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.  

Goats and High Heels and Disembarking the Bus

When I was a teenager there was a commercial for the local bus system where various happy faces of many ethnicities and walks of life sang about riding the bus.  It was a wonderful commercial in its horrendousness, cheaply done and cheesy.  The worst part of it was the song, which stuck in a person's head for hours after hearing the lines, "Ride the bus!  Ride the bus with us!"

It drove some people to madness with the catchiness of the jingle.  What it did not do, though, was convince more people to ride the bus.  The bus system in this particular town was dirty and tended to have at least one person on every route who was outside societal norms to an extreme and harassed other passengers - for instance, the man who peed into empty soda bottles.  Because there was a low ridership base, routes were always being cut and the bus became a very slow means of conveyance.  It was a last ditch mode of conveyance for most people in the particular area we lived.  

I think that bus was quite hoity-toity and ritzy compared to the bus offerings here, even with the soda-bottle pisser.

To start, busses here are not the large vehicles we are used to in the States.  They are light blue "mini-busses", usually emblazoned with some saying or another the driver found profound, crammed full of people (and sometimes goats), falling apart, and traveling with no seeming rhyme or reason.

In addition to the usual "God is Great" and that sort of saying stickered onto bus windows, I've also seen things like, "Smiling is Poison," which the driver found to be a deep statement of the human condition.  Apparently.

Anyway, there are numerous bus stops all over town, and most of them aren't labeled.  I see people queueing up all over the place, which doesn't necessarily mean there is a bus stop at that point - but when we've later driven by and seen a bus on that corner picking people up, I assume that the people there were indeed waiting on a ride.  

Mini-busses aren't labeled, so I asked Malinga how you know which bus you need to take to get somewhere.  He told me, "You ask the drivers until you find a bus which is going the same direction as you."  

So, no schedules.  You just kind of stand there at the stop and ask every driver, "Where are you going?"until you find one that is generally headed the same direction.  It is very common here, this, "I'll get there eventually," thought.  And that is very frustrating to an American used to schedules and clocks!

The mini-busses have about three bench seats, and I've seen twelve people crammed inside.  Once, I saw a bus completely crammed with people, and then more people sitting out the windows.  It wasn't quite this bad:

which was a scene we witnessed driving back from Chaminuka, but it was pretty crowded. 

Watching the mini-busses disgorge passengers is like watching the clown cars at the circus.  People are literally propelled out as though kicked with great force from behind and careen through the air, arms akimbo, for a few feet before landing - usually against someone waiting impatiently to board the bus that just vomited forth its load of passengers.  

There is a very large bus stop just in front a mall, and it is usually good for people watching as you wait for the light to change.  Ladies here have a liking for very tall high heels with their dresses (great pride is placed in how well a person dresses), and the feats of balance these women are capable of astound me.  I saw one lady wearing four inch wedge heels catapult herself out of the doors of the mini-bus and fly a good three feet before landing with nary a stagger.  

She was caught by a man wearing a natty OD green safari-style suit, whom she thanked with a nod of her head before brushing off her dress and walking away smartly.  

The mini-busses are also quite unconcerned with safety, and I've seen several near-accidents as they propel themselves into whatever traffic situation is on their route.  

Further complicating the driving situation here (which I will not be an active part of, for the sake and safety of everyone) are the vendors which stroll through the main thoroughfares advertising their wares du jour.  I've seen them selling everything from tomatoes to rabbit ears for television sets and dog chains.  

They walk right up to your car windows and stand there, waiting for you to buy.  If you do acknowledge them they can get very aggressive about selling, so you end up sitting in traffic, facing straight ahead and pretending you don't see someone who is right in front of you chanting, "Madame!  Madame!  I have these glasses!  You need glasses?"  It feels very rude, but a "No, thank you," doesn't get very far - in fact, it encourages them to step up their efforts as you have acknowledged that you have seen them and they have only to convince you that their wares are worth your money.  

Incidentally, this is also how we buy minutes to top up our cell phones - vendors are at high traffic corners, strolling unconcernedly amongst the honking and revving vehicles.  

I wish I had gotten a picture of yesterday's Goat-a-Rama - the sight of two goats waiting patiently for their turn to board a minibus was just awesome.  Of course, it was the one day that I didn't bring my camera to town with me, and the cell camera function on my phone just doesn't work quickly enough as we drive by.  

I did get a picture of some local children heading toward school, though.  So on that heartening note:

The Great African Cheese Hunt

I have no cheese.

Okay - I can get cheese, but it's horrendous quality and it is expensive enough that the trade-off for scratching the cheese itch turns out to be somewhere in the neighborhood of cheese or children going to college.

Not worth it.  I did buy some Gouda once.  We made grilled cheese sandwiches we didn't even finish.  Me - not finishing a grilled cheese sandwich!  Truly the end is nigh!

Anyway, we heard of a local store that sells cheese, pasta, and imported salami (another thing we haven't had since we've been here is sandwich meat.  The local offerings are things we are not brave enough to try) and set off with our driver yesterday to find it.

The directions were typically African - on such-and-such a road, by this other road.  That is pretty much how you find anything here, although there are street addresses.

Needless to say, this provides some issues when searching out a place you've never been.  Lucky for us, most places Muzungus go are in walled compounds that have advertisements and signs painted on the walls.  It's actually really interesting, and since I'm a landmark-oriented directions person, it's easier for me to get used to the lay of the city.

After about half an hour of searching and a phone call to The Husband which uncovered a local number that was disconnected, we figured that the place - our last great cheese hope - had closed.

I was a sad panda.  *ahem*

Then, in typically African fashion, our driver told me that he had an idea if I had some time to spare.  We had already accomplished the rest of our checklist, so we headed off to a place he thought might have information about cheese.

We ended up in a rather tony office complex, where the driver parked the car.

"Try in here," he said.

"Malinga, this is an office supply store,"  I responded.

"Yes, but the owner - he is a farmer.  He might also sell cheese."

Surly Daughter and Evil Blond Child were in the back seat of the car, and Surly broke into gales of laughter.  The thing is, this is Africa.  It is absolutely within the realm of possibility that an office supply store also sells cheese.  So, deciding to trust Malinga, we headed in.

The receptionist greeted us as we came in, and I haltingly (because this was more than a little embarrassing) asked about cheese.

She looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"What?"

"Cheese.  My driver said that the person who owns this store also has a farm."

"Yes, he does."

"Well, I was wondering if he sells cheese."

The receptionist obviously didn't know what to make of me, but I was at the point of no return.  We were going to find out if this farmer made cheese if I had to stand there all day.  And besides, there were macadamia nuts on the counter that the farmer had grown.  If an office supply store was selling home-grown macadamia nuts, surely it might also sell cheese.

The receptionist agreed to phone another girl in the complex who handled the farm accounts.  Sadly, she confirmed that the farmer did not produce cheese.  We headed out to the car to report back to Malinga that the office supply farmer did not produce cheese.

"Well," he said, "we will try another place."

So we did.  And we eventually found the city office for Chaminuka, a local game preserve that also boasts a dairy barn.  However, Chaminuka only sells cheese in 2 KG blocks, and you need to order five of them at a time.  At that point I was done.  I thanked Malinga for finding the Chaminuka office for us and told him that when we needed cheese we could definitely use this place.  Then we set off back to our guest house.

Thus ended the Great African Cheese Hunt.

Pepe LeSomething

I have noticed a new issue in our Zambian adventure... I smell weird.  Not necessarily bad - at least I hope I don't smell bad.  I've been one with my deodorant.  But definitely different.  Not the way I am used to smelling.

Part of this is that I no longer use several of the skin products I slavishly slathered on my skin to try and combat the effects of aging and growing up in California before we really believed that sunscreen was a good thing.  Add shuttling between a Central Valley farm and an island off the coast of LA  with a red-head's complexion, and you get your first skin cancer bout at the age of 36.

In a desperate attempt to try to combat the onset of leather skin, I turned to lotion.  Lotion and I began a love affair that has carried on from my late twenties until now, the beginning of the Zambian dry season.

My lotion of choice was from Bath and Body Works.  It felt so cool on the skin, and the scents hung around for hours, unlike the cheaper versions that feel greasy and don't absorb and then wear off quickly.  I went through multiple scents before settling on White Citrus.

I do love White Citrus.  I live in fear that they will retire the scent just as they did my previous Peach favorite.  But no matter, when we had a date to leave for Zambia I discontinued using the lotion myself.  I figured that we're using a malarial preventative anyway, it would be silly to perfume myself so heavily that the mosquitos swarm doors and windows to try and get at the intoxicating scent of White Citrus.  Even Mefloquine can't hold back that much mosquito, I figured.

I switched to a Vaseline brand lotion - a light lotion that works amazingly well and is very inexpensive.  I brought lotion with me, I packed lotion in our air freight shipment, and I put this lotion on our shopping list for when either The Husband or I have to take trips back into the First World.  I thought my lotion addiction was covered.

I did not count on lotion "disappearing."  But it did disappear from my checked bag and we don't have our air freight shipment yet, so I am at the mercy of local soap and lotion which smells nothing like what I am used to.  There are things I am used to available, but not at a price I'm willing to pay (for instance, a bottle of the Tresemme conditioner I use runs $20 at the store).  So - much like eating local, for the moment I am lotioning local as well.  And it's not what I'm used to.

And speaking of eating local - what you eat affects how you smell.  This may be politically incorrect to say, but different cultures smell differently, and what we eat is a huge part of that.  One discussion I had with a friend about how people smell once culminated in the statement that white Americans smell like baking bread.  I still laugh every time I think about it.  I'm pretty sure my normal American smell is baking bread slathered in White Citrus lotion.  I hope it's a good smell.  I liked it, anyway.

My grandfather, also a white American, but of the farm variety, used to complain that I smelled like garlic.  But that was during a morning-noon-and-night Japanese food addiction phase, so I'm not sure I smelled like garlic as much as I smelled more tart than he was used to.  I obviously didn't have enough barbecue chicken in my diet at that time.  

Mmmmmm, Japanese food...

Anyway, now I smell weird.  The Husband claims I'm overly sensitive to smells, but whatever the reason, I notice it.  This is the season I'd normally be gorging myself on watermelon and peaches and other delicious ripening fruits.  And cucumbers!  Oh how I adore cucumbers!  It's my peachy season.  It's turned into my sort-of-gamy-extra-garlic-cuminish season.  Also, cocoa butter.  From my lotion.

It's very disconcerting, not smelling the way one is used to smelling.  I feel off.  I'm sure I'll get used to it, but it struck me  last night that the discomfort I've been noticing was directly related to the change in my smell.

That is a side effect of moving to Africa I can honestly say I never even considered.

We Do Kudu. Now We Do, Anyway.

We're trying to eat local.  It's cheaper, anyway.  And even if it means I don't always have access to my beloved cucumbers, it really is more healthy for us.

But there is local, and then there is local.   Two days ago our driver surprised us with some kudu meat he had gotten from a friend in a local village.

"Kudu?"  I thought.  "I know this word from somewhere..."  That somewhere being, in my American existence, the episodes of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom our family used to watch.  But the thought of eating kudu never crossed my mind.

Rather majestic, no?  Very Meleficent-ish.

But such a gift from our driver is very dear and not to be wasted, so I immediately set about trying to figure out how to cook such a thing.  As it turns out, I'm not well prepared to make Kudu Stew, as we don't have one of the traditional South African cooking pots called a roemertopf.

  I decided to make do, just this once, with a metal pot.  And YES, I understand the blasphemy involved.  I cook using clay when I'm in our own house all the time, and it makes things delicious and savory and wonderful.  But desperate times call for desperate measures, and this kudu was being cooked in a metal pot.

According to the recipes I found, kudu is a low-fat meat that gets stringy and tough very easily.  It is indeed low on fat, as I found out when I started cutting it up.  I expected something like venison, but it's  not really.

You see?  Different. But not.  And very easy to cut, which I really appreciated.  

Anyway, the instructions said that kudu should never  be cooked more than medium-rare.  Now, medium-rare is my normal preference; but then again, I have no idea where this kudu really came from and I can pretty much guarantee that it did not come from somewhere that I, a spoiled Westerner, would have willingly shopped.  I kept reminding myself that (a) such a gift from our driver was VERY dear, and I needed to suck this up and drive on, and (b) how often do we get the chance to try kudu meat in the US?  Ever?  No.  I resisted my urge to fry the ever-loving hell out of the meat.  I figure that I've been told I'll need a twice-yearly deworming while living here, anyway.  

So, onward...  

One other thing to get used to here is bacon.  I love bacon.  I love bacon ridiculously and fully.  Bacon is wonderful.

Zambian bacon is not the same bacon I'm used to.  

However, I'm not used to kudu, either.  And I figure that a recipe for African kudu that calls for bacon is probably calling for African bacon.  So I dutifully cut up the bacon and fried it with some onions and got a most delicious smelling mix.

Now we start frying the kudu to add to the stew (when we get the stew going, that is.  This was a rather drawn out process).

I fried up all the meat this way, and gave in to the temptation to try just a bite of one of the more well done pieces.

Kudu meat is delicious.  Gamy and not gamy at the same time, and I think I like it better than venison.  This is quite an admission on my part.  Deer in the midwest are rejoicing right now - and pointing and laughing at the buffalo I still love to eat.  

So, onward...  The rest of the recipe called for beef stock (of which there was none available at the store).  I had to settle on using a powdered Oxtail Soup base, and it all seemed to work fine.  I'm sure that even though this tasted quite good, when I try the actual recipe without all my substitutions, metal pots, and jury rigging, I'll be amazed.  

The rest of the stew was what I've always used in beef stew - carrots, potatoes; what is specified in the recipe as "hearty vegetables."  There was one exception...  garlic.  The recipe specifically mentioned that one should be careful not to overpower the taste of the kudu and should minimize the use of garlic.

Minimize garlic?  Utter blasphemy!  Barbarity!  You must be joking!

But again, this is not my ethnic cuisine, and so I can't dictate my preferences upon it.  Right?  Whatever.  I cut the amount of garlic to what seemed a weak and pitiful amount - to me, anyway.  

Amid mutterings from the husband about nothing good coming from lack of garlic, I soldiered on in the kitchen over my makeshift kudu stew.  

After simmering for hours (the stove here isn't particularly obedient), we had success.  My husband tried it and pronounced it, "Different, but very good."

Success!  

I doubt that it will become a regular table occurrence for us,  but we've tried it.  And even my picky eater, the one who refuses to eat "cow", tried it and pronounced it as something acceptable. 

I have to admit that we draw the eating locally line somewhere, though.  Our game drive guide yesterday informed us that flying termites come out during rainy season, and that they are a traditional snack for Zambians.  

That I think we'll pass.