I finally have a desk, lovingly made locally. I am now settled in the spare bedroom where I hope I finally have some space to work, while my husband can use the table downstairs. Often we find ourselves both working from home so this has been a huge relief. Plus the desk smells really great, I love that new wood smell.
I've tried various set ups and even worked in the gallery for a while, hopefully this will be more permanent, well until we leave anyway!
I found out about this site in Bitch Magazine. It reveres everything 90s with a girl slant. I pretty much wrote off the 90s remembering the 90s of MC Hammer and Boyz to Men. I was a young teen then. Then, after going on this site, I remember how brilliant that decade was as well. That was the era of Nirvana, of my formative years of fab indie films like The Unbelievable Truth and Sex, Lies and Videotape. What happened to Hal Hartley anyway? I became really into the arts then I think, as my previous post laments. I used by the now defunct Deadline magazine religiously and send off for all the DIY comic books in the back. Life was really exciting then, when you're that age – 15-20 – you're a discoverer.
My favourite band ever was The Throwing Muses, here is one of their best songs. Unfortunately the quality ain't great.
I watched this film with my husband at the weekend and miraculously he stayed awake.I take comfort in the fact that the author Henri-Pierre Roche, who wrote the book on which the film is based (phew how's that for clauses?), was over seventy when his novel was published. Hope for me yet?
Yesterday I made the resolution to finish my novel before anything else 500 - 1000 words a day. Have so far failed, but the day ain't over yet. Dumbfoundland is becoming a long gestation period, elephants are born quicker.
My current little lovelies are my yellow notebooks. They are the perfect size for my hand bag, so I can whip them out at any time and jot something down. I had mini-panic when I looked in my bag on Thursday and found it was missing, thankfully I had only left it at the gallery! When I have used what's written on the pad, I can rip it off. This action serves three purposes. It means I don't carry lots of unnecessary pages around with me, or I can rip important pages of notes and file them for later and I get an immense sense of satisfaction ripping off the pages and seeing the pad get smaller, it makes me feel that I am making progress somehow. Whenever I am stuck I can riffle through my notes and find something to write about.
And look at that lovely sunny colour!
These are my flip-flops. Actually in Zambia they're called tropicals or zappatas ( a wonderfully onomatopoeic word). I bought them the first time I was in Zambia and they set me back about $3. The soles are thick and I have trod on sharp rocks and nails without feeling a thing. They have a rainbow design that has since worn off but that gives them their name – rainbow tropicals. In a country of mass-produced tat that breaks after a week or two, they are my hope for the future.
The room was cream and exactly like this; A calendar from the Zambian Police, a copper picture of rhinos in relief, a plaque that wasn't a plaque but was used as such all three high up along the same wall. The plaque said that Jesus looked over the house, was a silent listener and an unseen guest. There was a large patch of peeled back paint that had been painted over and looked like a badly healed scar. An armchair in dusky pink velour and then the floor was covered with reed mats and two thin mattresses. That was it. The calendar was hung level but the rhinos were a little askew.
Inside the fuse box outside the front door, sparrows were nesting, they dropped down on occasion and picked dry grass and fibres from the porch in their staccato little way. I saw a flat-bed truck in the yard and felt impressed that they had such a thing in their possession until my eyes went to the flat tire sunk firm into the dirt and the grass growing through the fuel tank.
5 women lined up on the mattresses, sitting modestly with their legs stretched in front of them and crossed, wrapped in chitenges. Mary's was especially faded. Most of their feet were clean and pink and from the soles they looked so young and tender. We sat very quietly while Mary's aunt sorted through a small stack of papers – medical cards, school exercise books covered in cheap wrapping paper and a small photo album. Mary's grandmother sat next to Mary and had a toothpick, she used it to idly pick out the small circles on her chitenge, she then traced them with the tip or picked at some imaginary stain or other, eventually bored of this, she used it clean her toe nails. Mary's mother died of low blood pressure. We asked the aunt what happened, she told us her blood pressure dropped and she went to hospital. In the hospital she didn't get any medicine and died after five days. There was going to be an investigation. 'And what was the result?' we asked, 'We buried her so...' she shrugged. No investigation.
We left wanting to know how it was possible that the aunt seemed better educated than the niece, she spoke better English and was large, while Mary spoke so little English and was so thin. In the end we were not really sure whether the grandmother was the grandmother, or the aunt the aunt and my husband said that he didn't think it was her mother that died. We had no idea who the other women were, cousins? Sisters? Families are so less clearly divided here.
And I wondered whether there is such a concept as a needless death in Zambia.
Women's day is a national holiday here so we decided to go away for the weekend. Lake Kariba was our destination, I'd been before and remembered it being lovely and not too far from the big smoke.
The drive down went from pretty to spectacular as we navigated winding roads overlooking the lake – it reminded me of the Gargano in southern Italy. While we drove we talked about whether there were any Peace Corps or VSO volunteers there and how lucky they would be to have such a placement.
Lake Kariba is home of the Kariba dam, a huge reservoir that spreads over the border to Zimbabwe. It used to supply about 50% of Zambia's electricity back in the '60s. It was built by Italian engineers and I really like the design, it feels like a Bond film should be set there. As lovely as the lake is, there are plenty of crocs and hippos so we didn't take the plunge and stuck to the pool instead which was more than adequate. We spent 3 days lazing at the bar, playing card games and relaxing.
While there we ran into someone we knew in Lusaka and she introduced us to some VSO volunteers who live in the area. We chatted and I remarked at what a great place it must be to live and one shrugged and said it was alright. Now this surprising remark – seriously look at the pictures! – made me think it was a result of one or both of two possible factors. First – they were British and we British and not really known for going overboard with praise or joy. I first realised this when I started to spend time with more Americans who are much more enthusiastic. Second – they have problems with their placement, who doesn't? But what they don't realise is how much worse it could've been. There are some really isolated and boring places in Zambia, I lived in one and although I was glad to leave, I still managed to enjoy the experience. I knew volunteers in even more out-of-the-way placements than mine, 12 hours from Lusaka on terrible roads in the middle of the bush and still they were desperately sad to leave.
Volunteering is all about your attitude and knowing your limits. If you have chosen to volunteer in a developing country you must decide yourself whether you really can manage to be in a different culture and the struggles that entails. Moreover, are you open enough to learn from the experience and look beyond the difference to see the beauty? It's hard for a reason but just sticking it out and becoming resentful proves nothing. I don't know the background of these volunteers and maybe they had very valid reasons for being nonplussed. I hope so, otherwise they will look back and kick themselves when they realise just how good they had it.
