The Mountains Beckon...Still

I didn't know quite what to expect in India. I had high hopes in Zambia of taking my love of the outdoors with me - hiking in the bush, camping, etc. Ah yes, naive me. There are lions and elephants in the bush there. There are more things there that want to eat you than you can shake a stick at. Literally. On my move to India, I made the conscious decision to leave a lot of that camping gear behind. It had come in useful in Africa - but felt like overkill. The Himalaya are close - but am I going to be able to squeeze in trips to Tibet or Nepal? Reluctantly, I packed light.

At first it didn't seem like a big deal. Moving quickly from business in Mumbai to Delhi to Bihar - I didn't have much time to go hiking, nor did I find any areas to do so aside from a bit of urban exploration. Alas, mountains inhabit the Indian spirit. Some Hindu gods are said to reside in the mountains. Without looking too hard, the mountains in India found me. Or at least they are trying to.

I attended a talk by Stephen Alter, a prominent writer on Indian culture, mountains, and his childhood there. The pictures drew me in. At the talk, I met the head of the Himalaya Club in Delhi. Turns out, his dad was the leader of the first Indian party to summit Everest, the third group to ever summit the mountain, in 1965. I met with him again a few weeks later to share stories, advice and pictures. He runs a mountaineering themed hotel, where all of the rooms are named after famous explorers, climbing pictures adorn the walls, and a rock wall scales up the lobby four floors to the skylights. Its the only indoor rock wall in all of New Delhi. Indoor.... That's because I was also introduced to an amazing outdoor rock wall. Yep, just about in my backyard, a great, big monster of a wall with sport routes and gnarly overhangs that nimble little Indian kids can scamper up, but I have no chance. And just to rub it in a bit, I found a posting for a guy leaving town who was looking to offload his climbing gear.

I think the signs just all point in one direction. The right direction. To go higher. I'm heading to the mountains of Colorado for the holidays, and you can be sure that I will be returning with a large bag of gear. Who knows what mountainous adventures await. Its because the mountains beckon. Still...and always.

(picture courtesy of http://www.sikhspectrum.com/)

Pre-Season Training for Steely Thighs

Its true. Ski season is upon us. But here is sunny New Delhi, it seems far, far away. For those with closer access to the ski hills, this post will not help you. For me, its probably more cathartic than anything else. On with it.

I have a date with a ski mountain at the end of this month. I'm getting butterflies. I wake up at night in a cold sweat. What will I do? What will I say? Will the mountain like me too? I think this date requires a little preparation.

Waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, is, unfortunately, not that far from the realm of reality. My worst nightmare: I'm so out of ski shape and practice that my first day back on the slopes is one of pain, misery and embarrassment. Yes, the first day telemarking of the season always involves a little bit of pain and misery, but pre-season training can help relieve the pain and set the correct frame of mind. With these sunny days, cows strolling in the street, and chai-wallahs relaxing on the street corner, telemark prepped thighs and a snow-steeled head are far my daily reality. I think I've gotten to the stage where my fear is slowly morphing into the motivating factor to get into ski shape - and to ensure I don't lose gnar points for making hot tub runs or call the day early to head for the bar.

I have dawned my running shoes, shorts and shirt and gone running a few times a week for a few weeks now, and the looks of locals are always the same: those that acknowledge my presence indicate no friendliness in their faces. Blank stares. Incomprehension. Most avoid eye contact, encouraging me to do the same. There are the few who say hi, or give a sign of encouragement. A few kids will give high-fives or say how are you, but its nothing compared to the onlsaught of village kids chasing after you for a mile or so smiling and yelling, and then asking for money, like I experienced in Africa. The runs are fraught with other obstacles, including deer, peacocks, pigs and unruly kids - yes, even in New Delhi. I also heard stories of eight foot angry cobras - but that's personally unverified so far.

But solid prep for skiing and telemarking requires more than a sauntering jog. Thighs of steel don't come THAT easily. So here is the Theis Delhi Telemark Workout Plan:

1) Lunges. Lots of them. You really can't do too many lunges. If you thought strange looks came from running, than you haven't seen anything yet. Choose a side street, alley, or walkway in a park. Uncrowded if possible, because the jaw-dropping looks might cause you to fall over when your legs are at the throbbing brink of collapse. Don't let that stop you. Continue to lunge until your throbbing legs do collapse.

2) Wall sits. Having a mid-day cup of coffee? No need for a chair - just pull up a wall. How about brushing your teeth? Need a work break? Better yet, encourage a colleague to a wall-sit-off. Yes, competition IS a motivator.

3) Mountain climbers. Let me guess, you haven't done these since you were in elementary school, right? Well (whisper), me neither. But don't let that stop you now. Breathless and panting, keep those legs moving as fast as you can. How else are you going to get those seamless turn transitions in the deep pow?

4) Jumps. Find random things to jump on. That park bench - yep, up and down. Three sets of 30. Now. Go. That awkward half stone half dirt curb - perfect. One leg only, up, down, side to side, up, down, side to side. Switch legs. Tired of jumping on things? How about done that dirt path over there? 20 in a row, standing long jumps. Did you make it further than you did last time? Done with lunges? Think again. Jumps + Lunges = The Next Level. In place, lunge right, now jump, switch legs, and lunge left. Ah yea, now that's tele'ing in Delhi!

5) Mix it all up. Lunges, jumps, mountain climbers. Tired? Breathless? You can recover with sit-ups or push-ups. Don't neglect that core!

Phew, Im tired just typing. Good thing I wrote the post in a wall sit. That much closer to those steely, telemark prepped thighs... bring on the snow.

Suggested additions to the work out plan? Please!

Oh India.

Its the small things that are causing India to grow on me. Yes, the food is delicious. No matter how much vegetable subji with roti I gorge on, all the intricate flavors and spices, diverse veggies and new ways to prepare them keep it interesting. I never realized that true Indian food is eaten with your hands. It is. The obsession with hand washing prior to meals emphasizes the point, especially as each bathroom tends to hold a surprise - one may have toilet paper, one may have a hose, the last a hole in the floor with a bucket.

There are the unattractive bits: the half eaten rat in the alley outside of a string of restaurants and open kitchens, with full-bellied birds still presiding over the corpse; or the pervasiveness of poop - human, dog, cow or goat - even in the most upscale of Delhi neighborhoods. It seems like these add flavor to the nation's character. I can go for a run in wooded areas at the outskirts of the neighborhood, and be as likely to run into the garbage collectors of the city - pigs - as I am to run by wild peacocks.

And then there are further intrusions on the local culture...

My first ride of the Delhi metro was exhilarating. It is brand new, built for the Commonwealth Games held last year. It only took me about 1.5stops of dirty looks to realize I had their disdain with my inadvertently gotten

into the 'woman only' car. In my defense, I followed a mixed group of young students - but it did slowly dawn on me that I was the only male on the train. It was just me and a carload of Indian woman expressing presence - not a word was said - just seething, penetrating looks. When I changed to a different metro line, I made sure to get into a 'mixed' car. Getting 'on' became relative, as I was forced into the car in a throng of humanity, and had to fight my way into the exiting wave of bodies at my stop. High population density has its disadvantages.

I emerged from the Delhi metro at a large park, and tried to find the entrance. It was completely on the other side, with the perimeter of the park surrounded by a chest high fence with large metal spikes. Two Indians noted my obvious dismay at the situation and suggested the three of us jump over - "Hey," they said, "this is India." We picked the nearest location, where a security guard soundly slept on the other side, leaning against a tree. The first to jump over nearly fell on his face, rolling in the dirt on the other side. The guard slept on. The second very awkwardly made his way over - but without incident. In my graceful attempt to hop over, I lost my balance - misjudging the weight of my backpack. At my zenith, I caught my pant leg on one of the protruding metal spikes. It soundly caught as I fell backwards, and I found mys

elf suddenly upside-down, dangling, partially supported by my pant leg, my clinging to the fence, and a crowd of hands that had rushed to the seen to prevent 'the crazy expat' from dying. High population density has its advantages. Laughing, I pushed/pulled up and over, carefully extricating my ripped pants from the fence. The security guard slept on.

Yes, every day is an adventure. But its the small gestures and often ignored details that make it all the more memorable - and make India an amazing place.

PS. I know this picture wasn't taken in India, but I can't describe awkwardly dangling and express it any better than this.

I had never put two and two together before arriving in India. All the Bollywood films and first or second generation Indians I have met never really expressed the importance. But now that I am here, it is crystal clear - it is an essential survival skill - the Indian head waggle.

- Its useful in conversation, giving immediate affirmation to the speaker.

- Its a simple, effective way to communicate thank you and appreciation to the taxi driver, waiter or receptionist.

- Its a way to say hi to passersby.

- If you are really good, it will get you tea, coffee or a wonderful subji without saying a word or moving a finger! My microwave can't do that!

And when I say head waggle, don't get me wrong. Some people here shake their head vigorously.

There is only one problem. The Indian head waggle conveys the exact opposite meaning from every movement my head has ever made. My up down to express affirmation doesn't work here. Left to right here is what means 'Yes'. Now, just picture it (because it has happened a little too often in the short amount of time that I have been here so far) - where I get animated during a conversation and shake my head up and down - and the person across from me gets animated, and shakes their head side to side. Up - down - side - side - up - side - down - side. Now you can see how confusing it can be. And that's from my point of view. They just probably think I'm some goofball from the planet Mars that has never exercised the side to side neck muscles, just the up and down ones. The more I shake up and down, the more they shake left and right. If I'm not careful, I think I may cause someone's head to fall off during a business meeting. I can only imagine the repercussions from that:

"Latest American Cultural Blight Causes Severe Neck Pain."

"Americans Waggle Wrong, Ministers Heads Roll."

"Misinterpretation of Head Nod leads to WWIII."

Wait a minute - this is starting to sound familiar. A little too familiar, isn't it? It is. No - it isn't. AHH!!!! KRRRPPPOOOWWWW!!!

A Little Further Across the Pond, and a Little Less South

I sat this morning on a Delhi street corner eating breakfast. For a little less than $0.50, a gentleman with a gas skillet on a cart had made me an egg omelette between two pieces of white bread - but it was the minced chili pepper that gave it the Indian flare. I watched the sleepy Saturday morning bustle. Two men next to the omelette cart were busy rolling dough and making Roti. A dilapidated scooter repair stand - an open air 20 sq. ft enterprise - was not yet open for business, but a line of scooters awaited. The barber next door, however, was open. A tarp was tied to a tree to create a roof and single wall, upon which a mirror hung. A man in a chair was getting a shave. A few stray dogs looked hungrily for scraps, a bicycle completely loaded with brooms of all types for sale stopped, and a few cars/auto-rickshaws/scooters cruised by on the paved streets.

Its a few centuries away from the scene of the previous week in the more rural landscape of Bodhgaya. Animals roam the streets freely, wandering from one trash heap to the next - pigs, cows, goats, dogs - they all take their turn, often sharing whatever treasures lay therein. Chickens dart between small houses across a dirt alleyway. A watery, green sludge pools around the wells and winds its way along the alley, following the path of least resistance to a larger, fetid pool. Animal excrement dots the walkway, and an overpowering smell will occasionally take hold. The alleys bustle with nakeed and half naked children laughing, running to and fro, and playing in the dirt. Shops fill the alleys, selling soap and candy. Emerging from the dirt alleys onto the street and you are at once confronted by organized chaos, with auto-rickshaws (indian tuk-tuks) darting between pedestrians, bicyclists, moped, motorcycles, buses and animals. Cows stop traffic, but not much else will slow down the speeding vehicles, honking vigorously to announce passing, watch out, give me space, and move it all at the same time. There are ATMs and tailors, fruit sellars and ice creakm hawks, stores with luggage, sunglasses, shoes and phones. Street food abounds, from rotis to pan, and restaruants fill the gaps with plastic chairs and tables spilling onto the street.

It seems that rural or urban, there are very different sides of India - that of the 21st century, and that of the 18th. Tech companies and fancy cars contrast with the rice paddies and temples. Its a little further across the pond, and a little less south, but its my new home.

No Longer in Limbo

"Hi, Mr. Travel Agent. I would like to book a one way ticket from Boston to Mumbai for Sunday, I have a meeting in India Tuesday morning."

...

"Yes, I know its Friday."

...

"Can you also book a ticket from New Delhi to Denver sometime around Christmas. On second thought, there is a high likelihood that I will need to go to Zambia between now and Christmas."

...

"That's right, Zambia."

The conversation didn't go quite like that. I expected it to, but the travel agent has delt with us a few too many times. He didn't even blink an eye:

"How about I book you on this completely refundable ticket through Ethiopia to Zambia from India, so that in the case you do go to Zambia, you've got it. If not, give me a call, we'll cancel that one and find another way to get you out of India for Christmas."

It was a down to the wire decision - Zambia vs. India. In the end, India came through.

Yes, its been A LONG time since the last blog posting, and yes, they have come VERY infrequently since my departure from Zambia.

My aim is to remedy that.

India will be my new home for the foreseeable future. Home...? You might say more like homeless at this point. Since returning from Zambia in June, I've been bouncing between hotels, friend's spare bedrooms or couches, and my cherished tent. For the next three weeks at least, I'm bouncing around India to meet with a number of partners. Hotel rooms and couches - Indian style.

Homeless ... no. Nomadic.

Ah, and happy mo-vember from Mumbai!

Got Elephants?

I stare out my hotel room window at the highway, enjoying the respite of air conditioning from the summer desert heat outside. My chocolate milk and snacks from the grocery store feel like delicacies, well earned after a long day of work. I'm trying to avoid the pitfalls of previous long work stints in the desert of Southern California - long hours, work frustrations, illogical decisions - although these can be said about most jobs. The days seem to blend together between working, sleeping, and eating. Its a strange exile at a forgotten airport, with carcasses of dying airplanes that seem to wilt in the heat and dirt.

Looking around, there is something lacking. I haven't been able to put a finger on it - until now. There are no elephants. Not in the hangar, not roaming the airport runways. Surely not in town - snacking on the shrubs outside the hotel. I would dare say their aren't even pink elephants to be seen - and there is surely no elephant in my hotel room to ignore (no large gorillas in the room to ignore either...)

When I have been able to escape to the mountains, I have been more worried about run-ins with scarce bears or mountain lions than a heard of roaming elephants, poisonous snakes, or ghastly spiders. A friend wears a bear bell for a trail run in an area with a bear sow with two cubs. I think twice whether the intent is to alert and scare or alert and entice - ala the dinner bell. When I emerge from my tent at night, there are no hippos to look out for and no lions to deter me from straying more than a few inches from my sleeping bag. I wonder more about how many hikers we will see on the trail and what is for lunch - not whether I will become lunch.

Its a different mindset. A different comfort level in the wild. Can it even be considered wild? Do you have elephants?

Life choices...

I've missed the mountains. I find them peaceful, grounding, and inspiring. I've spent most of the last month playing in the mountains after returning from Zambia, venturing places where you don't have to worry about lions when pitching your tent or look for poisonous snakes when hiking. I even got to play a bit in that divine white stuff - snow. I thought it would provide me with an opportunity to clear my mind and focus on a few upcoming decisions. Instead, I found myself paying more attention to the beauty of the location, hiking steep sections requiring concentration, or wearing crampons and trying not to (A) trip and fall in a _bad_ place or (B) tear a hole in my pants.

Not long before I left Zambia, a friend told me a story of his. It turns out, he used to be a monster rock climber, living for a few years in his car as he traveled from one hot climbing destination to another. He was even featured on the cover of Climbing magazine - for an article he wrote himself about a climbing trip. After a few beers, he regaled me with a story about how he had gotten where he is today, working for a renowned organization to improve the lot of the world's children. He was offered a position at a small software company in a mountain town where the focus was on morning ski turns. He was then offered a position with his current organization, living far from the life he had lived - and far from any good climbing. He opted for the more challenging, ambitious job over a more personally satisfying lifestyle. This is a choice that I consistently debate over, the pursuit of happiness or purpose. While you don't have to exclusively choose one over the other, both can have a significant influence over your path in life.

I find myself approaching a similar fork in the road (but without his dichotomous choice in career path). What is that next step for me? After Zambia, what comes next? Is it still across the pond and south a bit? maybe north a bit? Or is it something totally foreign - like staying put? I think it might be time to finally figure out what I want to do when I grow up.

Pictures are from Mt. Baker and Mt. Rainier - courtesy of my climbing partners.

Coffee and Elephants

I woke up last Sunday morning, rolled out of the tent, and started to boil water for coffee. The sun was warm, but not yet hot. Our tent was situated on a bluff overlooking a wide turn in the Zambezi river. As I finished making coffee I sat down to enjoy the morning and breakfast. An elephant on the opposite side of the river was doing the same, rummaging through the bush alongside the river, picking and choosing which grass to pluck or tree to taste. Its a rough life. And its a life that I will miss.

There is plenty about living in Zambia that I won't miss, but probably more that I will. There hasn't been a month here when one tree or another isn't in bloom. Right now there are bunches of hanging yellow flowers. The incessant buzz from bus stops, from bus 'pimps' vying for your business to the pop music blaring out the window. The serenity of the countryside and the smiles on children's faces. Shouts of 'How are YOU?!', quickly followed by 'give me money' or 'I want a sweet.' When I look back on this chapter in my life, I expect the pleasurable memories to remain, and the annoyances to fade away.

I could get nostalgic - but I don't think that's quite my style. But its not everywhere you can share your morning coffee with an elephant.

Teaser

I've been swept up in a whirlwind of activity in the past few weeks. The ruckus of site installs has abated, most work challenges involved with doubling the number of clinics we are working in have settled down. I even managed to take a vacation.

My departure from Zambia is imminent. I don't know when, or if, I will be back. I think so. I haven't quite come to grips with leaving Zambia yet. As I sit and attempt to type, words fail to come. I instead look at some pictures...

Dried fish sold on a roadside stand.

Some of these speak for themselves...

We were stuck behind this truck going uphill for some time.

And then had to deal with a road full of potholes like these.

Ah, and there are so many more...

Resource Allocation and Sustainability

One of my favorite parts of work in Zambia are the trips to the field, installing or fixing hardware in rural clinics. We install a low power computer system for data entry, and train people how to use touchscreen computers that utilize the cell network to transmit data. Half of the sites that we work in are off the grid, and require a solar power installation. We also give community workers cell phones and a custom application, so that data can be passed between them and the clinic. Working with my hands, seeing tangible benefits from a days work, and the 'thank you's' make the job rewarding.

I've just come from one of the remotest of the sites in which we are working. There is no cell coverage. There is a small hill a half an hours walk away where you can get half a bar of service, sometimes, on some phones - but that isn't going to help our data connection at the clinic. Using the cell network to transfer information thus far has been relatively easy and affordable. However, this option wasn't available this time. After surveying a number of options, the time vs money vs schedule dilemma forced us down the path of satellite internet. This wasn't just the shotgun approach, but the golden-plated shotgun approach. Furthermore, the community health workers, without good cell coverage they can access, are given phones with a wifi connection which they can bring to the clinic and connect through the satellite internet to send data.

Think about this for a moment. Rural Africa. Mud huts with thatched roofs sparsely populate the only access to the clinic, a bumpy dirt road. Naked children running around barefoot. Water comes from a river a 45 minute walk away. No electricity. Most people here don't have a cell phone because the service is so poor. The Zambian team I'm working with jokes that the people here aren't even Zambian - they don't know who any of the last four presidents have been. If government services never reach a remote location, that location isn't given any say in the government, and not much has changed since 1) independence 50 years ago and 2) since the country was arbitrarily drawn by colonists a few centuries back, I don't know if I would consider myself a Zambian in that situation either.

But I digress.

Go back to the picture painted of rural Africa. Now add solar panels and a computer. Not too bad. We installed a few light bulbs as well. Now, add a satellite dish and a wifi hotspot. Is this sustainable? Is this the right use of resources? I went home after beginning the installation feeling that no, this wasn't quite right. Yes, the data arm of the project is a main support for the medical intervention that is aiming to drastically reduce mortality rates. A slightly inebriated local regaled me during a work break:

'We need help. we need water, cell coverage, medicine. Can you help?'
'I am trying to help'
'No, we need help. Can't you just send in an application?'
'Um, to who?'
'Just send in an application. We need help.'
Ah yes, just send an application to Bank Mzungu, and all your problems will be solved.

Most of the clinics I have been to have had solar power installations before. None of them work anymore. A cousin decided to plug in his TV and DVD player. Lightening struck the inverter. They ran out of light bulbs. They plugged DC items into AC circuits or vice versa, stole the batteries, abused the inverter, or threw rocks at the solar panels (haven't seen this one personally, but have heard LOTS of stories).

Upon returning to the clinic the next day to finish up, the in-charge was back to complain that we were only installing a few lights, and not lighting the entire clinic or providing electrical outlets. I tried to explain that the system we were installing was minimized for price and functionality. The wiring for lights and sockets had already been installed and at one time they worked - this was the DVD abuse case. After the inverter broke, the battery was stolen, and the system fell into disrepair. When taken to a dingy, dirty store room, there was a 6kVa UPS still in plastic, donated by an NGO. This is used to take AC input, clean it up and store it in a battery, and plug fancy electrical equipment into it, which can be powered for some time after the AC input dies. This was the biggest one I had ever seen, by far. There is no AC input and no fancy electrical equipment. This single piece of equipment is probably worth tens of thousands of dollars - and is sitting, unused, unable to be used, in its wrapping in a corner of the Zambian bush. The jungle will overtake it sooner or later. Then she showed me a large generator, also sitting in a room. She also mentioned that she had eight solar panels sitting at her house if we wanted to wire them for her. Ah yes, and when a woman came into the clinic in anaphylactic shock from a scorpion bite, they didn't have the proper medicine to treat her.

I wired the clinic to run off of the generator, taking the burden, and hopefully the temptation, off of our solar equipment. I was satisfied to see visible progress. The lights and the sockets will now all work - as long as the generator can be maintained and fuel provided (not too much of a hassle, actually). We parted ways, and as we left the clinic, I spied the egregious satellite dish. All I could do was sigh, and shake my head. On to the next clinic.

Nearly Half in the Bush

What better way to spend a hot, clear, Saturday morning than running through the bush? Yesterday a group of around 50 Zambians and Mzungu's made the trek out past Kafue town, and started running from the highway, up the surprisingly good tarmac road, towards the Kafue Power station 10.7 miles away on hilly road, involving 2000 ft of elevation gain (nearly a half marathon). It was a hilly and challenging course, to say the least.

Elevation profile of the run. Notice the first 4km offer a nice, unrelenting climb.

The run contrasted sharply with the last organized long run of mine - the Boston marathon ala 2005. Both well organized sporting events, one slightly larger than the other. Instead of the sidelines packed with cheering, merry-making individuals, were tall, green, silent trees. The occasional bunch of cattle stared at runners passing by, but with less wonder and bemusement than the few locals, who looked on, incredulous. Some greeted us with smiles, some with blank stares. There were no energetic crowds of friends jumping onto the race course for small stretches, or oodles of screaming girls at Wellesley College, halfway along, offering kisses to runners. Instead, five foot tall bags of charcoal lines a few parts of the road, waiting to be bought to heat homes and cook food, like soldiers at attention. A buddy of mine and I 'bandit' ran in Boston, hopping on after all the registered runners started, but were cheered on with the same enthusiasm and excitement. I had 'Looking' written on my chest, and my buddy had written 'Good' in nice big letters. Depending who was cheering for us, we were either Looking Good, or Good Looking, both of which kept continual smiles on our faces and urged us on to the end. Yesterday, the trees stood in silence, but the rolling hills and landscape provided endless views of rural Zambia, hardly developed, lush, and expansive.

A blast from the past. 'Looking' and 'Good' cruising in the background, surrounded by a shirtless crowd of friends that had joined us for a half mile or more near Wellesley College.

The small group of runners strung out quickly. I ran the majority of the race myself, contemplating the events of the week past, and gearing up for the challenges of the week upcoming. I would pass five and six year old Zambian children, often carrying loads of goods, miles from home, on their own, with not a worry in the world. A race organizer told a story about leaving her own children to man a water table last year. After driving away and realizing what she had done, she noted that her children were plenty old to be left alone in the bush by Zambian standards, but in the US, custody of her kids would likely be revoked.

I wish I had pictures to post here from the race - but was too focused on finishing to bother carrying a camera. And oh, the Zambian contingent smoked the Mzungu's, with the lead runner finishing in an hour and five minutes on the challenging course.

Shifting from Fifth Gear to First

I've always had a sick desire to downshift to reverse or first gear while cruising down the highway. Thankfully, part common sense, part weeny has kept me from attempting it. Would you hear a crunch and feel a bump as the transmission dropped out the bottom and you slowed to a stop? Would it be like slamming on the front brakes of your bike, sending you a** over tea kettle, lurching over the handlebars - in other words, would your car do a forwards flip, emitting billows of black smoke at the same time (for the coolness factor, of course).

Well, if this week is any experience, it feels like a really, really bad hangover. No, I didn't downshift from fifth to first, not even in the rental car I had in California. But after back to back red eye flights, ten time zones, and an entire weekend on an airplane, I feel its the most apt description of my current situation.

The analogy works on so many levels.

I was just driving on palm tree lined, six lane wide, smoothly paved highways with intermittent views of the Pacific. Now, I'm riding in old, busted cars on old, busted streets, where 50 mph feels like warp speed - if you have the magical combination of car and road that can achieve it. Even more fitting, riding 10 mph on my 50 pound, single speed, creeky bike because I don't even own an old, busted car.

How about going from the land of time management, efficiency, and a go-go-go pace to, well ... the opposite. From fast food to not much of anything that can be called fast. Do you remember what dial-up internet feels like - yea, that one fits here too. Its not dial-up, but it feels like it a little too often.

This guy is no weeny...

I was curious enough to google what would happen if you did shift from fifth gear to first or reverse. 'A lot of pressure and noise.' Lame. That's not nearly as exciting as a car doing a forward front flip with smoke effects, or dropping the tranmission like a bad habit. Ah well, as it is, a few days of napping and sucking it up - and I feel like a normal person again. Still adjusting to the small things, but at home in Africa once again. I don't think any major body parts fell off in the process, and I have never been talented enough for acrobatics.

Next time though, it may be wise to apply the brakes first.

Bank Mzungu

I met with a pastor for coffee a month back in Lusaka. The topic: business. I helped him flesh out a few ideas to provide skills trainings and services for his church community. After helping him brainstorm, the real reason for our meeting slowly dawned on me. 'How are you going to seek funding?' I asked. 'Well, with your help. You know people, have friends and family back home, right? Can't you mail them asking for money?'

I thought of all the emails I have ever received in the States asking for a bank account number for some get rich quick scam.

'No, I don't really feel comfortable doing that.'


I'm sure liar wasn't too far from his vocabulary at that point.

I tried to explain that charity, especially the handouts he was seeking, aren't sustainable. Even if I was to collect money on his behalf, it would eventually run out. He and his church would be back to square one. A more sustainable, entrepreneurial spirit was needed - micro-finance to secure upfront capital, skills workshops to collect small funds or donations, selling the crafts made at the workshops, taking a small commission on the products sold by those trained to fund the center. As I was talking, I realized how much harder one method sounded than the other. Handout versus hard work. Ease versus the risk of failure. As much as I tried to relay the I was happy to help in any number of ways, I'm afraid I was only able to convince him that I was not going to be a funding source, that I wasn't his Bank Mzungu.

This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Its easy to feel like a walking dollar sign rather than a person in Africa.

These encounters may be microcosms of the larger aid industry. If you are at all interested in the theme, I would highly recommend 'Dead Aid' by Dambisa Moyo. She talks about aid to Africa over the last 50 years, and how it can be viewed as one of the chief mechanisms that has actually held Africa back from development. She is a Zambian, and her point of view is refreshing and insightful, providing a needed counter-argument to the typical Western arguments about the success or failure of foreign aid.

"Since the 1940s, approximately US$1 trillion of aid has been transferred from rich countries to Africa. This is nearly US$1,000 for every man, woman and child on the planet today."

That is A LOT of money. And where has this money gone? Has it reached the people who need it most, to help develop African societies, provide healthcare and education? Not necessarily, and definitely not efficiently.
"Foreign aid props up corrupt governments – providing them with freely usable cash. These corrupt governments interfere with the rule of law, the establishment of transparent civil institutions and the protection of civil liberties, making both domestic and foreign investment in poor countries unattractive. Greater opacity and fewer investments reduce economic growth, which leads to fewer job opportunities and increasing poverty levels. In response to growing poverty, donors give more aid, which continues the downward spiral of poverty."

"In most functioning and healthy economies, the middle class pays taxes in return for government accountability. Foreign aid short-circuits this link. Because the government’s financial dependence on its citizens has been reduced, it owes its people nothing."

Like charity, these handouts are for short term survival with little thought of the long-term. Aid is typically given with some conditions, but rarely ended or taken back if those conditions aren't met. The money continues to flow. Many want to alleviate poverty in the developing world by increasing the flow of aid. Maybe this is the wrong approach.

Winston Churchill is quoted in the book saying, "We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give." I don't want to discourage giving on an individual level. Americans give much more than the majority of Westerners, and much of that money does go to good causes. But is it the best way to help the developing world develop?

"Deep in every liberal sensibility is a profound sense that in a world of moral uncertainty one idea is sacred, one belief cannot be compromised: the rich should help the poor, and the form of this help should be aid."

But...

"There is no incentive for long-term financial planning, no reason to seek alternatives to fund development, when all you have to do is sit back and bank the cheques."

But how to change? For the government, it is almost easier to leave the status quo of a dysfunctional system of aid rather than shake things up. This is a controversial subject, and I don't have the answers. I do know, however, that I don't like being treated as a Bank Mzungu.

Deja Vu

As I sit in Orange County, driving on familiar streets, eating at familiar restaurants, and surrounded by familiar faces, I wonder if the last year really happened. Did I really see the splendid Victoria Falls, or go camping amidst the larger mammalian species on this planet, the ones that have no problem eating you? Were all those visits to rural clinics, and the impressions they continually made on me a fiction? What about the friends I have made in the past year? The potholes I have become intimately acquainted with? The culture? The people? My home?

Sipping a Chai Latte, hearing airplanes cruise overhead and cars drive by, Africa seems a world away. I work in a familiar office, driven by all too familiar goals. All those experiences of afar seem - well, far away. I know they are there, not too deep below the surface. They have been internalized, and shaped my into a slightly different version of the person I was when I was last here.

I am here in Southern California, halfway through a three week stint as a contractor for Boeing. My old boss gave me a call, and was convincing enough to drag me out of Zambia. Is my time in Africa done? Far from it. I go back in a little over a weeks time. My aim is to work part time for both companies, and see if that lifestyle is sustainable. I can have my cake and eat it too, can't I? That luscious cake of convenience, sushi, cheese and ice cream in America, sprinkled with a bit of adventure, challenge and culture in Zambia. I hope it tastes as delicious as it sounds.

Lambo in Lusaka

I had to take a double take cruising down the road the other day. For a moment, I thought I was back in Orange County. A sleek, white, Lamborghini was pulling out of a gated household onto the streets of Lusaka. Yep, that's right, a Lambo. So many thoughts and feelings overwhelmed me that I nearly fell over.

1) Why would you want to drive a Lamborghini in Lusaka? There are probably only 3 roads in the entire city that are safe to drive - the rest are ridden with enormous potholes, in complete disrepair, or have yet to be paved. There are also ginormous speed bumps on the few roads that are paved. In fact, there is one just outside of the gate the Lambo pulled out of - it COULDN'T have driven the other way down the street! I bet the owner even hires a security guard to take with them and watch the car while they are getting milk at the store.

2) The blatant disregard for the surrounding poverty makes me want to hurl. Import duties on cars in Zambia nearly double the cost paid compared to the actual worth. That's right, double the cost of that Lambo - you are talking big bucks. That is, unless there are other, hidden, deals at work... Can you imagine visiting the big city from a village - with hardly enough to feed yourself and your family, struggling to survive, and seeing this slick car that only exists in the movies and Orange County? Surely, its driven by some 'important' politician or businessman showing their 'importance' with the value of their car. Why are they busy showing their 'importance' rather than using it for some more wholesome, helpful purpose?

Prompted by the Lambo siting, I have paid more attention to the cars on the streets of Luska. I have noticed more and more exotic cars: Mercedes, BMWs, Hummers. Is this actually a sign of a growing middle class exercising their newly found purchasing power? Hmm, I think not. I think its a sign of other, more pernicious methods of obtaining wealth. Bummer.

Zambits

Despite the best laid plans to leave Lusaka at 7am sharp Monday morning for a rural site visit in Luangwa, the laws of Zambian physics prevail. Being 'on time' here is relative. Locals refer to now as within the next hour or two. Now now is within the next 15 minutes. A flurry of emails and phone calls are made to ensure our departure promptly at 7am. We leave the office by 7:08, only to find a large screw implanted in our tire within five minutes of departing. One look at the spare causes us to turn around to get an entirely new tire. We leave Lusaka 90 minutes later. Sounds about right.

We depart the clinic after a long days' work. Our of nowhere, a hysterical squawking shreaks from the back of the vehicle. Is the guy in back joking around? Nope, its the village chicken he bought and put in a cardboard box in back complaining about the bumpiness of the road.

A pickup truck flags down our Land Cruiser. I've been spotted, the lone Mzungu in the car. The driver rolls down the window and invites me to dinner. He and his wife are thrilled to share a meal with a fellow American after a bit of time in the bush. Dinner with the Texan couple is lovely: hamburgers, fried potatoes, and homemade vanilla ice cream.

Stranded. The only gas station in the rural town of Luangwa has run out of petrol. All the local utilities and enterprising individuals in town who store their own fuel for such occasions are tapped dry. The NGO I've come with sends a vehicle with spare fuel from Lusaka, five hours away. That car breaks down 3 hours into its journey. The NGO sends another car to fix the broken down car for the first car to continue on its mission to provide us with fuel.

Time to read the local paper. A sample of today's headlines from the 'Post':

"Mututwa asks govt to tell him what wrong he did" - A 92 year old accused of treason 'thanked the government for releasing him without explaining to him what wrong he committed.'

"Failures shouldn't seek re-election" - A pastoral coordinator complains at the lack of attendance of government officials at a church celebration.

"Rupiah's govt wants Mumba out of ECZ" - The President is trying to remove a justice from the Electoral Commission and replace her with someone more favorable to his government ahead of the upcoming elections.

"Use of live ammunition is unacceptable" - condemnation of the Zambian police force's use of live ammunition on citizens.

"Four to hang for murder" - four of six accused of murder are sentenced to death by hanging. They murdered someone from stealing $10.

"Electoral Code still source of mistrust" - 'the code in its current state is a source of conflict, mistrust and an erosion of public confidence in the electoral process.'

"Copperbelt cops hold man over human trafficking"

"Govt to employ over 200,000 teachers in next 10 years" - to fill the current shortfall. 80,000 teachers are currently employed in all of Zambia.

"Zambians housing deficit in billions of dollars"

"Obama faces budget battle after speech"

"Cholera causing more deaths, experts urge vaccination"

Is it?!!

"What is this number here?"
"Well, it is the total monthly data usage."
"Oh, so it should be a sum of each of the connection usages in this column?"
"Yes."
"Well the numbers don't add up."
"Is it!?" (A current Zambianism meaning, huh, well I'll be.)
"Um, it isn't. (not knowing exactly how to respond, taking the statement literally). No, I mean, it is. Wait, it isn't - ah, this column doesn't add up to this number here."
"Is it... How many times did you add up the numbers?"
"I didn't add them by hand. I used some software to import the numbers and do the addition for me."
"Oh. I wasn't prepared to talk about this during this meeting. Maybe we can reschedule and I can make sure to have someone that can answer these questions present."

In Zambia, confrontation in social situations is avoided at all cost. Constructive criticism is often taken to be insulting or disrespectful. Hierarchy is based on age, not necessarily merit (or even better, political or family ties). As a result, I tried to be on my best behavior for the meeting, especially given the circumstances. Patience, kemosabe.

"You have a few hundred people working in this building, surely one of them can take a few minutes to help us."
"Um, I don't know, I'm afraid we will have to reschedule."
"Can you please see if there is someone that can help us?"
"Um, please wait here. Do you mind if I take this paper with your notes?"
"Sure - if that helps."

I'm looking at the cell bill for our project for the last month - covering 24 Community Health Worker phones and 9 data modems in Clinics and District Offices. Its well over our projected, let alone budgeted costs - enough that its raising more than eyebrows. Upon investigation of the bill - one discrepancy leads to another. This column of data used per 'session' doesn't add up to the total 'data volume' charge for the month. November charges appear again on the December bill - but not for the same amount. The daily charge for a single sim card for November 10th on the November bill shows a different number of connections and data pushed through each connection than November 10th on the December bill. Oh, and they aren't charging us the way they had advertised when we signed up for the contract. Apparently charges by data volume come with a hidden minimum charge each connection. In rural locations where the cell network can be spotty, especially when trying to send moderate amounts of data, connections are dropped all the time. How often does your network drop a call? And are you located in rural Africa? A flurry of useless emails with the cell provider and more wasted time led to the need for a face to face meeting.

(doo doo do do, doo doo do (think Jeopardy)... 40 minutes later... our old friend and a new guy sit down with us. Introductions proceed apace (usually the first 5 or so minutes of each conversation).
"Oh.. well.. it appears that our software isn't doing something right. We will need to look into it. We are terribly embarassed, especially that the customer pointed this out to us, rather than our internal quality control. We will send you our data so you can see exactly where our reports are coming from. We will also send you a revised bill tomorrow."

The data never comes.
That promised email is never sent.
Upon inquiry 4 days later, we recieve a cryptic email that basically says:
We will charge you whatever we think we can get away with. Most customers don't complain. Our system is good enough to be able to double charge you for usage in the previous month because it wasn't 'tallied' correctly the first time. As to the fuzzy math, well, we use it to our advantage.

Is it?! It is.

from notebloc.wordpress.com

Back in the, er, swing?

In the three weeks the house was empty over the holidays, the internet company suspended our service. We ran out of electricity. All the food in the freezer thawed, and now it smells like someone died in it. The lights don't work. We ran out of water. Hot water - alas, that's not working either. Crainky, I wasn't gone that long! Welcome back to Zambia!

The first week in the office proves busy. On a ride to a rural clinic to fix a computer, I debate the future of Africa with a coworker. He explains that it all comes down to management, or rather, mismanagement, fostering an environment for corruption to blossom. He is anxious about the secession of Southern Sudan, and what it could mean for the rest of Africa - where there are lots of other very divided countries, granted, none in as grave a situation. On the way back from the clinic, I explain to him how engines work and airplanes fly - complete with scribbles in a notebook. He says he is fascinated, but still terrified of flying.

This week I have had to dawn rubber 'gum/duck' boots and a rain jacket to brave the downpoors. I will be sitting on my computer, headphones on, when all of a sudden it sounds like the roof is going to collapse. A glance out the window reveals that, indeed, the sky is falling. And as it turns out, the sky is awfully wet. There are 6 ft deep culverts alongside the main roads, often instead of sidewalks or a shoulder. They are easily clogged with mud or trash. The water pooring out of the sky quickly fills these drainages, especially when it rains for hours, off and on, for months at a time. One street by my house has a perpetual lake across the middle of it. I instruct any taxi to take the long way to avoid the giant potholes that are forming. The other intersecting road is on an incline. The ground is so saturated at this point in the year, that even a small drizzle starts a small waterfall that cascades its way from the top of the street to the bottom - washing along anything in its way. Gum boots, umbrella, rain coat - they help, but things still seem damp. Without a washing machine or clothes dryer, newly washed clothes hang all over our hallways.

I recently veered off the road on my bike into one of the culverts - guessing wrongly which way
a pedestrian would move when when I rang my bell. Yes, I have a sweet bell on my bike to alert everyone that a Mzungu on a bike - complete with helmet (one of the very few in all of town - you are welcome mom!) is coming along - a sight for all to see. This scene got even better as I flew into the mud and over the handlebars. I guessed which way she would have moved as if I were in the States. This isn't the states, and there are giant mud and trash filled traps that spring up on you when you least expect it!

Missing the Develop(ed)(ing) World

Disclaimer: One of my hopes for the new year is to blog more often AND to keep entries short enough to read in less than 5 minutes. This one may break that second intention already...

Two-thirds of one butt cheek rest comfortably on the bench of a minibus carrying 17 down from a church atop a hill it took me 2 hours to hike. The ride cost the equivalent of $0.13, takes 5 minutes, and carries 5 less passengers than the same sized minibus would in Lusaka.

I share my dinner table with an elder Ethiopian man because every other table is full. He has just returned to Ethiopia after living in Amercia for 20 years. He raised his family there - and his three kids will stay. After regaling me with stories of his time in the States, he shares what will miss most: his wife (to join him in Ethiopia in 8 months time, his kids, and Domino's pizza.

Yep, I'm back in Africa.

Sipping on a glass of red wine, sated from a scrumptious dish of spicy lamb stew and injera, enjoying the ambiance of a restaurant in Addis Ababa, serenated by Ethiopian infused Jazz beats, I try to wade through a jet-lagged fog to contemplate the events of the last few weeks. A few days ago I departed Colorado, and in a few days more I will return to Lusaka. Which is home? Family and familiarity dominate one, work and intrigue the other.

I had a number of small anxieties and high hopes returning home from eight months in Africa. One by one, each anxiety proved unfounded and hope overblown. I've gathered in a larger sense, that the things I think I miss in Africa, and the things the expat community yearns for and complains about - don't amount to much. We do not live a deprived life in Lusaka, Zambia - but there are a number of things in the developed world that do make living nice.

I drove my old car from place to place - and initially had to remind myself which side of the street to drive on. It was only necessary initially, though, as years of past experience quickly superceded recent habits as I turned on the radio and stopped thinking about which side of the road is the 'right' side. The roads are wide and smooth. I can comfortably drive faster than I would dare on Zambian highways, not having to fear surprise goat crossings, car-swallowing potholes, or semi trucks broken down in the middle of a two-lane highway.

I sought burritos, sushi, beer, and hamburgers galore. My expectations of that first burger were like those in a Carl's Jr commercial; with each bite of a monstrous burger, juicy deliciousness drips down my chin - how could I not be satisfied? Or what about that heavenly nectar, beer? It brings to mind snowy mountain peaks and fur bikini clad women (sorry, I AM from Colorado and have seen A LOT of Coors commercials). I must say, Zambian local beer never brought to mind snow or bikini clad women. And yet, every encounter with burritos, sushi, and beer let me down - as I had built up monumental expectations of what a each should be. I don't think I will be craving sushi, burritos, or beer for some time to come.

Instead, it was the small things that struck me. Seeing my breath in the cool morning air. Fixed prices, neglecting the need for bargaining. Sidewalks. Blending into a crowd. I nearly broke into tears in the cheese aisle of Costco. Reliable hot showers with good water pressure are lovely. Internet that supports video and pictures with speed is mind boggling. The chance to see family and friends, spend holidays among mountains and snow, reminded me of a different life. Straddling what seems like two worlds, I have to think hard in which one I really belong - because in one, I inevitably miss the other.