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...
