The snow is falling back home. Ski resorts are open and there is the ever-present talk that this ski season is going to be the season of all seasons. Sitting in Africa, sweat dripping from my face as I sit and type on a computer, snow sounds good - any amount. Enough to ski would be nice - but any to cool the place down a bit would be welcome. I think I miss snow so much that I have started to see things.

I swear cars here have ski racks. I wouldn't really blame anyone here with a rack on their car. In my personal opinion, the ski rack is as necessary to any car as the rear-view mirror or windshield wiper. Probably more so. You have three mirrors standard to see the cars around you - definitely overkill. Two windshield wipers are nice - but who hasn't had them both become absolutely useless in the snow - having to reach out the window and give them a good snap to shake off the ice and rime while speeding down the highway. Useless. Ski racks, however, are indisputably useful. How else are you going to pack the car fully of buddies and post-ski beverages and carry all the necessary gear to shred the gnar during the day? You aren't. Its that simple. Don't get me wrong here, I'm not hating on African cars with ski racks - to the contrary. I know my car in Colorado looked naked without a ski rack. Driving inside of a naked car can make one feel very self-conscious and I don't recommend it.

There aren't any mountains around with enough snow to ski for thousands of miles. Simply mentioning the word snow here makes most people cringe. On certain days I would guess about 2-5% of 4x4s I see on the road have ski racks. Next time you are stuck in traffic, count 50 cars, imagine yourself in Africa, infinitely far from snow, and picture at least one of those cars with a ski rack. Are you losing it? I want to shake the hand of the African drivers with ski rack laden vehicles. I want to congratulate them. I would then ask if they knew what the rack on top of their car was for. I would guess only 2-5% would get the answer right.

I made the mistake of sharing my ski rack theory with visitors. With their eyes scanning the road, we managed to see nothing but the normal cars one would expect in Africa - all rack-less. Embarrassed and disgraced, I was sure that I've been seeing things. Maybe my yearning for snow is causing me to hallucinate. I would have agreed, and caved to the snickers of my fellow skiers looking unsuccessfully for ski rack laden cars on the streets of Dar Es Salaam, if it weren't for a sign from the ski gods themselves.

Walking down the dusty, sweaty streets of Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, I stumbled across the answer. Thinking I was day dreaming of the white stuff and mountains again, I caught the word 'skiing' out of the corner of my eye. Sitting on a small table displaying shoe-shine accessories, with no cover, but in otherwise fantastic condition, lay a 1960 edition of the Encyclopedia of Skiing. If I thought my visions of ski racks was slightly eccentric, now I was sure that I am not fit for a life without snow. With my non-existent Swahili and the the shoe shiner's none-existent English, I left the conversation with more questions than I started. For 5000 Tanzanian shillings, however, or the equivalent of $US3.30, we conducted a transaction that made both of our days - no, probably our entire month. I finally have proof that I'm not losing it. Now I just have to hunt down a picture of one of those forsaken African cars with a ski rack. Then I can be positive that I'm not delusional.

In the meantime - I will continue to pray for snow, here, in the heart of Africa.

You know you are in Africa when...

mmmm, lunch

- You strap a dead goat carcass to the roof of a car. This isn't because you have accidentally hit a farmer's goat or are clearing the road of road kill. It’s a work mates gift for his wife back home.

- Training for clinicians and nurses in a rural clinic is ended early due to elephants. Everyone walking or biking home needs to be given plenty of time to avoid the section of road that elephants usually cross on their daily trek to the river in the dry season.

- You realize you have multiple options when being pulled over by a police officer (all of which involve arguing extensively):
1) You pay full price for a ticket and get a receipt, which depending on the offense, can easily be $50 on the spot. I believe there is a way to contest a ticket in court, but would require navigating an INTENSE bureaucracy.
2) Talk your way into a warning.
3) Negotiate with the policeman to pay a 'fine' that is a fraction of the ticket. No receipt. The money goes directly into the policeman's pocket. This amount can be 10-25% of the value of the fine, and the policeman is perfectly happy to go home with more money to feed his family or buy himself a beer.

There is a 4th option I haven't tried: not stopping. The police officer's here either have checkpoints where you slow down to talk to them, or are waiting at the top of a hill and wave you over to the shoulder. Note that police officers here very rarely have cars or guns (In fact, if you call after a robbery, usually the first question is whether they were/armed with a gun or not, and the second, only if the answer to the first is in the negative, is to ask for gas money or a ride to pick up the officer and take them to the scene of the crime). What if you just didn’t stop when the officer flagged you down? They are on foot... You have a car...

- The center and shoulder lines on a highway are painted by hand. Using string, rocks and small paint brushes (one size up from Bob Ross). And the highway is still open. Can you imagine painting all the road markings from Boston to Washington D.C. on I-95 by hand?

- You realize that all the fancy T-shirts sporting American slogans have ZERO bearing on the personality of the wearer. I'm talking about Madonna T-shirts on large black men. The next time you design a T-shirt with a clever / risque saying, please picture a 12 year old African boy wearing the shirt - because that's where it will eventually end up.

- You aren't sure what the most dangerous part of driving in Africa is because there are so many options:
1) Goats (or larger animals) bolting across the road at random times
2) Attempting to overtake a slow-moving truck on a two-lane highway and having to stop due to a cow in the other lane.
3) Potholes that will debilitate your car. Seriously, some of the potholes on the main highways span both lanes of the road, are at least 5 ft in width and 2 ft in depth.
4) Trucks that break down all the time and at the worst sections of road - like going uphill around a corner. There is no shoulder, so the truck is stopped in your lane, requiring you to swerve into the lane of oncoming traffic. You know in advance by a few branches cut and placed carefully in the middle of the road. The truck driver is sleeping underneath his vehicle or sitting by a fire on the shoulder.

Oh could this list go on!

Lions, Tigers and Bears, Oh My: um, African version

How much has Western culture invaded the far reaches of the globe? Will their soon be Starbucks and McDonald's on every street corner? The first thing that comes to mind in terms of Westernization is this most obvious of sights - the Golden Arches, CocaCola, a Nike Swoosh. But what about those places still considered remote - what about the wild, the bush, the African game reserves?

If you have never been on Safari, its because 1) you haven't been to Africa or 2) you can't afford it. Most of the safaris in Africa are highly regulated and pricey. They cater to jet-setting travelers with little heed to the amount of money they are spending or how much is actually going to the local population - just as long as they are guaranteed to see lions, leopards and rhinos in their 3 day African experience and go home happy. Most guided safari trips range from hundreds to thousands of dollars each day.

And yet, most of the local population has never seen an elephant or a lion. For most of them, it's not on the list of things to do. If they live in a city, its after years, if not generations of struggle against the bush and its native inhabitants. Going camping for the thrill to see a lion is not a popular local activity. The push to protect African wildlife seems almost hypocritical, after most first world nations have completely wiped out any large animal populations of their own. Don't get me wrong, I am all for protection of the environment, flora and fauna and majestic locations, including the amazing diversity of life and terrain that Africa offers, but I can't help but think of this of just one more hypocrisy the developed world holds over the developing.

Last weekend we helped count game in a National Park in Zimbabwe. On foot. Amidst lions and leopards and hippos, oh my. No ranger. No guide. No gun. Two feet, three fellow expat companions, a pair of binoculars and a GPS. There aren't many places left on the globe that allow for this amount of freedom in the wild. We joined in 3 walks of about 3-5km each, counting as many of anything that moved that we could. One group of 40, we combed a large swath of land near the Zambezi river densely packed with wildlife. Even in our camp, hippos would emerge from the river and waddle by the tents. A giant elephant stopped to make sure we knew he was boss by marking his territory 15 ft from our tents, and the proceeded to park himself between us and the bathroom for most of the night. Water buffalo hung out in the trees just beyond the camp throughout the day. Baboons knocked our tents over while we were out - looking for food or just to create a bit of mischief. Hyenas and jackals regularly prowled the camp at dusk. A few of the groups got a ranger with a gun when going through the known danger areas, but many groups saw lions and leopards during their walks - without a guide. And often, it isn't the lions and leopards that are the most dangerous animals, but the herds of buffalo and mother elephants that pose the greatest threat. We had a ranger for our first walk that took us through the 'badlands', where a 25 strong lion pride roamed. He wielded a rifle that looked like it came from WWI. When asked how many bullets he was carrying, he said 30. I doubt it. When asking the seasoned veterans of the camp about risks or dangers, lions were almost the last think that came to mind - but the mantra was always go slow and be careful. They haven't had an incident in the 20+ years they have held the count. An impressive safety record indeed. None of them thought of the game count as a particularly dangerous activity, and were eager to ask what animals each group saw after their walks. This makes me think, how much of the 'fear' of the bush is instilled from one off stories and stupid mistakes - ala Grizzly Man. Given the right amount of knowledge and preparedness, is walking through the bush no less dangerous than the crime ridden streets of Johannesburg? Is this just one more Western way imposing itself? Are most African parks protecting themselves from lawsuit happy foreigners rather than protecting the foreigners from the charismatic mega-fauna that live there? Or was what I did last weekend really, really dumb?

Rural Africa

Its amazing how quickly you adapt to your surroundings, and how quickly your reality can be swept away. I awoke this morning to the bleating of goats, the crows of roosters, and the screaming of children. Here, in the rural town of Luangwa, I truly feel like I am in Africa. From my room, I overlook the confluence of the Luangwa and Zambezi rivers, dividing the land into Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Zambia. A warm breeze blows off the river, cooling the hot afternoon. Dusty green and brown trees cover the rolling hills. The occasional baobob tree stands out in the distance as a link to ancestral times.

My room is sparse. It has two beds with mosquito nets dangling over them, swaying in the afternoon breeze. The stuffing is coming out of the worn sponge mattress. A barren light bulb dangles in the center of the room, wiring akimbo. There is a table with two chairs. A curtain divides the bathroom - an open concrete floor with a showerhead, a sink, and a toilet. This place is plush - toilet seats are a luxury, and when the water is running, the toilet flushes! There is no hot water, but the need for warm water is questionable in this heat. Cleanliness is a state of mind.

There are animals of all sorts in my room. Tiny ants with attention-deficit-disorder cover the bathroom floor, moving to and fro randomly at amazing speeds. Larger ants, not nearly as numerous, have taken over the bathroom walls. A few poor out of the sink faucet when the water is first turned on. Even larger ants, only a few, can be found hiding in the main room, taking refuge from spiders of all shapes and sizes, geckos on the walls - both inside and outside the room - and a few wasps unhappily trapped inside the screen windows, confused and frustrated. There is a cockroach that inhabits the recess behind the shower faucet. Forget about the large animals thatare occasionally spotted outside - lions, elephants, and hippos.

My room overlooks a hidden valley along the river, and from a secluded rock outcropping I can peer down on village life - safe from the stares of kids who have only ever seen a handful of white folk and the incessant greetings of kids proudly practicing their English. Twenty circular mud huts with conical grass roofs are dotted along a dirt hillside which drops to the river. The architecture is the same as my room, just smaller, with no windows and I doubt a toilet with a seat. The garden is full of kids shuttling buckets of water from the river to the straight green rows of vegetables. Clothes hanging on lines add color to the landscape, swinging softly in the breeze. Screams and hollers abound. A young kid runs over to the edge of the village, his pants around his ankles in the blink of an eye. Off he runs to join his friends, his business done. Chickens and goats mind themselves among the huts, avoiding roving gangs of children. Women
stroll from hut to hut, or have gathered to prepare a meal.

I check my email on my phone.

The scene is entrancing, soothing - or perhaps that's the cool wind bringing peace to the end of a string of long days. We installed solar power in a nearby clinic today. We installed our shiny, new
solar panel next to three old ones on the roof. Each looked like the panel itself still worked, but the lighting and radio systems they supported do not. I'm told they are only a few years old, but the batteries are trashed, the light bulbs burned out. A charge controller and 1kW inverted sit by idly, unconnected, unloved, and collecting dust. The work may not have been shoddy to begin with, but looks it now, with wires hanging left and right, some spliced randomly together in unexpected ways. The power provided by Luangwa town, not more than a 10 minute drive from the clinic, is unavailable. The nearest power line is probably within 1-2 km of the clinic. The thermal power produced in the area is exported to Mozambique, but not connected to villages just as close by.

There are many things here that warm the heat, and many that tear it apart.

During our stay a part of the generator for the town's electricity failed, and a replacement needed to be shipped from the capital. The power company, Zesco, kindly posted hand-written fliers on trees throughout town explaining the issue. When the note mentions the need to find alternative means to find fresh food - you know it could be awhile before you hear the hum of electricity again...

Dirty Guinea Pigs and Spider's Brains: Teaching Computers in Rural Africa

Ten blank, staring faces answered my question for me, 'Who has ever
used a computer before?'

It took some thought, a bit of trial and error, some creativity, and lots of patience during my first week of trainings in Zambia. We are installing a data entry system using touch screen computers in rural Zambian clinics. The touch screen is connected to a server that uses the local cell network to communicate with a central server in the capital, relaying messages back and forth between clinics and the cell phones of Community Health Workers (CHWs) - members of the community trained in basic first aid and health care, who walk or bike between villages referring the sick to the clinic and following up with patients sent home from the clinic to find out whether or not they got better. The week encompassed training both the clinic workers on entering paper forms into a touch screen computer, and teaching CHWs how to use their phone to electronically record referrals and follow ups.

Many of those attending the trainings traveled incredible distances - biking up to 25km one way from home - getting up at 4am to be somewhere by 7:30am - hoping to get a meal or some sort of sustenance at the training session. Early morning energy and enthusiasm quickly faded mid afternoon as people started thinking about the journey home and their stomachs began to grumble. This left a short window within which to train. I discovered that a large chunk of the window on the first day needed to be dedicated to introductions, games, ice breakers, or anything that gets people involved, willing to ask questions, or happy to share their thoughts. Used to rote learning, I was not going to teach a class of parrots: "Repeat after me…" Breaking this habit, if for only one or two days, was challenging, to say the least.

I thought it would help speaking the national language - English. My opaquely thick American accent, however, often drew blank looks until my words were translated from American English to Zambian English - or Nyanja - or Bemba - or Tonga depending on the trainees origins. I
found that I needed to got creative.

To illustrate the term guinea pig, I created the analogy of an extremely dirty local rodent, and testing a new soap. If the soap cleaned the rodent, it worked. If the rodent remained dirty, the soap was a failure. Seeing those 'aha' moments makes it completely worth it - and hopefully I didn't unintentionally give the impression animal testing isn't overly abundant back home...

I explained a computer network as a spider's web, with the spider knowing where each of 10 flies on the web were located and whether they were ready to be eaten or not. This was our central server communicating via the 'web' to each of the clinics.

I used the age old ice breaker of spelling your name with your hips.

All in all - I think everyone left the training sessions enriched, myself included. There is now a growing cadre of tech savvy Zambians, at first afraid to touch a touch screen computer. Hopefully they learned something valuable, both in terms of using technology to make their jobs easier, and how to use it to improve health outcomes in rural Zambia.

Solar Power Angels and Demons

Pumulani means rest in Nyanja. The name of a local solar power training school, it is the motto espoused by the head instructor, a Dutch expat who started the school in response to demand and insight from the solar power company he and his wife run in the capital of Lusaka. His enterprise is truly amazing, but is dwarfed by his ambitions.

The school recently opened on their farm, isolated in the bush halfway between Kafue and Lusaka. Footprints of Duiker, Kudu, and Civet can be found in the dirt surrounding the complex, a large building complete enough to have started classes. After meeting the owner of the school, I imagine the school will be a work in progress for years to come, a playground of sorts for him to experiment with and teach renewable energy to the Zambian population and to further his own personal desire to tinker.

I was lucky enough to join one of the week long training courses in solar power. The class spanned from the theory of solar power to the design of solar power systems, including installation, maintenance, and troubleshooting. The classroom sessions quickly led to hands on experiments with solar panels and batteries. The entire class constructed a full-blown system to power any number of devices by the week's end.

There is a dire need for such expertise here. Knock off solar panels can be found in the cramped tin roofed market stalls, which may or may not be sold with all of the equipment required to make them work properly. Prices for the same equipment and installation vary dramatically between different local companies - some of whom may or may not actually know what they are doing. The training is open to anyone: rival company's, technicians, engineers, and even consultants like me - all in the name of spreading information and giving people power.

Their aim isn't just to create a school, but a center of renewable energy. They want to create a playground just off the main road at one edge of the farm, with games and toys designed to teach the basic mechanisms of renewable energy to youth in addition to the typical swings and slides. 'Instill it in them early,' as advocated by the proprietor. They are constructing a number of simple chalets for students during their course, for 'fewer distractions and better focus on the material taught.' His farm currently boasts a number of clever designs, including borehole pump powered by a solar panel that tracks the sun as it moves across the sky, a solar thermal hot water heater, and a fish pond provided with a stream of water from a solar powered pump - his goal is to completely power his farm and house off the Zambian grid, which can prove to be finicky at times, to say the least.

As of 2006, only 19% of Zambians had electricity. 49% of the urban population was electrified, 3.2% of the rural areas were. In a country with as sparse a rural population, getting electricity to the far reaches of the country is a daunting, if not impossible task for the foreseeable future.

One interesting conversation the class continually came back to, was theft of the panels. Evidently solar panels go like hot cakes once installed. One of the larger cell network providers here had to abandon solar powered cell phone towers in remote areas altogether. Their first installations showed the lack of consideration for theft, with panels in easily accessible and maintainable locations near the bottom of the towers. The next revision included a raised installation surrounded by a fence and barbed wire. The last revision reverted to a generator with a refueling truck making rounds to ensure the generators never die.

Another story told of a rural clinic powered by solar energy. When the in-charge discovered the panels had been stolen, the clinic was promptly closed with the promise not to reopen until the panels were returned. The panels were back in place 2 days later, and the clinic was reopened. The difference between these two stories conveys the mentality and approach needed to be successful here. Community trumps technology. Anything can be stolen by one means or another - but it takes the strength and unity of everyone for mutual security. In order to get the backing of the community, however, your system has to benefit the community in tangible ways.

We are installing solar power in a number of clinics - but its only to power a data collection system. There are no additional lights, vaccine fridges, or any immediate visible benefits from our solar power installation. In the long term, there is a great potential for the data system to improve health outcomes - the goal of the project is to reduce under five mortality by 30% within 5 years. How can you instill long term appreciation in the local population now, however,
when the immediate desire for television, radio or lights can easily usurp the good intentions of the installation?

Give Me the Rooney

Evidently the first question I should have asked was, have you ever cut a Mzungu's hair before? Or, I could have been a little more perceptive about a number of things - the hairstyles of all the local men, the location of the barber shop, the lack of any scissors within the vicinity of the barber. No, I decided to brave (or rather, braved without thinking) a barber recommended by my vegetable dealer, John. It turns out, his recommendation was a friend in the stall across from his in the market.

Free bag of tomatoes with a haircut!

I thought I gave explicit instructions motioning with my hands - 'Number three on the clippers from here to here, getting a little bit longer from here up to here with about this much left on top.' I thought we were speaking the same language. I thought again after the first pass of the clippers rampaged my shaggy hair. I never realized how quickly you have to speak up when someone has clippers next to your head. Lesson learned. After about an hour of it getting shorter - and shorter - and shorter, I began to resemble the Matt of old - ala 3rd grade - which was the last time I had a haircut like this. I'm not sure what took so long. I'm pretty sure I could have given myself the same haircut in about 5 minutes. I do give credit to the barber, taking time to make sure not a single long hair was left on my head, with infinite patience searching for any stray's that had succeeded in avoiding the wrath of the clippers. After speaking up a few times to say - 'Hey now, that's short enough,' or chuckling anxiously - 'Oh geeze, that's not what I asked for,' I gave in and let the man cut my hair like he wanted to - and started to from the beginning. By the end, I realized I would have made both our lives easier and told him to cut my hair like a white guy everyone here is familiar with, the famous English soccer star Wayne Rooney. Now I know, next time it will be as simple as, 'Give me the Rooney.'

Wayne, my sentiments exactly.

Biking through Bureaucracy

Today I added to my ever-growing list of job descriptions. I came here in a role that gave me the flexibility to be useful wherever I could be - as a technical consultant of sorts to a local NGO. Little did I know what that flexibility would entail! Within the last two months I've jumped from solar power system design to program management, written requirements documents and acted as IT support. I'm proud to say that after today, I can officially add bicycle courier to the list.

Many of my trials and tribulations thus far have focused on cutting through the unfathomable layers of bureaucracy. Despite my efforts to find ways around it, I have yet to find a way to easily and efficiently 'procure' anything. In preparation for our pilot program beginning in August, we needed to order computers. We ordered them in mid-May to make sure we had them on time. I met with the sales manager for a local cell phone wholesale distributor, who seemed ready to give me 40 cell phones on the spot if we were able to pay for them. 6 weeks later, we are the proud owners of 40 Nokia 2700 Classics. A number of the clinics we are installing our data entry system in require solar power. The search for solar power began about 5 months ago. Only after biking around the city today, delivering paper from here to there, dotting all the "I"s and crossing all the "T"s do I think we have a shot of having solar power available before the end of August.

After a number of failed attempts to issue a proposal and receive vendor bids from start to finish, we opted to purchase, install and maintain the equipment ourselves. In order to do this, we decided to send a few employees to a solar training school. We formulated this plan with the school 3 weeks ago, rushing to register for the classes starting July 26th. Only today, did we finally get written permission to take the training, a full day before the registration cutoff (luckily, there was still space left in the class). That written permission came in the form of an 'Order.' Now, this order is in no way or form a payment. It is a letter stating the official intention of our NGO to purchase said services. On issuance of this letter, payment will be made once an invoice is received and processed, but the intention is clear that any products or services should become readily available upon its issuance. In other words, I promise to pay you at some point in the future, but give me what I want now. Many times, once we present these letters, the vendors simply say, 'Sorry, we aren't going to give you anything until you pay us.' Back to square one.

Today I had the joy of running from one of our offices to another, excited to pick up the order that was finally ready. We have cars and drivers, but I've learned that fighting through the bureaucracy to get a car and driver, even if the destination is only 5 minutes away, can be equally as challenging as buying anything. Hence, the bike.

Frankly, my wheels are hot. I've got a big cushy seat on a sturdy frame. The jet-black beast comes fully weather proof with sleek splash-guards on both the front and rear tires. The single-speed bike cruises along with an easy 'reverse pedal' maneuver to break - ala my bike in 3rd grade. The sturdy kick stand and rack over the rear wheel are essential. It has nice, wide, curving handle bars, complete with a bell; which is used often and with determination as I cruise along, weaving between pedestrians and roots protruding from the dirt sidewalks (the main roads are way too scary…). I get plenty of stairs as I ride by - and usually a few laughs. I think it’s the helmet 'procured' locally at a cheap sporting goods store that finishes the look - surely the only helmet in Zambia.

This morning I picked up the Order from the Facilities Officer. I had to bring it to the Procurement Officer - luckily in the same building - to get the rest of the paperwork. The Procurement Officer was in a meeting. I was able to get someone from procurement to find copies of the necessary forms - a phone call to locate the originals hinted that it wasn’t worth the trouble to get them and that I should be glad to have what I did. I sped over to the vendor on my bike, surely the fastest method to get there for above stated reasons without hailing a taxi. The vendor kindly accepted our order and issued an invoice. Smiling, I hopped on my bike, secured my bulbous helmet to my head, and sped back to the Procurement Officer, happily handing him the invoice. Surely he was stunned by a turn-around time within the hour. Now, the invoice goes to Accounting / Finance, even though the amount due was written on the Order. Of course it wouldn't make any sense to send a check with the order - that would be too easy. It takes a week or two to write a check after an invoice is received. That check then needs to be run over to the vendor. Once things are paid for, then you hope that what you want to buy is actually in stock. Usually it isn't. You can start over again with another vendor, if there is one that sells what you are looking for, or you can return again in a month's time, if the check is still valid, that is…


And so the cycle goes.

(you can check out our company's blog that includes submissions from our projects around the world at http://dimagi.posterous.com/)

Destination: Siavonga

Combine a four day weekend, a pair of thrifty individuals, a lack of wheels, a Zambia Lonely Planet and what do you get? A trip by minibus to Siavonga!

Hoping to get an early jump on the weekend, we caught a minibus by mine at 7:30 am, skipping out on the morning coffee ritual due to the long bus trip ahead. Big mistake. Getting off one minibus, we were led by a kind-hearted soul through the streets and alleys of downtown Lusaka to City Market, the departure location for minibuses to any possible destination in Zambia. 200 well cleaned, poorly maintained blue and white buses filled the overflowing parking lot; names of the buses cheerfully inscribed on the windshields: 'Don't be Jealous,' 'Normal Life,' 'Keep Da Faith.'

There is no order to the madness - buses park haphazardly on all sides of the compound, with few signs indicating the destination. Each bus has a driver and a pimp. The driver, well, his job is obvious. The job of the bus pimp to fill the bus with passengers, from the onset of the journey until its termination. There are no scheduled departures for minibuses, they leave when they fill up. If two buses are headed to the same destination, they don't fill up one, followed by the other - rather, its a competition between the pimps to see who can fill their bus first. This usually causes the departure of both buses to be delayed, and they end up leaving around the same time, much later than a single bus would have. If this sounds like something that would drive you crazy - you are not alone. Luckily, we only found one bus heading to Siavonga.

Our intentions to leave early were quickly thwarted. We were passengers number two and three. We had plenty of time to take in the sites of the bustling station: men and women hawking anything you can imagine, knocking on windows or peering into the open sliding door inquiring for buyers - Want some socks? How about Ice Cream? Children's books? Here is a nice brush with a built-in mirror? I know someone selling slacks the next bus over. Interested? The market also provided a station for the loading / unloading of goods - like 20kg bags of mealie-meal. Huge bags of the maize were lugged by over-sized wheel-barrels and on the heads of women gracefully maneuvering through the terminal. C-van containers normally used on large shipping vessels had been turned into shop fronts. The people watching was fascinating - but after an hour, then a second hour, that cup of coffee, or another few extra hours of sleep for that matter, sounded pretty darn good.

The bus filled up around 10:30. Full is a term that you may not think is open to interpretation. Think again. A typical Zambian minibus with 3 rows will regularly have 20 people inside; sitting 4 across on benches, knees jammed into the seat ahead, children on laps and bags underfoot. After about five minutes you are intimate with your neighbors. It also seems like the driver and pimp have established some sort of business trail along their route. Every so often the bus will pull over at seemingly random locations. The driver will get out, have a smoke, exchange some money, and get back in. There is also the ever present fear that the full bus will become more full, as people alongside the road are anxious to get a ride and the bus pimp hangs his head out the window at intersections inquiring after interested parties. If no one gets off, there is a good chance that ANY extra room is quickly taken by new passengers for a few miles - or the duration of the journey. Needless to say, this lengthens the time it takes to get from location A to destination B. What would take 2 hours in a car took 4. When we arrived in Siavonga at 2:30 that afternoon, relieved to have made it, and thrilled to get off the bus.

To our surprise, we weren't greeted by a gaggle of inquisitive taxi drivers or aggressive sellers of local vegetables. Maybe that's a sign we've been in the big city too long. The weekend turned out to be relaxing and quiet. The location, beautiful. The scene of a tragic past, the damn flooded an extensive portion of land, displacing the local population from a fertile farmland and condemning them to the barren highlands. Fishing small kapenta is a primary occupation. Families once separated by a river are now separated by a border with Zimbabwe and one of the largest man made lakes in Africa. We were told that a number of the fisherman make the journey to the Zimbabwe side for better fishing, despite the chance that border guards will greet the fisherman with bullets. Like so many of the locations here, modern beauty can be clouded by a tragic past.

Where's Matt? Or his sunglasses?

Tidbits of Zambian Life

I've tried to pry myself out of bed early to go running. This is no easier here than it ever has been for me, and more often than not I reset my alarm for a more reasonable hour. When my willingness to leave my warm bed matches my ambition to run, I am never disappointed. Its almost like trail running. My feet certainly don't know the difference. Running along the di rt 'sidewalks' which the rainy season has transformed into gullies or gutters, jumping over the small potholes, and through the larger ones; maneuvering over roots and over trash, trying to focus on the flowers in the trees and the colors of the dawn clouds without loosing my footing. If it weren't for the semi-paved roads, smoke-belching cars, and shanty-town sprawl, could you forgive me for picturing the same dirt trail winding through a colorful mountain meadow?


People tend to look at me intently when I'm running, more so than they look at me normally. What could be mistaken for a scowl accompanies a stare that lacks understanding. Is it because they don't see Mzungu's (nyanja for white man) running down the street - I know that's not true. Is it because I'm in shorts and a T-shirt? Is it because I'm sweating like mad in shorts and a T-shirt, while they are bundled in jackets, scarves and hats in the depth of Zambian winter? Or instead is the look more insidious - a walking dollar sign? an imperialist invader? Usually a simple 'good morning' is all it takes to disarm the scowl and win a smile.


There is an abandoned minivan parked alongside a number of junked cars outside the market by my office. This van must have a special significance, however, because there are never less than 5 people inside. The van has no tires and no windows. Sitting on chalks, empty boxes and discarded wrappers spill out the doorways and windows onto the surrounding dirt and nearby vehicles. Music blares from somewhere - could it possibly be that the stereo still works? A raucous crowd inhabits the van, from morning until night, joking, laughing, staring at passersby.


Despite the dirt roads and sidewalks, everyone goes to work in suits or business attire, their shoes spotless and shiny. It took me a few days to figure out that everyone carries a rag to wipe the dirt off their shoes after reaching their destination.


If you are the only person taking a taxi, you sit in the passenger seat and strike up a conversation. Often, the first destination is the gas station. Whether or not you pay for the few liters of gas that go into the car is irrelevant, there is no apparent need to have the taxi gassed and ready to go. I've also never been in a taxi where the fuel needle isn't on empty, or where the driver puts in more than five or six liters at a time.


There are vendors that walk down the sides and middle of the streets at busy intersections - hawking everything from bootleg DVDs to cell phone chargers, maps of Africa to fresh fruit. The other day one of the vendors passed trying to sell slingshots. What?! I asked my Zambian compatriot what for? 'To rob you man!' I had my doubts - the very next vendor walked by selling machetes, the next, dish soap.


Clothes need to be ironed here. All of them. Sheets, towels, jeans, socks - yep. Otherwise - fly larvae could burrow under your skin and lay their eggs. After a few weeks and a nasty painful zit - a fly emerges and takes off! At first I thought it a wives tale told to foreigners and children - but no - the stories (and pictures...) have convinced me otherwise! Google 'Tumbu fly images' to see for yourself, if you dare...

'Major' Inconvenience

The 'inconveniences' here compared to the Western world pose occasional challenges. Every so often the hot water decides to stop being hot. Sometimes there is no water altogether. Well, if you know me at all, showers are over-rated and I constantly search for an excuse to drink beer rather than water anyways. As far as electricity goes, its a sign if important buildings have imposing looking generators outside that look like they've been needed once or twice. Really, these aren't inconveniences at all, they are the side effects of being incredibly fortunate. The majority of the country, both inside and outside the capital, faces much more than 'inconveniences' when it comes to water and power.

I've been trained to handle the outages of internet, and the painfully slow internet when it actually is available. Remember, I was weaned on dial-up. The fact that my parents graduated from dial-up not two months ago may hint at a strain of Luddite somewhere in my blood... I was spoiled by living with a beer connoisseur and dating a fantastic cook. The roosters that crow early in the morning and the neighbor's dogs who bark incessantly throughout the night give an essence of farm life that isn't too far down the street. Each of these minor inconveniences are friendly reminders that I'm no longer in Kansas, Toto.

There is one thing, however, that drives me crazy.

The subtle afterthought that gnaws at my soul, saps my patience, and feels like some sort of Chinese torture trick ... is my sink. It has a hot water tap on one side of the sink and a cold water tap on the other side of the sink. Let me repeat that, which, to the casual reader, who may never have experienced such a monstrosity, may sound completely benign. On one end of the sink, there is one faucet that only spouts scalding hot water. At the far, far, opposite end of the sink, is the other faucet, out of which flows only frigid cold water. The water on one side is hot enough to boil pasta. The water at the other end causes goose-bumps. Have you ever tried to wash your face with such a device? It must be a riddle, or some form of a practical joke. You have to cup the cold water in your hands, add a dabble of hot water that is too hot to touch without any cold water, but the cold water is mostly gone from your hands by the time you have gotten it over to the hot water side of the sink - ah, as you can tell, its exasperating. Well, I would think it were quaint and kind of funny - if I hadn't seen anything like it before...


I know exactly where this absurd twist on a normal bathroom appliance it came from: England. I had the same idiotic sink in my dormitory room in England. Of all the perils of colonization, the double faucet sink has to be up there on the list.

Dr. Livingston, I Presume?

I can only imagine Africa as Dr. Livingston saw it, 150 years ago. After seeing Victoria Falls and going on my first Safari this weekend, I can hardly imagine a continent as wild as the one he explored.

It was something driving through tall grass fields, around large bushes, not knowing what to expect on the other side - a group of grazing impalas, a heard of elephants, or a clan of baboons playing in the trees. We camped overnight in the park, inviting a second thought when getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night given the megafauna witnessed during the day.

Hippos, crocs, elephants, giraffes, leopards, impalas - we saw them all - and LOTS of them. An elephant or water buffalo just a few feet from the car would make a sudden move, inviting nervous screams from the girls in the open sided safari truck, drawing a friendly laugh from the guide - "Do not worry, no problem." I wonder what the driver of the car said to his guests later that day when a leopard jumped onto an empty seat in the vehicle, stared eye to eye with one of the tourists, and promptly jumped out the other side. I wonder what was going through the tourist's head. I wonder what was going through the leopard's head! Dinner?


The change in lifestyle from Livingston's day until now has been an interesting progression. Signs of progress and the lack thereof abound. There was a fascinating exhibit at the Livingston Museum about the transition from modern village life to modern city life. Unabashedly, the plaques read:

"With the passage of time the people of our village have found themselves alienated from their natural environment. Now they have to obtain a license to hunt for food, cut poles for their huts, cut trees for their canoes. Day by day they helplessly watch their environment being depleted of its natural resources by outsiders, people from afar, authorized from somewhere else without any recourse to them and at no benefit to them, in desperation, all they can do is offer manual labour, for a pittance."

"Transplanted from 'Our Village' and out of touch with ourselves, our living heritage, the alienated individual walks the world at the crossroads of cultures. Struggling to retain an identity, the only place he gets flashes of his culture is the museum though only as an abstraction."

If those are the 'politically correct' words to be found in a museum, I wonder how the people really feel...

Breaking the Bubble

They call Lusaka a 'soft landing' for expats. After being here for a week and a half, I am amazed at how easy it is to make a life here, and how easy it is to ignore the reality around the corner.

My temporary housing through my host organization, the Center for Infectious Disease Research in Zambia is a furnished room in a four bedroom guesthouse. Complete with small pool and large yard with an exotic garden, the house is walled in from the outside world with a giant iron entry gate and 24 hour security guard. It doesn't come cheap. I am likely to pay as much as my last apartment three blocks from the sand in Newport Beach, California for a place with much less than the amenities of the guesthouse.

The number of aid workers here is astounding - almost everywhere in town you are likely to run into someone working for the Clinton Foundation, a fellow CIDRZ employee, the World Bicycle Relief Organization, or any number or other foundations. Everyone here is constantly cycling through Zambia it seems, on a contract for a year or two - and is outgoing, fun, and friendly. Western culture has been imported as a result. There are yoga and spinning classes, ultimate frisbee on Sunday mornings, and touch Rugby Mondays and Thursdays. The lack of tourist attractions within the city promotes a tight-knit group of friends always willing to welcome the new-comer to the daily activity or weekend plans. Food choices reflect the diverse expat scene - from Indian to Mexican, Italian to Thai.

Its easy to live life here in a bubble. Without trying, it would be easy to avoid the local traditions and food - nshima - a paste made with corn meal rolled into balls with your hands and used to scoop up dishes of beef stew, eggplant or spinach. Just outside the high walls of the expat houses, the streets are filled with signs of the other side of life - bafefoot kids and broken down minibuses stuffed to the brim with passengers. The further from the expat center of town you travel, the more you are reminded of the true nature of your location: cement block buildings with sheet metal roofs, held in place by large rocks. Grass fires burning along the side of pot-hole strewn roads - that may or may not be paved - pot-holes large enough to swallow small children. Trash strewn neighborhoods with women strolling down the street carrying all shapes and sizes of goods on their heads and a small child on their back in brightly colored cloth.

I'm told its winter here. That doesn't bode well for the summer, when I already I feel stifled by the mid-day heat, and nearly faint from a game of ultimate or a jog around town. The locals all dawn jackets and blankets - I'm surprised I haven't seen the down jackets popular with the Newport locals in January.

I can see my work here being very rewarding. We are setting up a data collection hierarchy, from the city center to the district offices, local clinics, and community health workers, instituting electronic correspondence between the person on foot in the village to the clinic. We are standardizing primary care, and hoping to make a drastic decrease in under-5 mortality. Im helping to implement everything technical - from software to hardware. Last week I had a crash course in solar power to figure out how to run our new data entry system off the power grid in the rural clinics. My current role draws a surprising number of similarities to my last role in project management for an unmanned helicopter - struggling against politics, bureaucracy, and the way things are 'typically' done to meet an ambitious schedule with limited resources. Substitute unmanned helicopters for electronic medical systems.

I can assure you my time here will be an adventure - and I invite you all to come and visit - enjoy some nshima and get a feel for a very different way of life.