Africa – goodbye for now!

Home sweet home
There’s no place like home
Home is where the heart is

Yep, that’s right – I’m back in the UK! It took 36 hours, but it’s amazing to be home. I can now take baths, drink wine and eat cheese to my heart’s content – which is a very welcome change.

And was Africa what I expected? Not in the slightest. In fact, I’d only be honest if I said I never wanted to go. During selection I explicitly said I wanted to go to India, South America or South East Asia but fate had it that I was going to Zambia. I expected dire poverty from the media’s portrayal of Africa, but it’s no Save the Children advert over there. I mean it’s not exactly like The Lion King either, don’t get me wrong. There’s an element of fear which is associated with Africa; if the animals don’t kill you HIV or dirty water will. In my ignorance about Africa I was very scared to go.

Instead, just imagine a unique and beautiful place. Everything is vibrant and colourful, the people welcomed us with open arms and now I just want to go back and see more of what there is on offer. The worst that’s happened to me is that I’ve put on 4lbs, my feet have dirt embedded in them (and it may take more than just a Ped-egg to sort them out) and I’ve picked up a taste for vibrant looking patterned clothes which make me look like a hippie. I’ve also picked up Zambian phrases like ‘I’m asking for…’ which is interpreted as very rude in the UK and is always met with a disapproving stare. Also the way of telling time – ‘fifteen thirty’, which sounds like the beginning of a George Orwell novel. If that’s the worst Zambia can do, send me back in a heartbeat. I’ve managed to go there without getting malaria, being attacked or raped or put in any dangerous situation at all.

As my African chapter closes, my Italian one opens. I’m due to fly out to Bologna on Saturday, and I still have nowhere to live. In fact I’m not prepared in the slightest. The year in Italy seems more daunting now than Africa ever was. As long as I have a house with a balcony, however, there’ll be no problems over there. Except that I’ve decided to study Russian, which I have never studied before and will be taught in Italian. Sounds like I’ve set myself a good challenge, right? My excitement levels are very rapidly rising to live abroad once again.

As the proverb goes – ‘a change is just as good as rest’ and I can only second it.

And as a last piece of advice – if you ever get the chance take a shower in Dubai airport. They’re something else, trust me.

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Clubbing in Zambia, a bit of a ‘zambitious’ escapade…

Binge drinking seems to have become an adopted trait into British culture, and is now an unspoken duty we all have to perform. So, like a true Brit (as it would seem), we decided to introduce it to Zambia. It’s only fair to do some form of cross-cultural exchange after two months of being here…

There are two clubs in Choma, so we were spoilt for choice when choosing where to go. Because of our 8pm curfew, we had to negotiate our first extension to go out. There are a few times during your early teenage years when you finally feel ‘grown-up’: your parents may let you go to the local shopping centre or catch the bus into town on your own, and these pangs of restrained independence from my youth are coming back to me. It was finally decided that my host dad would accompany me and Nush (my UK counterpart) to a club; to make sure we were safe and looked after – with the promise of free drinks for his time. Charitable gesture, I know.

So the plan was set in motion. On Saturday night we were meeting our dad at the local club called DC’s. I’m not too sure what DC stands for, but I’m thinking: ‘da club’, ‘definite chunder’ (I’m more inclined to this name after seeing the state of the bathroom), ‘drinking compulsory’ (because you wouldn’t want to go there sober) or ‘dancing central’. Bouncers stood at the door which was nice to see, but the whole interior was covered in mirrors. You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing yourself at a different angle, which is really off-putting. I felt like I’d entered a time warp from the 1980’s. And to top it all off, there was even a huge disco ball right in the middle of the dance floor.
Admittedly, there were a few reasons why I didn’t approve of the mirrors. Firstly, I’d spent the whole day at a swimming pool, so I was rocking the ‘drowned rat’ look. Secondly, I hadn’t been home all day so I had to take my rucksack along too which contained a towel, swimsuit and a spare change of clothes. As me and Nush were the only white people inside the club (as well as the youngest), we couldn’t have looked more conspicuous. Seeing ourselves in mirror kingdom made us more self-conscious. In fact, the only other way we could have drawn more attention to ourselves was if we began a mosh pit in the centre of the dance floor. Not only was I barging into everyone wherever I went, but carrying such a heavy load made for some awkward manoeuvring (or dancing, but I talk enough about that).

The fact that our host dad chaperoned us everywhere we went also created some awkwardness, to say the least. The only solution was for us to drink more, and (thankfully) it paid off. Within half an hour there was our programme supervisor and host dad, as well as my work supervisor dancing around us. That’s the English equivalent of having your parents, boss at work and an old teacher or lecturer at uni having a cheeky dance with you in a club. The situation wasn’t strange enough, but the club wasn’t your usual drinking place either. The average age of everyone inside must be about 40. The audience for clubbing is definitely not the same as what it is in the UK. A ‘student night’ here would be a strategic way for the management to have a day off. Instead, just have lots of mirrors and old men, littered with a handful of concubines stationed at the end of the bar and you’ve got yourself a Zambian club.

I can only call the experience a bit surreal.

And what were the consequence of such a wild night out? Two potentially broken toes, a terrible hangover and being the butt of the joke from my seniors about drunken behaviour, that’s what. It all adds to the adventure, after all.

‘And then it came off in my hand’ – the circumcision story.

As soon as I walk into work, it’s one of the first things I see. Every day there’s a fresh load hanging there without fail. You could mistake these bits of fabric for bed sheets if it wasn’t for the blood-stained peepholes. Within a few days of working in my placement I learnt what they do: ensure a clean circumcision.

Just in Zambia around 30% of all males are circumcised, so it’s quite a big deal. Circumcision is supposed to lessen the risk of contracting HIV by 60%, as well as cancer, warts and herpes. It’s also a sure way of maintaining a high level of personal hygiene. And best of all, it’s a free operation provided by the Ministry of Health. The government hope to circumcise every man from birth in the near future – and with the HIV epidemic, this seems to be an effective method of combatting the spread of the virus. The actual operation takes between 20-30 minutes, in which the foreskin is cut off and the rest sewn back together whilst the patient is awake and under local anesthetic.

As I was lucky enough to be placed in a clinic which offers circumcision, it would be silly of me not to witness the operation first-hand. In my ignorance, I only thought Jewish and Muslim men were circumcised before I came to Zambia. But here, all males are offered the service from the age of 5+. So during a shopping trip to Spar, a mum can just drop her kids off at the clinic and by the time she’s done they’ll be nicely circumcised.

Before all you men go on plaiting your legs, the operation isn’t that bad. Each man has counseling and HIV testing before the operation, as well as a check-up afterwards to make sure the stitching is healing. All the operation involves is a few injections, cutting and sewing back together. That’s all there is to it. As I went in for one hour, I saw four circumcisions take place. One man was around 20 years old; the other three were between the ages of 7-11. The eldest spent the whole time with his arms covering his eyes, wincing and muffling curses to himself. The three children weren’t so bothered and embraced the pain free moment. I mean, the anesthetic won’t last forever.

After surgery the men are given a packet of paracetamol and are sent on their way. I don’t think circumcision even comes close to childbirth, even though I can’t speak on behalf of either accounts. No woman would ever be content with a course of paracetamol during labour, let’s just say. After the op the men hurriedly leave the surgery and, with no doubt, rush back home before the pain really begins.

At first I disregarded the sheets I’ve grown used to walking past every day, but now I see them as proud flags of the circumcision movement. If a small operation can prevent the spread of HIV, then it’s worth promoting and supporting. And since learning about circumcision, I’ve found a lot of respect for anyone who goes through with it. At the end of the day, if anyone is proactive enough to prevent the spread of one of the world’s deadliest viruses, they deserve the acknowledgment for the good (yet painful) work they put themselves through.

A Learning Journey

As my host mum puts it, we were like new born babies when we first arrived in Zambia, introduced into the world for the first time. Our cultures are worlds apart, and the nature and manners of each respective country can be easily misunderstood. After six weeks I’ve discovered the truth of this analogy. The tiniest of chores in the UK become the most laborious task in Zambia. Forget about using hoovers, dishwashers, washing machines and showers – everything here is done manually or not at all.

We’ve all had to learn the ways of Zambia quite quickly. And here are just a few of the things I’ve learnt so far:

        I.            I’m easily scared. In fact, that’s an understatement. I have a panic attack each time someone walks past me in the dark. There are no streetlights around Choma, so when the sun sets there’s no chance of seeing anything at all – be it a metre or a mile away. During the walk home at night it becomes a skill to use a torch to guide your way and not fall over (which I’ve done quite often) whilst watching for cars and people. Cars drive about with full beam headlights so you’re still blinded by the time you reach home. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

      II.            I’ll never understand or be able to write down African names. After doing a bit of clinical work: doing malaria tests and registering new patients, putting pen to paper was the most difficult thing. In fact, that small task alone made my work twice as long as it should have been.  Mbweda Hamudede is (and will never be) easy to grasp.

    III.            I’m not invincible to mosquito bites. Nor do I have malaria. After spending two days in Livingstone, I received my first fifteen bites since being here. I don’t normally react to bites, but these bad boys have swelled and blistered into some fine looking sores. Ever since I’ve been paranoid about contracting malaria, and as a result I paid my first two visits to the Doctors. Both confirmed that I suffered from hypochondria rather than malaria and each time I was laughed out of the surgery. Apparently it takes two weeks from being bitten for malaria to be present in the blood, so watch this space.  My mosquito net is up now on my bed, so I have (what looks like) a gauze tent to sleep in.

    IV.            I love the UK. And with each day that goes by I miss it more and more. I don’t miss it in the sense that I want to come back and never leave again, but I’m beginning to get butterflies at the thought of going to the pub, eating a curry and buying a bottle of wine. Even having a proper bath. It’s the normal, everyday things that I can’t wait to come home for. If a bucket shower has taught me anything, it’s that you begin to appreciate a proper shower like never before.

      V.            Nollywood (Nigerian film) isn’t quite the same as Hollywood. I don’t think words can convey just how terrible Nollywood drama is. You can tune into movies like ‘Orange Girls’ on mainstream TV. I mean, how politically incorrect is that? I doubt the guys at ITV2 will be in a hurry to change the name of The Only Way is Essex anytime soon. I couldn’t quite get over how bad the acting was; let alone the theme music, location and the general message of the film. I doubt an international audience will be exposed to the Nollywood masterpiece just yet. Apparently ‘Zollywood’ is just as good. Unfortunately, I’m not sold to the idea.

    VI.            I’m a bit of a klutz. So far I’ve broken: a plate, a bowl, two mugs, the washing bucket, my mosquito net, a friend’s book, my bag (blame the Shake-Shake), and a mirror. I’ve also dropped lunch for three people straight onto the floor. It’s not that I mean to do it, but these things just fall out of my hands. I need plastic cutlery and hazard lights when I come back home.

So as my journey in Africa continues, so does my path to self-discovery. Some days are difficult, but who ever said that infancy was a walk in the park?

Shake-Shake, cereal for adults.

It’s a one litre carton, blue and white in colour with ‘Shake-Shake’ written along its sides. That’s all there is to it. There’s no telling of its exact alcohol content or what it is. All that is definite is its cheap price (about 35p), strong alcoholic smell and huge sales margin. Empty cartons litter every street, and because water isn’t as cheap as Shake-Shake in some parts of Choma, it’s a bargain. Even more so if you want to get drunk. I imagine that this potion would do the trick very quickly.

I was intrigued as to this drink, so I decided to give it a try.

You can’t buy it from the bigger retail places like Spar (sounds dodgy enough already, doesn’t it?) so I had to find a backstreet tavern instead. These taverns are full of men and women supping on Shake-Shake like it’s pop. The first thing I noticed in the tavern was the smell. It hit me like a smack on the nose. The only way I can describe it is like sour milk and yeast, mixed with spirits. It’s definitely not the most welcoming of scents. Nor did it make me want to buy a carton. But it was a Friday, and we all know what Friday is famous for.

So I bought some, and set off on my way to try it. The smell travelled with us, and didn’t leave for the rest of the night. As if Shake-Shake isn’t pungent enough, the carton leaked all over my bag. My bag and all its contents were swamped by Shake-Shake. I guess I’ll never be able to ‘shake off’ the smell now, with it being a reminder of the not-so classy elements of Zambia.

Shake-Shake also has the appearance of vomit. Its dark brown in colour, has a thick consistency with black and white lumps to give it a unique texture. I asked the barmaid what exactly Shake-Shake is, she says it’s fermented maize. As maize is in absolutely everything here and is the staple food source, fermenting it is probably the cheapest way of producing alcohol.

I know I’m not doing a good job of selling the stuff but I Shake-Shake is probably the most popular alcoholic drink in Zambia. And there’s no better way of understanding a culture than by doing what the locals do. You know, ‘When in Rome’. When buying I was offered sugar and milk to add, to ‘enhance the flavour’. I was definitely about to try fermented Weetabix. Shake-Shake is cereal for adults; less nutritious but gets you drunk just the same.

Unfortunately I didn’t drink enough to get me drunk. It’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever tried. It’s sweet but sour, and makes you do the spirit shudder as it goes down your throat. I had a slight preconception that I wouldn’t enjoy it too much, so I got someone to capture the damage. My Shake-Shake experience wasn’t a pleasant one, nor was it for the rest of the group. The barmaid, however, had a field day when I gave her the rest of the carton. ‘Fresh, this one’, she tells me and proceeded to drink it in one. If that carton was a good one, I’d hate to think of what a bad one’s like.

You’ll not be finding me in a Shake-Shake bar (or setting one up in the UK) anytime soon.

Livingstone

To mark the halfway point of our Zambian journey we went to Livingstone for the weekend. Livingstone is named after a Scotsman, lays on the border to Zimbabwe and has many exotic animals at its doorstep. Not to mention it’s the home of the Victoria Falls, one of the seven wonders of the natural world. As a result Livingstone is the busiest city in Zambia and is full to the brim of tourists.

We had the best time once we were there.

Getting there was slightly problematic, however. The coach for 26 people arrived, with capacity to hold 15 people at a push. Unless some people clung to the roof, there was no way of transporting us together. We spent about two hours faffing about how to get everyone there in one piece, and a speeding taxi was the answer.

We stayed in ‘Bagpackers Lodge’ in the centre of Livingstone. As you may have guessed from the name, we saw many travellers staying there from all over the world. The hostel was full of colour, had a swimming pool and running showers. After six weeks I forgot about the concept of showering. A bucket ‘shower’ is incomparable. We had no curfew for the weekend (did I ever mention there was an 8pm curfew every night in Choma?) and did we take advantage of it! After doing a few hours of ‘training’ for the Mid-Phase Review, we could use our free time to explore what the city had to offer.

There were bars, pubs, food places in abundance. After eating Nshima every day, it was nice to eat some different food. Cheese and mushrooms were my biggest cravings (after considering myself as adopted by the French, I see it as sacrilege that I haven’t eaten so much as a morsel of cheese or drank a drop of wine in six weeks. Something had to be done about it). I ended up having a meal at the Italian (oh so typical), and it was divine. I’m more excited for my year over there. Only six more weeks to go!

Not only was I bowled over by the food, wordly company and the animals, but on the Sunday we visited the Falls. Pictures just don’t do it justice. Admittedly, when I first arrived I did think I’d seen more impressive water displays within Dubai airport. However after walking onwards for a mile or so the water begins to fall more freely. Despite being in the dry season, the mist cools your face as you walk along and it feels as if you’re walking in rain. It’s true that you can view the falls from twenty kilometres away just from the mist hovering over the Zambezi River, and with the humidity in Livingstone a bit of coolness is always welcome. As if that’s not reason enough to see the Victoria Falls, the view is also spectacular. Baboons run freely along the top (we saw a small herd of elephants too on the way) who provide some entertainment by ransacking the bins, stealing bags and causing havoc! From walking along the top of the Falls, it’s also possible to walk three kilometres down to the ‘Boiling Point’ where the water flows under the Victoria Bridge. Because of the high velocity of the falling water, it’s possible to do white water rafting, swim in the small rock pools and watch people bungee jump from the Victoria Bridge. These are definitely three reasons why I should go back. Not to mention how much better the falls would look during Rainy season, when the Zambezi River is full.

After the Victoria Falls, we went to a rehabilitation centre for lions and cheetahs which were all hand tamed and getting ready to be released back into the wild. It was amazing to see such spectacular animals up close, but I couldn’t help but leave Livingstone with the feeling that I hadn’t seen or done everything I had originally wanted to do. Not only at the Victoria Falls, but I wanted to see different animals, do a safari, go to the crocodile farm and visit the markets.

If anything, the two days at Livingstone has made me want to go travelling more and more.

I’ll definitely be paying another visit in the future.

The art of doing nothing (and becoming the most boring person ever)

It’s been a month today since we first set off, and the mosquito has finally appeared to give us a late greeting. They’ve appeared in swarms – their dense population can only mean they’re making up for lost time. Besides that, little has happened this week. The weather is approaching 30 degree heat as we make our way into summer, and the team has been hit by its first, second and third malaria case. We’re dropping like flies at the hands of the ‘big M’, and (as we all know) even Cheryl Cole couldn’t sing/mime her way out of that one. I’m afraid to say, however, that we’re slipping into a routine which makes any blog quite boring. There’s nothing new or exciting to tell you. Despite my best efforts at conjuring up something to talk about, I’m rapidly losing hope.

So now I’ve set the tone for a boring blog, I’d better continue on the same vein. I’ve mainly spent this week thinking about how the time spent in Zambia has disappeared into nothing. It feels like someone pressed the ‘fast forward’ button from the moment we stepped off the plane. We’ve all been that person at some point to comment ‘how time moves fast’, and this time it’s me. A whole month has dissolved into what feels like a week of orientation.

Then again, my sleeping pattern puts fifty years on me. I’m going to bed at 9pm. That’s an 8o’clock bedtime in the UK to wake up at half 6. I don’t think I’ve slept this well since infancy. But I’m shattered at the end of the day, what with the heat and all. Beer only sends me comatose. And because we spend the end of each day in the local pub (Choma Hotel), I’ve taken to drinking every day. It’s a habit I need to get out of pretty sharpish.

It’s not all doom and gloom though (I’m not turning into some Sleeping Beauty because I’m bored out of my brain.) A useful practice I have picked up on is HIV testing, and I took my first one on Tuesday. As I’m spending my working week going into schools and telling them to be proactive about their health (‘graduate with A’s, not AIDs’ type thing), I thought it was better to lead by example. There’s some high-tech equipment out in Zambia to test. It only takes 5 minutes and a prick on the finger to know if you have HIV or not. The test is a lot like one for pregnancy in the sense that it’s two lines if you’re positive, one if negative. And (fortunately) I’m HIV-. Although I was called ‘Meng’ on my test, which is a new name to add to my list. Nice one.

I’ve also spent some time trying to discover the local culture. You know – try the cuisine, wear the clothes and so on. The weirdest thing I’ve come across yet (and had the misfortune to try) is a bag of soil. I’m told that soil contains iron, so I suppose it’s the reason why so many people eat it. It costs 6p for a bag, but even that confuses me. Why pay to eat the ground? I only thought that worms and burrowing animals would appreciate a good munch of the earth, but I’ve been proven wrong. After eating it, I can in all honesty say I’m not enamoured. The taste reminded me of the wind, and how it has this tendency to leave an awful aftertaste of grit and dust in my mouth. I may as well have stood open mouthed by the roadside for a few hours, waiting for the wind and passing vehicles to kick up some dust. I certainly won’t be in a hurry to bring a bag back home.

The last eventful moment of the past week is when I met the house spider, or should I say the 11th resident of the Sibbili household living in the bathroom. It’s already shed its skin 3 times in less than a week and lingers around the light fixture, sizing up its prey. Judging by the growth rate so far, it won’t be long before it’s big enough to consume me whole.



So now I’ve filled you all in on the most exciting aspects of the past week, I can only hope something meatier comes to pass within the next few days.

But for now, happy Yorkshire day!! White rose, white rose forever. I’ll celebrate with a bread cake.