Dirty feet, stout people, evil immigration and other normal things

Here in Lusaka the main roads are made of tarmac, often dubious. The side roads are all made of mud and sand and driving along them is like being on a child’s funfair ride. Wherever you walk in Lusaka two things are guaranteed. You will get beeped at every minute or so and offered a taxi and your feet will get filthy. I know I have mentioned this a few times but you have no concept of what it is like unless you live here. I have perfected the moves of a ninja to get into bed without bringing a ton of grit with me. You dive under the mosquito net precariously perched on your bottom, desperately not letting you feet touch a thing whilst you rapidly re-tuck in the net so you do not have any uninvited guests. Only once this is done can you baby wipe your feet clean. This whole process has recently been made easier through the donation of a lamp from a colleague so now the art of ninja feet cleaning is no longer done with a wind up torch in my mouth.

Anyway I digress. You have two types of taxi’s that beep at you here. Blue taxi’s which are like out black cabs at home apart from a lot less comfortable and with no guarantee that the driver has ever heard of your destination. The others are just any old chap who owns a car. Unlike in England they are equally as unsafe and unreliable. On getting into a cab you have to sniff the driver to determine his blood alcohol level. At times they do not even hide their drinking with a beer bottle between their legs or my favourite, when you call a cab driver from a bar and find that they are drinking at table next to you. It is like Russian roulette but also just part of life here as no one is supposed to walk on the streets after 10pm and us VSO volunteers have a curfew where we are not allowed to walk after dark.

A few nights ago I was out for dinner at a friend’s house and called the VSO recognised taxi Joseph. With Joseph you are guaranteed a sober driver but also the most expensive fare in Lusaka. On entering his cab negotiations start immediately and normally continue until you arrive home. Not this night. We get into the cab and Joseph asks who my fat friend is. Now you must appreciate that in Zambia being over a size 14 is a good thing. Curvaceous women are sort after as not only are their figures found to be attractive but it is also a sign of success as you can clearly afford to feed yourself. Stifling giggles I explain to Joseph that you really cannot mention a western woman’s weight. He proceeds with a trail of verbal diarrhoea describing my co-passenger as plump, rotund, large and my favourite, stout! Thankfully me and said passenger found this hilarious and I could not speak through my laughter as Joseph asked for the ‘special’ word to describe it. He then resorted to telling me, with a disgusted look that I on the other hand was too slim. I however we very happy to be told this for the first time probably ever in my adult life!

Also this week I have had the joy of going to immigration to once again see if my work permit has arrived. Without it I am not allowed to stay in the country. When you walk in to the building you feel like you are entering a cartoon. There are people everywhere and just piles and piles of paper files all over the place. There is no logical layout to the office and not one member of staff seems able to help you. After twenty minutes explaining I was trying to find out if my work permit has arrived I am sent to a queue which leads to a small wooden ledge. On the ledge are about ten books with handwritten names in. You literally have to stand there and go through name after name to see if yours is there. After wrestling with another chap who tried to push me out the way I search through all ten books to find no joy. After further investigation I find myself sat in front of a voluptuous woman called Joy. She then looks through a lever arch file of names. Twenty minutes into this task she starts having a natter to her colleague as if I am not actually sat in front of her with steam coming out of my ears. After a 15 minute chat in Nyanja we get back to the task at hand. Finally we establish that I have been excepted but that no one has done my paperwork yet and that I am to return to the depths of hell in another two weeks. I then have to go to another room and queue to have my passport stamped. Over two hours later I leave the hideous place with the uncomfortable knowledge that I must return.

My wine terrace is coming along nicely. I now have a small table bought from a departing volunteer and most of my plants are flourishing. The only herb which has survived is parsley which distressed me as I hate the stuff. I actually pretend I am allergic to the stuff so it does not end up on my plate. It is in the same category as baked beans and Zambian Immigration. I have bought some seeds and am trying to propagate them in small water bottles. Who knew I could enjoy gardening. The only thing that could improve the terrace would be a decent bottle of wine.

Things are going well at the orphanage. This week when I walked in the babies have started to recognise me and little Joha got up in his cot and did a little dance for me whilst dribbling with joy. After clearing up the dribble we had a cuddle and looked out the window. His cot is in the middle of the room so he never gets to see outside unless you hold him at the window and he loves it. Baby Innocent who was two months premature and was the tiniest baby I have ever seen has had a growth spurt and finally looks health. I almost cried with joy and then had to remind myself I do not like children...... It also turns out the Innocent is a boy, a discovery I made when I change his nappy......The older kids have started to emulate my accent and they find it hilarious to repeat everything I say. They are also teaching me Nyanja so communication is getting easier.

Plans continue to progress with my sanitation solution in the slum in Lusaka. It is quite challenging as WASAZA does not actually have a strategy so I have been allowed to manage this project with no real knowledge of water and sanitation other than the abundance of natural gas my body seems to produce. Having said that it is brilliant to be in a role which is permanently challenging and where I am learning every day. I was going to head back to the slum this week for further research and planning but decided against it due to unrest there. It turns out a chap had invested in some local home brew, some of his pals asked to share it, when he declined they cut of his testicle to teach him about sharing!! I decided that taking the musungo show to town during this unrest was probably a bad idea so put the visit on hold for now.

Some other highlights from this week include:

·         I have a horrendous cold which seems ludicrous in such heat.

·         It is winter here which means ludicrously hot in the day and cold at night. It also means I can now sleep at night as I am not feeling like boil in the bag rice.

·         I am browner than I have ever been before and have a ton of new freckles.

·         A woman in my office sings all day, everyday and her voice is worse than my sister Amy’s. On Friday I had to ask her to stop as I thought my ears were going to bleed.

Over and out.