Pink

On the whole, Zambians are not complainers, don't suffer from road rage, and they like to pretend nobody ever uses cuss words (although they get pretty darned embarrassed when we say certain words related to certain body parts, so obviously somebody's using them).

So it was interesting this morning to observe Ester, the PC housekeeper, when she knocked a half gallon of pink paint onto the fresh tile. Any American would have said lots of angry cuss words, cried, and/or thrown a temper tantrum involving threats to quit or at least go home and drink tequila all afternoon.

Ester just made some general exclamations of frustration and spent the next hour quietly mopping up a lake of pink paint. Did I mention the water was out all day? When we stopped for lunch several hours later, she was covered in little splotches of pink paint, but just as cheerful as ever.

Zoned

In the past 24 hours, I have:
* gone to work for the day, leaving the door wide open
* left my keys in a completely unrelated door
* lost (and found) my cell phone in the truck
* banged into something with my shin hard enough that there's a bloody spot and a huge knot, yet I have no idea what I kicked

Trevor gets knocked out by tequila; apparently antihistimines are what make me a walking zombie. And yet there is no other way I can sleep through this cold. And with a thousand details still for the move (and nobody around to take over), I can't just not show up for my life like I usually would with a cold like this.

Wah! The good news is that Trevor gets home tomorrow night. Unfortunately for him, I plan to dump my problems in his lap and take to bed.

Moving

We are at that part of the move where it seems like everything is done, until we drive back to the house and pack up One Last Load. Then another. When I left this afternoon, the driveway was full of bike parts, our emergency jerry cans of diesel, and a fly-covered sack of cow bones (for the dog) that had been sitting there most of the day, stinking.

Some logistical problems at the new house involving bunk beds and a door that's too small for our stove mean that we can't quite start unpacking yet. I did manage to find the box with utensils in it, so the helpers no longer must share The Spoon.

In other news, our pet lizard or salamander or whatever he is lost his tail this week. Where? Will we find a little withered nub when we're moving out of this place?

Move it, move it

When Trevor is away, I tend to eat crappy bachelorette dinners, like Popcorn. It just doesn't seem worth the effort to cook without an appreciative audience.

Also, moving is no fun without help. The PC house is in transit to a new house that seems smaller but at least has a bigger yard. Luckily for me, several of the most gung-ho volunteers have showed up to lift boxes into the refrigerated truck our landlord sent over, and to help shepherd our ferocious guard dog into the cruiser for the drive. Unfortunately, by the time we got out of the driveway, the ride had terrified the dog to the point she peed, so one of said volunteers walked her to the new house while another volunteer held her dinner bowl of cow bones the housekeeper had just finished boiling up.

Sadly for the new volunteers, all the (3) restaurants in town are closed on account of Ramadan. I would have invited them over, but 1. I didn't think of it in time, and 2. I'm too exhausted to cook anyway. Looks like a granola night.

Mayi anga amayanjana ndi kuweta nkhuku*

I am so darn spoiled in Chipata. I can make coffee in an instant, using my turbo-charged electric kettle, and check my email while it steeps in the French press.

Sadly, though, Trevor is away at a conference, I'm getting the cold that's been going around, and things are getting funky in the fridge because there's still not enough power to keep it on. Still, I feel pretty lucky at the moment.

*"My mother is lucky with rearing chickens." I found this in my English/Chichewa Dictionary under "lucky." Under friend, this proverb: "When the beard of your friend has caught fire, help in putting out the fire." (Mnzako akapsya ndevu mzimire.) I also like this completely random example: "The thief stole my possessions while I was playing the xylophone." (Mbala inaba katundu wanga pamene ndinkayimba mangolongolo.) Because we all know that playing the xylophone is a dangerous thing.

Load shedding

After several weeks of consistent power and water, I've gotten spoiled, so yesterday's unexpected outage threw me for a loop. We learned late in the day that it was actually a scheduled outage from 7am until 6pm. Luckily we didn't wait to make dinner, because the lights didn't come back until 8, just when Trevor went outside to look at stars.

It's supposed to be out again today. In fact, I can tell we're already on low voltage, because the fridge is off. I'm trying to do all my power-related things while I can, which is why I pulled a batch of cookies out of the oven at 7am and have every rechargable device in the house plugged in.

A day without power is not such a big deal, except in the late afternoon when the sun is blazing down and all I want to do is bask in front of the fan and drop an ice cube in my glass, but then I hear my mom's voice in my head telling me, "Don't you dare open that fridge! You'll let all the cold air out!" And even though my mom is half a planet away, I don't open the fridge.

Glad to have a friend

For Trevor, the key to happiness is finding a friend who loves jumping on bikes and cruising out on aimless, multi-hour rambles. This would not be me, though I have been dragged grudgingly on many such rides, so I'm happy to report that Trevor has found his Bike Friend in Chipata. Richard is a British construction guy who rides a bike Frankensteined from spare parts and shares Trevor's enthusiasm for steep hills, African political history, and bacon (among other things).

You have no idea what a relief it is for me to no longer be the default bike-riding companion. As a bonus, Richard thinks he can fix the broken handle on our oven. And as a welding consultant, he's got the inside scoop on when the new grocery store and pizza joint will open up. And he bakes (amazing, healthy) bread in a homemade solar oven. I love this guy.

Bounty

Hippie cookbooks are the key to tackling the ever-changing array of vegetables in season here*. Unlike Americaland, where refrigerated trucks allow me to believe that avocados are always in season, things come and go here. (Sadly, fresh peas have gone. And although we keep stubbornly eating our lettuce, pretty soon even I will admit there's not enough mayo in the world to hide the bitterness of this aging crop.)

At home, I stick to a small roster of vegetable superstars. In Zambia, I have no choice but to branch out: what's for sale is what there is. There's no freezer case full of green beans and strawberries, no prewashed bags of spinach. This is why I've been scouring Laurel's Kitchen and the Encyclopedia of Country Living for help dealing with the eggplants currently dominating our market. Tonight: baba ganouj. Tomorrow: ratatouille.

I have to admit, it's pretty cool discovering how easy it is to make something so amazingly good. (I could eat baba ganouj three meals a day. Which I just might until something else takes eggplant's place.)

* Shout out to Lea and Grace, our hippie cookbook benefactors. Thanks!!

Shoprite special

The grocery store was closed in the middle of the afternoon yesterday because the guys from the power company were doing something in the road, and the generator wasn't on because everybody who knows how to run it had gone off to eat lunch. Such is Zambia.

This gave me a chance to mill around outside the store with everybody else, and I finally met the Irish priest who has a mission a ways north of here. This is another nice thing about being the only white people around; I figured he was Father Ned because he was an older-looking guy with messy hair. Imagine picking somebody out of a crowd in America based on that description.

Since we're packing up to move the PC house, I brought home an abandoned package of margarita mix. Paired with some (ridiculously expensive) tequila from Shoprite, I had my first real margarita in many, many months. Delicious. If I say I'm already looking forward to tonight's, does that mean I have a problem?

My pathetic addiction

I watched every single special feature, including Tim Gunn's episode-by-episode critique/ blog. I have milked season two completely dry. Auf wiedeshen for now, Project Runway.

Studying the box in anticipation of season three (the only other one I have), I just realized they name the finalists right on the package. So much for suspense.

Update

I now own a box of Zambian toothpicks, thanks to my generous and perceptive husband. (Who is currently in the bathroom choking on toothpaste. I think he will be ok.)

Festivities, Part 2

This weekend is the big annual festival of the Chewa tribe. A few minutes ago, a giant helicopter landed a block away, which we assume is the president arriving ("or maybe Alex Trebek!" says Trevor). The arrival is a big deal here, considering we never even see contrails.

Everybody in Eastern Province is heading to the festival but us. We're staying home to have quiche and fruit salad with our fellow agoraphobes. And Trevor is currently filling the house with the smell of bacon. ("Mmm," he says. "Fried strips of pig.")

Meanwhile, we are containing our strong opinions about the fact that Zambia manages to have a presidential helicopter. Just yesterday at the BP station I had to wait for a gas pump while MPs push-started their giant military truck. Gives you a glimpse into the national priorities, huh?

Festivities

FYI: The testing of blueberry muffins is made much more festive by using a cocktail umbrella instead of a toothpick. Of course, I'm only using the umbrella because I don't currently own an actual toothpick. (That's not entirely true. I'm pretty sure I own several toothpicks, and they're squirreled away in one of the boxes in my parents' basement, too many time zones away to make it for this batch of muffins, though the muffin mix did, in fact, come from my parents' pantry, just upstairs from the toothpicks.)

We had our own little Friday Happy Hour tonight with homemade pizza and beer, with our pseudo-pet lizard or gecko or whatever he is watching us from his perch above the door. Whenever he sensed us looking at him, he'd yank his head back real fast and run behind the decorations on the ledge. Personally I prefer a bit more interaction from my pets, but for now this will have to do.

TGIF

During the first half of my Peace Corps service, it was hard to keep track of the days of the week since it never mattered much. However, after a week of driving around, trying to balance books, and returning phone calls, today I am thanking god it's Friday. I just wish there was a nice Happy Hour somewhere, with frosty margaritas and potato skins drowning in melted cheese.

File under "How the Hell Did That Come Up?"

On our drive from Navaruli to Chadiza today, I found myself telling Clement that in America you can buy a clock that runs off a potato. His only question was, "An Irish potato?"

Last time we drove to Lusaka, we discussed how in America if you hit a deer you can keep it for the meat. What he found hard to imagine is that anybody might pass up this opportunity.

On the same drive, the subject of the South African man-ish Olympic runner came up, and I informed an incredulous Clement that it's actually possible for a person to have both male and female anatomy. Then I realized I should change the subject, so I did. Fast.

The Trevor Report

Trevor returned today from a bike trip around the greater Chipata area, visiting several volunteers and meeting the new trainees.

One afternoon he hiked up a mountain/hill near Liz's site, and on the way back down the road to her village, he was walking behind two ladies chatting up a storm. Until one of them glanced back and saw Trevor; she dropped her basket of sweet potatoes and cucumbers and they ran screaming into the village.

When Trevor got back to Liz's place, Liz theorized they had been telling ghost stories involving muzungus, so seeing one on the road caused them a fright.

"It was a sobering experience," says Trevor, who is happy to be home. (Me too.)

More obsessing about food

During last week's trip to Lusaka, I managed to stuff my bag with lots of culinary goodness, like cheese tortellini and brown rice (no Crisco this time-- I'm on a health kick). A health food store has opened up, giving me unprecedented access to things like stevia and wheat gluten. The later is a key ingredient to one of the more bizarre un-meat things we used to eat in Americaland, vegetarian pepperoni. I bought a sack of it and now have a log of pepperoni roasting in the oven.

I continue to appreciate Chipata's range of fruits and vegetables. Though the produce counter at Shoprite would fit in your trunk, they do carry four different kinds of apples. And though the market continues to lack avocado, lately we've been blessed with butternut squash, fresh ginger, and eggplant.

Then there's the bag of chocolate chips in the pantry, crying out to become cookies.

Trust the experts

My colleague and I had a flat on the way to pick up a bunch of PC trainees at 6 am. PC policy is to get a punctured tire fixed as soon as you change it so you'll always have a functioning spare, but I tried to talk Clement into driving up the road a ways to find a new one (instead of backtracking) so we wouldn't get behind schedule. He would hear nothing of it.

Since it was Sunday and the hardware stores were closed (you would think that filling stations would carry spare car parts; they don't), he headed back into Lusaka for a new tube while I went ahead in another truck.

The trip back to Lusaka was 40 minutes one way, so Clement should have been no more than two hours behind us, but it took him five hours to reach a volunteer we'd left waiting. They'd had another puncture.

Like celebrity deaths, punctures come in multiples. This is why PCVs should always carry snacks and knitting.

Busy busy

Sorry I haven't been around to update this week; I've been away from Trevor and so can't accurately report upon his goings and doings, other than what I have learned via SMS from his bicycling trip (after last weekend's knee-shredding tumble, should I be concerned that he texted to ask me to pick up more antibiotic ointment?). Also I have been busy in the land of high-speed internet, which of course leads to no good, specifically large orders on Amazon.com.

There was a sudden and dire illness in the cat of the people I'm staying with, so this evening we stopped by the vet hospital to check on him. The vet hospital is nicer by far than any of the people hospitals and clinics I've visited in Zambia. Not that I am surprised by this. Speaking of hospitals, I found out during this trip that the friend who got crunched by the truck with no brakes has been medically separated. He's better but still not well enough to come back to Zambia.

After the vet hospital, my hosts and I stopped by a wine and snacks party that featured little pastry puffs with melted cheese (I got to be friends with the guys lurking around the snack table with me) and a waiter who clearly was not briefed on how little wine you are supposed to pour into those ginormous wine glasses. I am not complaining but I do hope I didn't say anything too stupid to the embassy folks and other muckety mucks.

Spoiler alert for a 5-year-old show!

Last night I was finishing the toe of August sock #2 while watching season 2 of Project Runway, when Santino mentioned being from Missouri. Of course I knew that by Googling him to find out where in Missouri, I would inevitably find out who won, but I couldn't resist. (St. Charles, and it was worth it because I was kind of stressed out thinking he might win, so I can watch the remaining episodes in peace, knowing he didn't!)

Having the August socks in the bag means only four pairs left to complete my goal of a pair a month in 2009. As the holidays draw closer (especially in the crafting world, this is late to start planning presents-- I sent a sack of them to America in July), I'm thinking that we need handknit Christmas stockings. Sadly, as the weather turns to fall in the homeland, it's starting to blaze up here, which doesn't exactly inspire holiday spirit. Still, I soldier on.