in the bathroom.   That is where all magazines seemed to end up.
 

I can't say why this particular issue of Time stuck with me, but for weeks after I would find myself repeating the words, "Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome" in my head.  My parents' friends were talking about this illness a lot, I think I believed it would make my second grade self sound smart if I knew what the acronym stood for.  

It also terrified me.  At that time, AIDS was a boogeyman plague.  We had some information, but not enough to rest easy.  For all I knew, I was going to get it from a toilet seat in my elementary school.  I mean, we were assured that it was not passed that way, but we didn't really know.  

From third grade on, AIDS and later HIV were a constant small presence in life.  Not just for me, but for anyone of my generation.  From that first magazine cover, there came an entire movement of red ribbons and HIV awareness and rock stars and movie stars advocating condom use.  Our parish priest left us when I was in late elementary school to minister to AIDS victims.  I remember how we discussed his bravery - for us at that time, AIDS was something akin to leprosy.  We knew how it was spread, but did we really?  Father seemed to be walking voluntarily into the most terrible danger.  

For our generation there was Ryan White, and then there was the shock of Magic Johnson.   The AIDS Quilt, which seemed such a novel idea to me, is taken as a matter of course by my children.  It has just always been.

And that's the way HIV infection is viewed by most people now.  It is something that some people live with, much like some people live with lupus or arthritis.  HIV infection in the US worries me less than heart disease, because it is easier to prevent.  We take that for granted.  

It is not like this in Africa.

There is an omnipresence of HIV and AIDS related campaigns - signs on billboards that warn a person's sexual partners are not in the past.  Painted onto walls are urgings for testing and treatment and reminders that prevention is the best way to avoid this plague.

And it is a plague here.  There is no other way to describe it.  

We spoke to a Zambian doctor the other day, and he said that his statistics show about a 1 in 6 infection rate in Lusaka.  One in six people are HIV positive!  When you adjust that for social class, as HIV infection definitely strikes the poorer and less educated with far greater frequency than those whose behavior reflects the ability to think beyond the next meal, the plague designation becomes even more appropriate - and even more horrifying.  

About 19% of children in Zambia are orphans - and an overwhelming majority of those children became orphans because of AIDS related death.  These children who have no one left to care for them get into a reputable orphanage if they are lucky.  If not, they band together with siblings in the compounds to try to eke out an existence.  They are children caring for other children, and they become fodder for the next generation of HIV infection.  

The campaigns for HIV awareness are omnipresent.  The resources for identifying HIV carriers and treatment are also available, and thanks to programs heavily sponsored by the US - low cost or free.  So why is this disease still striking with such regularity?  

Numbers do show a decrease in HIV infection rates, but the problem isn't one of availability, it is one of education and a stark illustration of the adage, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."

HIV carries a stigma here that those of us from the US are no longer used to.   People do not admit to infection, although it is illegal to discriminate against those who are HIV positive.  It is not unknown for family members to abandon those who are HIV positive to their own devices.  In a society that is so tightly knit at the family and tribal level, such a thing is a death sentence.  It is like becoming a ghost before you die.  

"People don't want to know," the doctor told us.  

It is a way of thought that I, with my Western experience and background, can't wrap my mind around.  

We drove by Mother Theresa's Lusaka chapter of the Sisters of Charity the other day.  They do very good work.  The Catholic Church is very present in Zambia's charity organizations, and in what seems like a full circle for me, remembering my parish priest from so many years ago - they are ministering to those who are HIV positive or orphaned by AIDS.   But the problem seems so overwhelming, there is so far to go and so much resistance toward getting there.

Last week as we drove to a Land Rover dealership to check on a car we wanted to buy, we passed Lusaka's cemetery.  As I was not sure of the propriety, I refrained from taking pictures, but business at the cemetery was booming.  I was assured by the doctor that the odds were heavily in favor of HIV related death at these burials.  

Africa is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen; a wild, raw beauty that overpowers everything around it.

Except this.  This plague casts a pall over everything.