Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Everyone hates us

You know that don't you? I cannot tell you how many conversations I have had in the last two days that have reminded me that the world currently HATES the United States of America. We are called bullies, imperialists, narcissists, and a whole host of other nasty, little criticisms. All for good reason I suppose. Today at work I was greeted by a co-worker whose first words to me were, "I hate President Bush" (pronounced Boosh). He reminded me of the latest U.S. endeavor in Africa (seeking a country in which to build a military base). The African Union was in an uproar and the continent, almost unanimously, voted against this presumptuous demand. I admit I am a little tired of being hated.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Food a la Zambia

What's in Carmen's cupboards at home you ask? Well, ask and ye shall receive friends. Here is a normal day: get up around 7 a.m. and put a pot of water on the stove to boil (a must for clean drinking water). I then meander to the tub for a soak (no shower mind you), and then eat some granola (a recent discovery at the local grocery store). And then it is off to work. As you can see from the pic, I've got loads of food that looks pretty American. I roast my own peanuts (cheap little snack), drink boxed milk and instant coffee, and I indulge in "Coke Light." It is expensive, but I love it. The picture below is standard Zambian fare (for special occasions). This was the meal I ate on Sunday after church (the elders prepared it for the special visitors). The meal included enshima (on the left), potatoes, rice, hard boiled eggs, cabbage, "soup" (or "relish"), and chicken. Delish!

Monday, December 3, 2007

The Preacher

Here I am outside of a little church in rural Kamphinsa. I preached here on Sunday and was delighted to join this small congregation (about 25 adults and an equal number of children) for worship. My Swedish neighbor (the self-proclaimed heathen Mike) and Jenny (the pentecostal Brit) joined as well, which was lots of fun. The thatched roof kept the space nice and cool while the hot sun poured through the make-shift windows. While I was preaching this little brown dog came in and laid down in the entry way to the church. He was surprisingly intent on the sermon. Funny. First time a dog has ever listened to me preach.
These women pictured here were so excited to see a camera. They danced for me and insisted on having lots of pictures taken. Aren't they beautiful?

Baby ChiChi

I learned how to hold a baby "Zambian style." My co-worker Charles and his wife just had their first little one and everyone calls him "Chi Chi." He is the sweetest little thing and I was proud to be the first white person he has ever seen. They live in a compound called "Chimwewe" where the government is busy putting in new water meters to make sure residents are paying enough for their water. Most folks living here survive off of less than $200 a month. Ridiculous.

Friday, November 30, 2007

I'll fly away

As I lay in bed this evening trying to formulate this story into words the lyrics of a spiritual came to mind, “Some bright morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away. To that home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away...When the shadows of this life have gone, I’ll fly away. Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly away...”

Yesterday I was at the office and noticed that it had become unusually quiet, so I wandered to reception to find out what was going on. Our office is usually lively and full of banter, so I was surprised to see a sober crowd of coworkers gathered around a young girl, probably 19 or 20, who had come looking for help. Strangers soliciting assistance isn’t especially uncommon, but this girl was unique. The grimace on her face (whether due to pain or hunger I’m not sure) communicated the severity of her situation. She spoke very little English, so I was not able to catch everything that was said, but through translation I was astonished to discover that this young woman had had surgery for a bowel obstruction about 10 years ago and was using a plastic grocery sack as a colostomy bag. She was recently orphaned, so has not received regular medical care in the last year. She lifted her shirt to reveal a bright red gash across her belly that was unmistakably the color of infection. A chaplain who happened upon our gathering insisted we immediately take her to the hospital. After watching this slim, brown beauty in a striped skirt glide through the main doors I returned to the office only to find out that she refused treatment. Upon examination, the specialist insisted she get admitted right away. The wound was septic and the physician told her explicitly that she would die if she left the hospital. Despite the pleas of hospital staff, this young girl gathered her belongings into a make-shift chetenge bag and started her long walk home. It has been a little over 24 hours now and I cannot help but wonder where she is.

At age 20 my stress revolved around choosing a major and the Jewish boy I was in love with: a far cry from a botched surgery and starvation.

I am writing a sermon for Sunday and since it is Advent I have been spending time with the lonely shepherds in Luke, chapter 2. Thank God Jesus arrived amongst the poor, the outcast, and the marginalized because if he hadn’t, what on earth would I preach about? Some bright morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away. To that home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away...

Friday, November 23, 2007

Killing the turkey...

Yep folks, that's right. We found a turkey. American Thanksgiving will be held amongst an eclectic international crowd and it all began with this fine bird. My friend Cheryl (the mazungu),Peggy (the local), and I bravely took a knife to the poor thing and learned a lot about what it takes to get a beautiful turkey on the table.... I guess the market was in a small uproar yesterday when Cheryl arrived because farmers had searched high and low for a turkey for her!

It is amazing how easy the feathers come off when you dip the thing in boiling, hot water. The whole event brought me back to high school biology -- quite the anatomy review!

Thursday, November 22, 2007

A little piece of heaven...

I had never been anywhere tropical in my life, so my trip to the Kenyan coast felt like pure extravagance. I spent a week in Malindi, Kenya where I met with about 40 Presbyterians from the U.S. who are working all over Eastern and Southern Africa. Impressive people. Physicians, health educators, relief workers, teachers, and agricultural specialists gathered to share experiences and discuss the changing demographics of world Christianity.

I've never swam in water so clear and warm and beautiful in my life. The most taxing part of the trip was avoiding eels and sand sharks. Rough life, I know.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Masai Warriors

I was told that when the British Colonizers arrived in Kenya and Tanzania they promptly decided to leave the Masai alone. They are a fearsome and proud people and I was lucky enough to have a long conversation with a few Masai men after a cultural exhibition. They danced to a rhythm I can only liken to a human heartbeat. They dance in perfect unity as their slender arms and legs move to the powerful gutteral reverberration of the songs they sing. No words mind you, but definintey song. Enchanting and frightening. I have no doubt the lions cower when confronting these men. I'm not kidding. On an amusing note, after the exhibition (and yes, I am pictured with these folks in my bathing suit at poolside-- all sorts of irony in this) I visited with some young men who tried to convince me that I should marry a Masai (and then simply go home and marry an American upon my return to the States). The women weren't interetested in conversation. I am not sure why this was the case. Perhaps they aren't interested in rich, white women from the west, or maybe their culture forbids it. Maybe these particular women were just shy. Not sure.

I hope I will be able to spend more time with the Masai someday. What a rich and rascinating culture.


My friend Ingrid is working in Southern Sudan establishing educational sites for returning refugees. Many of her students are ex-child soldiers and the stories she tells are sobering. She told me about one of her students, a 20 year old double orphan who is married with a baby, that is currently working on his times tables and reading at a second grade level. He asked Ingrid to tell all of his brothers and sisters from the Presbyterian church that he is grateful because "knowledge has become my mother and knowledge has become my father." War is brewing again, so if you are the type, please pray for the conflict in Sudan. God hears.

Swimming with the girls...

This was one of my passtimes this week (children crawling all over me in the pool). These girls were outrageously fun and gave me permission to act goofy and playful. We did cartwheels into the water and played marco polo. They play ALL day and never get tired. No matter how pruney their skin, no matter how much chlorine they've swallowed. That's tenacity. There's got to be a sermon in that.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Good News!

It has basically been the best week ever. Why you ask?

--Dad is home from the hospital and is on the mend!

--No more malaria!

--I ran for the first time in Africa! Feels good to be developing a rhythm of life here in Kitwe.

--I played Settlers of Cattan with my neighbors (don't worry Roberts and Tennant folks-- my heart will always be devoted to you)

--And the best part? I got a letter from my cousin and a package in the mail from my sister! Thanks! Tam, I've already eaten all the fruit gushers. This pic is of some of my co-workers admiring the package from home. Don't worry! I've shared.

Some of you have asked for the mailing address:
Carmen Goetschius
c/o The Director
PO Box 23054

If you are ever in Zambia, feel free to stop by.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Please pray for my dad!

My poor dad was in a terrible accident last Thursday and has been in the hospital recovering from four broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a lacerated arm! Sad, sad, sad Papa Don! I hadn’t been able to figure out where my family was over the weekend, but I found out on Monday that they have been at the hospital. I spoke with him on the phone tonight and he is now at home, in a lot of pain, but recovering! Please keep him in your prayers!

Sunday, October 28, 2007

The rainy season began the day I got malaria

I was laying in the bathtub, icepacks on my face, when the rain began. And with the rain came the insects. You know you are sick when swarms of little winged bugs find their way into your bathroom and you watch them with utter nonchalance. I simply picked myself up, flicked off the ones that landed on me as I toweled off and shut the door behind me. Kindly, my Canadian friend Scott braved the bathroom later that night, killing all the bugs and flushed them away while I lay curled up on a chair in my living room. I am fairly well recovered now as I write this, but still have that achy feeling all over. I developed a rocking headache that was soon followed by high fevers, chills, nausea, and the like. This lasted for a couple of days, but thankfully the treatment is fast acting. I have spent the last few days sleeping. Poor me. I have had loads of visitors all bearing home remedies and diversions. The ex-pats (non-Zambians) bring movies, books, and lots of pills (to my delight) and my Zambian friends bring prayers. And they aren’t joking around when they pray. On the second day I was home sick I seriously had three different groups come to visit and took time to pray for everything imaginable—my body, my mind, my home, my drugs, my bed, etc. You name it, they prayed for it. How wonderfully kind and seriously non-western. Not the prayer part, but the visiting part. I am used to people tip-toeing around me when I’m sick, but here, people gather around and linger. It has been exhausting, but I have been well loved this week. And all the while it rained.

I've had some requests of pics of ME to prove I am alive and well, so, here you go!

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Some highlights from the Eastern Province…

I just returned to the Copper Belt (“home”) after two weeks in the beautiful hill country of Zambia. At dusk the hills look like giant dinosaurs: their scaly escarpments nestle villages and towns into their valleys like colossal protectorates. While in Chipata I took a lovely walk at sunset. The sky was a warm buttery yellow, like thick lemon frosting whipped up and spread across the heavens. The sun was the color of orange sherbet and it reminded me of the Dixie cups I ate as a child. Do you know the kind I mean? The kind with the little wooden spoon? It was one of the first moments I felt totally alive since being Zambia. Loneliness has plagued me here, and yet, as I walked alone up the red dirt hills I felt perfectly content.

Two of the ittiest bittiest toddlers I have ever seen came tottering out of a brick house with their hands outstretched, draped in colorful chetenge, their wiry black hair straining in all directions. Instinctively I knelt down and reached out to them as well. Such vivacity exuded from their every pore and I was reminded of how singly-focused children tend to be. When they are happy nothing can deter them. When they are sad they are utterly inconsolable. Maybe this is why the little HIV babies, those babies whose bellies are distended from malnutrition, whose eyes stare out hollowly from their skulls, look so painfully alien. Those babies whose affect has been replaced by the fog of hunger. Today I finished eating an ice cream cone in front of three little boys who were begging for food. It was a low point. Kangwa (the director for whom I work) told me, ”If you feel bad about this you will die. You will never make it in this world.” Even if he is right, I still felt awful. The boys’ faces were singular in their intent. They wanted my ice cream. Why couldn’t I just march back into that shop and buy them each a cone? I had the money in my pocket. Because it is a handout? Because it encourages them to remain beggars on the street? It is amazing how a scenario like this one can begin to represent all the injustice in the world. One of the boys had been severely burned and was missing an eye and an ear. And yet, this was not what perplexed me the most. It was the sweater he was wearing, rather, the sweater he was swimming in. Why on earth was he wearing a sweater during the hottest season of the year? I fear it is the only piece of clothing he owns. Unbelievable.

I’m sweating. Did you ever see that movie with Matthew McCoughnhey and Sandra Bullock that took place in summertime in the Bayou? I can’t remember the name—the courtroom drama—O, that’s right, A Time to Kill. Anyway, throughout the movie everyone glistened with sweat and I remember thinking that it looked rather seductive. I am definitely hot and definitely sweaty, but the last thing I feel is sexy! Sticky and lethargic is more like it. Even the mosquitoes are tired. Zambia is ridiculously HOT in October!

I had a nice, long conversation with Peter Mwalye, a groundskeeper at a guesthouse in Chipata. We discussed the weather, the uniqueness of village life, city life, and the legacy of colonialism. Tonight I was reminded that the political system that currently governs Africa was thrust upon them (sans Lesotho and Swaziland which have remained kingdoms). Democratic, representative government is the legacy of the colonizers and is not indigenous to the African continent. In much of the western world, democracy is a given, assumed to be the one and only proper political structure to govern a society. And yet, Africa continues to reel from the radical political and cultural transformation instituted by the colonizers, the consequence of their abrupt departure, and from the repercussions of neo-colonization brought about by economic globalization. Spearheaded by corporate managers and investors, nourished by marketers who create a climate of false-need (those who reinforce the decadence of the wealthy elite), and reinforced by those who have been tempted and buckled under political and militaristic power, fractured African society continues to struggle to survive (let alone thrive).

PCUM youth, I thought of you today!
I was touring some “conference facilities” that had dorm rooms like the ones we stayed in at Lake Champion and laughed thinking, “Emma Jenkins would be furious if she were forced to stay here.” I was picturing all the girls (Emma, Elena, Liza, Callie, etc…) crammed into one of these rooms (lizards, spiders, and mosquito nets-a-plenty) and hearing, “There is no way Carmen.” I have no idea if any of you are reading this, but please know I miss you and love you all!!! I hear that Jonathan Cornell is your new youth pastor! He is a cool guy. I am so happy for you guys!

Did you know there is a difference between rural and remote? I was privileged to spend a few days in Lundazi, a place where very few westerners actually ever find their way. It is a rural community near the border of Malawi. While Lundazi is rural, I was told that it is not technically remote (this is reserved for the villages in the bush which cannot be reached 6 months of the year because of the rainy season). Each village is composed of dozens of huts and the village is named after someone who founded the tribe or some event that occurred in the area. It was good I brought my own mosquito net because I stayed in a very modest (read: sketchy) guest house where I slept on a mattress that sunk in the middle right down to the wooden slats that were supposed to support it. Big toads hopped up and down the hallways and loads of beatles, spiders, and mosquitos joined me for the night. The people that run the place are absolutely delightful and offered wonderful hospitality. As we unpacked the car a cart pulled by two cows parked next to our vehicle. The cart was stacked high with charcoal and two gentleman brought the small black lumps to the kitchen where it will be used to boil water and prepare food. It is a strange thing to see a truck lined up alongside two bulls tethered to a wooden cart. Surreal, eh?

Good morning Animal Kingdom!
I went on a couple of game drives in South Luangwa National Park (I know, rough life). Woke up at 5 a.m. to some rustling outside and peaked outside to find a giraffe munching on some leaves outside my window. Unbelievable. You know, they chew like cows—that methodical circular motion. He didn’t seem to mind that I interrupted his breakfast and was just as interested in me as I was in him. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Parting thoughts...
I continue to be haunted by the gaunt faces of the men that stop by my house to beg for work and food, the elderly that walk for miles and miles for church or to sell firewood, the staggering unemployment that destroys the dignity of countless men who choose to lose themselves in the Zambian version of bathtub gin, and the thick haze from coal fires in the early morning. It is as if the whole sky is consumed by the poverty and sadness of the Copper Belt. I grow tired of the black smoke that pours out of blue mini-buses swerving in and out of traffic (at times striking pedestrians as they attempt to get home to their dirt floors, contaminated water, and their inexplicably hopeful families). Last week while in Lusaka I saw a row of elderly women wrapped in chetenge, mallets in hand, methodically chipping away at stone that they hope will soon adorn the paths of rich mazungu’s or the Zambian elite. I know this all sounds rather depressing, but it is difficult to report all the wonderful stories without also sharing the devastation as well. What’s the good of a witness if it isn’t honest?

Despite tremendous suffering, there is life and joy and beauty. I am awed by life’s paradox. My coworkers are hysterical and regularly assess the weight I have gained or lost, I am constantly welcomed by generous spirits wherever I go, and I have met wonderfully educated and hopeful Zambian youth who work with tenacity and compassion on behalf of those most fragile in their midst. I met a few 20-somethings who work for the Jesuit Center for Theological Inquiry who freaking rocked my world. They are unbelievably well-versed in the complexity of Zambian politics and history, development projects that are thriving and faltering, and can hold an audience captive for hours as they motivate political activism in the church. Check out their website if you like:

Monday, October 8, 2007

"A Rescuing Place"

It has been a rough couple of days. Emotionally draining anyway. I preached in a little village church on Sunday where about 50 congregants walk 8 km from the bush to attend. The service was three hours long (whew!) and we didn't leave the church until 3 p.m. (the hottest part of the day). It was pretty humbling to crawl into a car while a crowd of people twice my age began the long trek home. On Saturday morning two gentlemen stopped by the house with a sack full of hand-carved crafts. Their cheeks were gaunt and I had no doubt that whatever I bought that day would provide food for many family members. The men spoke very little English, but after our transaction one man gently laid a hand on my arm and simply said, "Hungry." I promptly went inside and made sandwiches of butter and jam. It was painful to watch them walk away, gingerly eating their meager meal. This morning someone knocked on the door and simply said, "Please. Work. Please sweep." He gestured to my lawn, suggesting I might hire him to do some work for food. It is literally impossible to describe the magnitude of the poverty here. After church yesterday we drove past the compound "Ipusukilo" which means, "a rescuing place" in Bemba. It is a compound for those who are sick, unemployed and have nowhere else to go. Many grandmothers caring for orphaned children live here. Do you want to hear something scandalous? There is a recent trend here in the Copper Belt in which women within this demographic (widows, caring for their grandchildren) intentionally contract HIV, so that they might get assistance from NGO's. Sometimes I think my heart is going to burst.

Gorgeous Hair Saloons

Hand-painted signs advertising, "Hair Saloon" are everywhere. Not hair salon, but hair saloon. Hillarious. I am pretty sure that there is no alcohol served in these joints, so I think it was originally a typo that spread like wild fire. I'll try to get some pictures to share.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Some statistics...

My friend Rochelle asked me all sorts of good questions about life in Zambia in her last email and it inspired me to offer some statistics that you might be interested in...

Most of these statsitics are from the World Health Organization. If you've got some spare time, check out their website (I've linked it here). Their information about Zambia is excellent and it is a reputable source.

- About 1 in 5 Zambians have HIV or AIDS
- The average life expectancy for men and women is just under 40 years
- 40% of the population is under the age of 16 (I have heard Zambia called "A nation of children")
- It is one of the 10 poorest countries in the world
- In Zambia you have about a 20% chance of dying under the age of 5 years
- Independence from British colonization occurred in 1964
- Since independence there have been three presidents (the national hero Kenneth Kaunda, Fredrick Chiluba (who is being investigated for corruption and fraud) and the current president, Levi Patrick Manawasa)

President Manawasa was in Seattle last week and the Times wrote the following article: Get To Know Us Zambia SaysCheck it out if you like...

Some random factoids about my life here:
1) What do I eat? I cook for myself when I am at home, but EVERYTHING tastes different. Even if the package says it is doritos or rice krispies IT IS NOT THE SAME. And what is with the metric system? I cannot figure out grams and liters for the life of me (pathetic American). When I am travelling I eat standard Zambian fare-- lots of cabbage, fried chicken and nshima (Anthony is pictured here making this delectable corn mush). Many people don't have enough money to eat meat or vegetables regularly, so their standard diet would include scones (biscuits), nshima, casava, or rice twice a day. Lots of carbohydrates!
2) What's the weather like? HOT!!! The rainy season starts in a month, so there is relief on the horizon. Zambia has three seasons-- hot, rainy, and cold, although I have a hard time believing in this mythic "cold season."
3) Do I always drink bottled water? Yes! If I don't drink it bottled, I always boil it.
4) Do I get much free time? When we are in town I work a standard Monday-Friday schedule. I get Saturdays off, which I usually spend at the local market, visiting neighboring compounds, or hanging out at my house.
5) Vacation time? Yep! My friend Peg is coming out in December and we plan to spend Christmas in Zanzibar and Tanzania. Next month I will be in Kenya for a week and I get an additional 4 weeks off for travel. Anyone want to come to Africa? I hope to get to South Africa, Namibia, Malawi, and Lesotho while I am here.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Gettin' Hitched?

I received my first marriage proposal this afternoon. In middle school my friend Jennifer Linnett predicted that I would be proposed to at least three times before I ever got married, so I guess I have two more to go. I came home early from work today to find some quiet space to write a sermon and before I had a chance to sit down at my kitchen table I heard a knock at the front door. A young man in a shirt and tie shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other and muttered a request for some water. Now, it is not uncommon for me to receive strangers at the door, particularly at lunch time (in case I have an extra PB and Jelly), so I promptly went to the fridge and poured him a glass of water. Before I had the chance to shut the door he asked if I had time for a chat. When I hesitated, he immediately suggested, “Just a few minutes please. I really need your help with something.” Dillema. “Do I chat with this guy now and offer some hospitality or do I tell him to scram?” Kindness, or guilt, or cultural confusion kicked in and I invited him in for a short conversation. To make a long (and obscenely awkward) story short, this guy told me that he had been watching me for some time and felt compelled by God to come and talk to me. He confessed that he wanted to marry a white woman and this was the problem I was supposed to solve. Needless to say, I told him that this was simply not possible. He asked if he could at least have my phone number to which I replied (bewilderment GLARING on my face), “No!” Gutsy move random stranger, but no way on God’s green earth. I went back to work to consult with my wonderful Zambian colleagues who all had a good laugh and assured me that this is not standard dating protocol. They also suggested that I keep the freaking door shut. Good advice.

And here is some other good advice: when the water that comes out of your faucet begins to smell like death it is probably a good idea to get this checked out. For the last few days when I filled the tub for my morning bath I noticed that the water smelled a little off. Yesterday it was particularly bad, so I insisted that maintenance come see to the problem. And yep, you may have guessed it. Dead rat in the hot water tank. That’s a nice image, isn’t it?

Not bad for 48 hours. A marriage proposal and sharing bath water with a decomposing animal. Awesome.


A woman named Charity comes to clean my house two days a week. She does laundry and irons everything impeccably (rids the clothes of larvae AND makes me look good). Her husband is currently unemployed, so her wage supports the entire family (five children between the ages of 8 and 15). She and I were having coffee and toast together yesterday morning and she shared some of her life story with me. Her parents died when she was small, so she and her sisters were farmed out to various family members who were less than eager for more mouths to feed. Both of her sisters are now widows and likely have AIDS. We both sat quietly, choked up. I told her, “None of this makes sense Charity.”

And none of it does.

I have already met dozens of people with stories much like hers. Hungry bellies, disease, poor health care, and rampant unemployment pervade local life. I asked her if she thought that God was present in the midst of all of this. And she said, “O yes Carmen. I cannot imagine what I would do without God. It is only because of God…” Her voice trailed off and she was lost in her own thoughts, a smile faint on her lips. I am constantly awed by the faith of those I meet.

A little futbol with the boys...

I think 4th, 5th, and 6th grade boys are the coolest. Pick-up soccer games are pretty common here, but because of my schedule I had not been able to jump into a game until Sunday. A fantastic group of about 20 boys were delighted to play some futbol with the muzungu. They were all ridiculously skilled and incredibly forgiving!

Monday, October 1, 2007

Race Course

Race Course is a compound where my new friends Richard, Mirinda, and Anthony live (they are 20, 18, and 14 respectively). They live with their grandmother and are "double orphans" (this is what children call themselves who have lost both parents). Richard invited me to attend the class he teaches on Saturday mornings (mostly life-skills and HIV prevention) and I admit I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Picture me and about 20 other Zambian kids between the ages of 12 and 18 all crammed like sardines onto little benches outside a shabby stone community center. Richard proceeded to offer a 1 hour lecture on human growth and development (using lots of hand motions to make sure I understood what was going on). Hysterical. I hadn't been in a sex-education class in about 15 years!

After the class a herd of kids and I paraded through the streets (little people pour out of the wood work when a mazungu comes to visit) to go to an HIV "sensitization" performance. Girls danced to drums and a small group of youth performed a skit encouraging the community to embrace the sick in their midst, rather than leave them to suffer alone.

No one in Race Course has running water or electricity, but the compound is full of life and laughter. Women twist one another's hair into braids while children make toy cars out of wire and plastic jugs. Boys and girls sell eggs, vegetables, and cellphone minutes in small huts built with chicken wire and cedar planks.

Anthony made nshima, which is a Zambian favorite (maze meal porridge usually eaten at lunch and dinner). He offered to share, but I know that he and his siblings budget about 3000 kwatcha a day for food (75 cents USD), so I politely refused. Humbling, is it not?