Chimfunshi Chimpanzee Orphanage

I admit that I did not have high expectations of this place. Maybe it was because all of the guidebooks say that Chimfunshi is nearly impossible to get to without a 4x4 vehicle and it is run by some rather grouchy South Africans, but this was not the case in the least! The road was not great, but worth every pothole! The family that runs this orphanage containing 122 chimps (mostly rescued from the Congo and the babies that have born in captivity) is very warm and insanely in love with their animals and the workers that attend to them are exceptionally knowledgeable. We watched them feed the babies bottles of milk and I even got to play with a funny little baby chimp who had a diaper on and a sucker in his mouth (see pics below). Wild! The animals, for the most part, are able to roam free on acres and acres of donated land, but they all find their way to the fences when it is feeding time.














Crazy “pets” were running around the place. They had geese, peacocks, turkeys, African Gray Parrots, dozens of little scavenger monkeys and a hippo to hilt. I am not kidding. They have a pet hippo (yes, the animal that kills more people in Africa every year than any other animal on the continent). “Billy” is insanely fat and lethargic and has big whiskers like the bristles on a plastic hair brush.

All in all, a nice way to spend one’s 30th Birthday.

I went with Peter and Cheryl Smith and their two boys Brendan and Jason (the Mennonites from L.A.) and Adrian, my favorite farmer from Cornwall. Adrian’s 50th birthday was on Friday night and Cheryl and I both share May 11, so we ate cake all weekend. Divine.

SPIDER!!!

I’m no expert on arachnids, but I am pretty sure my cat killed a tarantula in my house on Saturday night. Sick. I came home from Teddy and Catherine’s wedding to find Franky playing with what I thought was a wad of black string on the floor, but to my horror, the small heap on my ridiculous red and white checkered linoleum turned out to be a large hairy spider. Disgusting. I don’t like to think of where that little thing had been living before Franky murdered it.


But on a much lighter note, the weekend was lots of fun. My first Zambian wedding was full of dancing and singing and a very, very long sermon (of course). Most of the homily was dedicated to people like me (those that are not married, but should be). Have I mentioned before that I get many strange looks from folks when they find out I am unmarried at “my age”? Amusing.

Chipata, Chipata, Chipata

A sea of yellow daisies float on the golden grass of Zambia’s savannah this time of year. Talk stalks of brown maze whisper and crackle in the breeze. The rainy season is now over and as the bus zigs and zags along the ribbon of tarmac from Lusaka to Kitwe I admire the thatched roofs and mudbrick homes of villages dotting the countryside where women pound maze in mortars, or “Ibende,” and cook nshima over charcoal fires. I prefer the simplicity of rural village life where subsistence farming generally ensures daily food for every person in the community, but I live in the urban Copper Belt where mines provide the money for daily milimeal, consistent electricity, and contribute the constant plume of sulphor dioxide that crowns our heads in town.

The young woman sitting next to me on the bus sang Christian praise songs throughout our journey and occasionally opened her cell phone to check for text messages. “Jesus Saves” was printed in Bemba across the screen and once again I was reminded that Zambia proudly touts itself as a Christian nation. Perhaps, “touts itself” is not fair. A more apt observation: most everyone I talk to here claims to be a Christian. As a Christian from a religiously pluralistic nation I found my mind wandering to the humble mosque in Kitwe that calls its Muslim followers to prayer five times a day. I wonder what they think of being Muslim in a place where Christian pop artists croon love songs to Jesus on the grocery store sound systems and evangelists passionately preach to passengers before every bus departs the Lusaka station? Strange.


















I have a million things to do today and I have run out of time, so please forgive this lame synopsis of the last 2 weeks: went to Chipata to teach for a few days before meeting up with a delightful group from Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church who were meeting with leaders from the Presbyterian church in Harare about a potential partnership and took some time to spend in Eastern Zambia as well. I found myself awkwardly trying to remember exactly how to greet mazungus from home (we shake hands and hug differently in Zambia), so I felt like a big dope as I fumbled with my words and my arms. It was fun to see Zambia through the eyes of new visitors and as I wrote them in a recent email, I am so glad that I get to live here for another 4 months!


P.S. How WASTED do we look here?! The road was bad people. Very bad.

Preacher Girl!

Last night I had 3 friends for dinner: Teddy Sakupapa (SUCH A GREAT SURNAME!!!!), his fiance Cathy and Trust. I made Italian food. My neighbor is growing fresh basil, so I was able to create something semi-authentic. They liked the meat sauce, but weren't a fan of the noodles. This is a mystery to me. Many of my Zam friends eat loads of carbs-- rice, nshima, potatoes--- all in the same meal, but noodles? No way.

I love that any and every event can become an excuse to listen to Rhumba and dance.

North Americans, we should pick up on this. We should dance far more often than we normally do. Notice the chetenge around our wastes? This is also nice. I think it is somehow supposed to make dancing less seductive (for propriety or some such notion), but I think it's just plain festive.




At the last moment I was asked to offer a short devotional to a women's gathering yesterday morning. Now, I was told that this was an informal event, but was encouraged to wear my clerical collar. mmmm, does this look informal to you?!?! This was a 6 hour Bible study. 800 women showed up! Amazing. Most of the service was in Bemba, but there was plenty of dancing and singing, so I was happy as a lark.

Kuomboka Ceremony

The floodplanes of the western province are gorgeous and filled with Lozi fisherman and once a year a whole bunch of tourists from all over the world.

















After a 15 hour bus ride (yes, please insert "cramped" and "uncomfortable" here) we finally made it to Mongu, a small community in the rural Western Province where the Lozi people reside. I joined a bunch of friends (1 Candadian, 1 Namibian, and 5 Norwegians) for a wild weekend. Thousands of Zambians gather, all donning red caps (traditional Lozi color) to celebrate the annual migration of the king.
Yes, king I say. I thought he was a chief, but I guess there is a complex hierarchy of chiefs with one top chief who is referred to as king of the Lozi. A few of us were intereviewed on ZNBC, so yes, I am now a national TV star. Okay, perhaps not a star, but I was still on national TV.

Once a year the Lozi King migrates across the floodplane from the lowlands to his palace (mmmm, I use the term "palace" loosely here). We knelt for every imaginable official. We even knelt for the king's baggage as it was loaded onto the boat.


The king is rowed by about 100 men that use home-made paddles.

















Norwegians are wild. Seriously. What's with Scandanavians? Love them. Every Norwegian I have met (and Swede for that matter) has unending energy and a serious dedication to savoring every second of life. Needless to say, I am tired. We did not sleep a lot.

YouTube Video!!!!

Hi friends. After on of the largest debacles in my life, I found a way to upload a short video about my life for Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church (they were doing a fundraiser on Sunday and wanted to see their “global fellow” in action in Zam). If you want to check it out (about 8 minutes in length), please copy and paste this url (or just search "Carmen in Zambia" on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQ7bbq3fuPc

Scotty is leaving me (pictured left). Not before the Komboka Ceremony (stay tuned for very cool pics and stories), which will be held in the Western Province this weekend. On Saturday we went to Race Course together for the last time (a big dance competition and Peer Education Seminar was held for a bunch of teens). We went with my new friend Sevelen who is from Namibia, but has been working in Zimbabwe for the last year. His NGO sent him to Zambia because of the potential civil unrest that is feared due to the delayed election results.

I love Sevelen (pictured below-- the one on his knees). He uses adjectives in this crazy high-pitched voice that has people in stitches. We were walking to Race Course and stopped by “MEF falls” (which has been an ongoing joke) where we enjoyed the cascading, polluted waters that feed the resovoir where we collect our drinking water.

Kabwe

There are big, white bats here. Okay, not white exactly. But a warm, tawny brown. Sort of like the Velveteen Rabbit, but much, much more vermin-like. I like Kabwe. It was recently ranked the 4th most polluted city in the world due to some mining disaster, but I like the cool, breezy evenings and the bustling downtown streets. Our NGO is hosting a workshop in association with the Tamar Campaign, a continent wide project that aims at educating churches about gender-based violence, its link to HIV/AIDS, and to empower leaders to engage Biblical texts contextually to address issues of social injustice. The 2 facilitators from South Africa are full of spitfire and energy: my favorite kind of women.

This national church gathering was by far more fun than any church function we North Americans or Europeans could come up with. We spent our final evening together dancing, singing, performing impromptu sketches, and sharing stories and proverbs from our villages. And what did I have to contribute? I danced my favorite dances with the ladies, but could not come up with any witty cultural riddles or songs to sing “from my village.” So you know what saved me? “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Yes, this is all I could come up with. Embarrassing. That was my cultural contribution to the evening.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

This is another one of those strange American holidays that is impossible to explain to my Zambian friends. Corned beef and hash, little green leprechauns, and fun runs. We are weird.

Periodically I walk into the office and the Catholic radio station is blaring inspirational music (generally a collection of European-sounding choral arrangements), but the program ends with the same song every time: the theme to the Tom Cruise movie “Top Gun.” Freaking hilarious.

Went to Racecourse for a football tournament this weekend. 16 teams (8 under 12 and 8 under 14) battled it out sans footwear, but proudly sporting donated uniforms. These kids gathered from four shanty compounds in and around my area and are coached by a collection of fantastic volunteers. One volunteer coach, Hamweenzu, is a physical education and geography teacher and looks forward to meeting my dad when he comes out in July.

I love weekends!

Friday started with some serious self-indulgence. I went out to dinner with a bunch of mazungus to the fanciest restaurant in Kitwe. Nearly broke the bank, but do you know what was amazing?!?!!? Chicken Masala without the bone. A boneless chicken breast is SCARCE in Zambia, so I savored each little bite (sorry veggie friends). We were celebrating the two Norwegian girls, Kristen and Ida, who finished their final paper and will soon be returning to Norway to graduate from University. These girls are hilarious and think that I am especially weird (they’ve never met a young female minister that drinks an occasional gin and tonic and talks about men and literature and pop culture and all the other “normal topics”).

On Saturday I took them to their first kitchen party where my wonderful TEEZ coworkers donned bright chetenge and their typical glamorous smiles as we laughed and ate and sang and danced. My favorite dance comes from the Eastern Province and it begins with dancers on their knees, heads bowed. I paid the drummers (standard), wrapped a chetenge around my waist, got down on my knees (Edna from work has been teaching me), and began the dance. One woman was so excited to see me dancing she ran over and jumped up and down shouting, “A muzungu that was raised in Chipata!!” I am definitely learning, but these women make me laugh: they are far too complimentary. This white girl has got NOTHING. You would never believe what these women can do with their hips.

This is the bride pictured with her chimbusa (her teacher who has been preparing her for marriage over the last 6 months). Notice that her face is kind of “pale”? Women here are into this whitening paste they smear all over their beautiful brown skin. I hate it.

Brides keep their heads bowed through the whole kitchen party as a sign of respect. The bride enters the room on her hands and knees and is completely covered until her future in-laws remove her veil, confirming that this is the right woman (to avoid a Leah/Rachel situation). Christian kitchen parties usually begin with a lively message about submission, which generally makes me gag. This is the last subject that needs to be reiterated in this patriarchal culture! I always tell my co-workers, “Good thing they don’t ask ME to preach!” The Norwegian girls made the mistake of revealing the fact that they do not go to church and my co-workers hassled them, in outrage, for the rest of the afternoon.