Merry Christmas!

Wishing you a happy and healthy 2013

- The Adams Family

Guinea 2009: The Scenic Route

While cleaning out my old computer I found something I'd written almost four years ago after a trip to Guinea during my semester in Senegal. This section is about the particularly harrowing journey across the border. It was an entertaining read for me, reliving what was a pretty intense experience, and I thought others might enjoy it too.

In the morning we headed off into the great unknown. Truly, that was Guinea in a nutshell; a country I knew preciously little about. Step one was visiting the local garage, where all forms of transportation congregate. We had heard the roads were bad, so my companions started bargaining for 4x4’s. I found myself, carried by the mob of drivers offering transport, by a large blue truck, camion, in the process of being loaded with cargo. A man speaking English with an American accent approached me and I learned that, in terms of inexpensive transportation, this truck was about as cheap as it gets. I have to admit, I may have been motivated as much by financial concern as by a boyish desire to ride in the back of a truck. It was in this way that twelve American students, another five having just joined us, stumbled blindly upon a side of l’Afrique de l’Ouest that until then had remained hidden to us.

A few things were made clear very quickly when the truck began to load. First; there were a lot more people accompanying us on this cross-border trip than we had anticipated. By the time we left Kedougou there were close to fifty people, and baggage, crammed into the bed of the truck. Second; we were not going anywhere quickly. Already sweaty and cramped after ten minutes, we wailed in dismay as we drove in a series of large circles, first to an office, then back to the garage, finally to the driver’s house as he had forgotten his bag. All the while, fifty passengers, from very old to just born, jostled for leg, elbow, and breathing space in the back. Truly we had no idea how long we expected to travel for. Optimistically, we clung to the notion of somewhere around six hours. Worst case scenario; well, we didn't really consider that. We finally left Kedougou mid-afternoon. Six hours later found us pulling to a halt at some type of crossing as dusk began to grey the edges of our vision. We dismounted, stretched, happy to be able to uncurl for a brief respite. Our first notion of trouble was when, upon seeing the name of the town, we realized we still weren't even close to the border. We started to consider the looming reality of traveling well into the night. We applied bug spray, put on warm clothes, and prepared ourselves for a long evening.

Traveling in the daylight was hot and uncomfortable, yet somehow traveling in the night was worse. Not only was it intensely cramped (we had collected more passengers after nightfall) but we had now entered the mountains that constitute the border. This means we spent a majority of the time leaning backwards as the beast of a vehicle labored to make it up rocky mountain paths. The first time we had to dismount was somewhat of an apocalyptic event. We were on the edge of a cliff, barely visible in the dark, listening to the engine make the worst noises so far as we pitched and swayed from one large rock to the next. Suddenly the tires lost footing and we began to slide backwards down the mountain, continuing to rock perilously close to the cliff edge all the while. People clenched the handholds for dear life, women screamed and children cried. The driver’s assistants managed to stop our rapid descent by wedging logs under the tires, and we quickly climbed down and scrambled to safety. We took the children with us, since there was no one else to watch them. There we were, climbing up a rocky mountain pass into the dark with little children on our back, leaving behind us the sweep of the truck’s headlights and the roar of its struggling engine while large wildfires burned in ever widening circles on the nearby hillsides.

This was the story of the rest of the night. Huddled together in the dark as the truck climbed until it could climb no further, at which point we would dismount down the side, trek up the remainder of the incline, and then pile back in. Each time was like a miniature border war; we had to get in as quickly as possible to stake out what meager claims to space we could. There were times when there was simply no possible way to fit another person sitting down, so we took turns sitting atop the roll-cage bars, one of the more harrowing experiences of my life. Our mindsets had changed very quickly from that morning. It’s incredible how the brain adjusts in times of stress. I was drawn into myself; my frame of reference becoming the walls of the truck, my concept of time shrinking from next week to tomorrow to simply the next time the truck stopped so I could readjust my contorted limbs. My mind slowed down, as if in hibernation, unwilling to function at full speed because there really is nothing good to think about and furthermore, nothing that can be done about it. And that’s how we passed the time, crammed together, knees in our chins or someone else’s, the only personal space found inside our own heads.

We made it to the border at ten thirty that night. We stumbled down, dazed, half-functioning. Someone collected our passports and herded us across the miniature stone wall that demarcated the line between two sovereign nations. I stayed in the truck to watch the bags, alone except for the children sleeping on sacks of rice. The stars were much clearer there, and the moon was absolutely brilliant, I wondered how much altitude we had gained. I was upset, but not terribly surprised, when I learned that the truck had suffered a mortal injury during one of the climbs and we would have to spend the night there at the border. A mechanic had been called but it was not sure how, when, or really even if he would be coming. Everyone else began staking out spaces on the ground or among the bags. We Americans sat despondently nearby. Our driver, probably aware that we were in way over our heads, found us a man who offered his house to us in exchange for buying breakfast in the morning. We collected our things and as one pathetic, bedraggled group, tramped our way down a dirt path in search of rest.

The moonlight lit up the landscape in a strange gray-scale  highlighting certain features sharply but leaving others hidden in darkness. We were led to a dirt hut with a thatched roof surrounded by a tall stick fences to keep the goats and chickens in, or perhaps other, larger animals out. There were four beds for the twelve of us. Well two beds, really, and two wooden planks. Seeing as we hadn't eaten since breakfast we opened up a can of tuna and a can of ravioli and partook in a cold, but delicious, feast. We cleaned and bandaged our wounds, filled and purified our empty water bottles, then collapsed in exhaustion.

What little sleep I was getting was interrupted far too early by a veritable symphony of roosters echoing off the hillsides. Whoever said they crow at dawn was mistaken, or else African roosters are just more eager to start the day. Upon learning that the mechanic had already done his work, we inhaled our breakfast of bread and milky tea and piled into the truck. The other passengers, having already gotten on, allocated us a third the space we had the day before. We set off into the mountains of Guinea with high hopes and somewhat rested bodies. 

Incredibly, the roads were even worse on this side of the border. We bounced and jostled our way over them, our brains and organs slowly being liquefied. The sun, not wanting to miss a minute of the action, quickly joined us. Pretty soon we had consumed a good portion of our water supply, and everyone was still thirsty. The next time we stopped at village we decided it was imperative to find more water; there was no telling when we’d get another chance. A few of us asked an older man, who happened to be the village chief, and he led us to their water pump. It was a good thing we got that water because the day turned out to be a scorcher and there wasn't an inch of shade riding in the back. So began our week-long battle with water. Even after our adventure on the truck had finished, water was a huge source of concern. I have never craved water that way before, never been so dehydrated, never held water in my hand, weighing my thirst against the risk of sickness from impurities. It was a frightening feeling, rationing each sip, and it truly made me understand how much we take our drinking water for granted.

When people got sick, things got serious. Up until that point we had been dealing with severe discomfort at the worst, maybe a few instances of physical danger. But when one of the girls in our group started showing symptoms of malaria, the reality of our situation became clear. There was no choice available to us other than staying on the truck. We couldn't turn around, and it was clear no better form of transportation would be showing up anytime soon. Up until then, I had been worried that my poorly-informed transportation choice would ruin my friends’ vacation, now I was far more concerned. When we stopped for lunch (a bowl of white rice and a thin yellow sauce) we made sure to refill our water again. We had to ensure we were all drinking enough; dehydration was not an option. We rested in the shade at that village during the worst of the afternoon heat, sprawled out on cool reed mats. We set off again with a renewed vigor and drive. It was becoming clear that we would be traveling into the night again and we needed to keep our spirits up. We sang, played games, and talked, but our situation could not be ignored for long. At one point we picked up a good deal of speed on a flat road when we absolutely nailed a bump. Everything on the truck was airborne for a substantial period of time. Many of us collided with the iron roll-cage bars, and in the confusion some baggage was lost, fallen off the back.

Up and down mountains, in and out of riverbeds, mounting and dismounting the truck, baking in the afternoon sun. Everything about the trip was unknown. Every breakdown could be for ten minutes or three hours, every stopover brief or long, and the response to our inquiries about the distance to Maliville, our own El Dorado, was always “far.” Dusk came again. I was glad to escape the heat, but loath to spend more time traveling in the dark. We got off at the base of what seemed like a sizable hill. We started climbing; the truck gave us a head start. The path stretched on and on, around each corner was another incline, and all the while we could hear the truck roaring and lurching its way up behind us, threatening to overtake us if we walked too slowly. There was something very ominous about the truck creeping up behind us, like an animal stalking its prey. It was both our carriage and our prison, the source of our distress, but our only way out.

At the top of that mountain, we learned we would be spending the night again. We received the news with quiet resignation. It was a surreal situation that stretched on, no end in sight, nothing to do but submit to it. We stopped at a town called Fougou, where every one of us promptly collapsed on the ground. Prepared to sleep in the dirt we laid out our backpacks, but our driver once again had found somewhere to stay. It’s hard to say whether the dirt wouldn't have been better, since we ended up on the concrete floor of an unfinished bungalow, but the hospitality was much appreciated. We opened up the last of our canned food and cookies, purified more pump water, and tried to sleep despite the cold.

In the morning our lives took an interesting turn. For once in the past two days we did not get back onto the truck. It was a happy, if not a bit astonishing moment, finally reaching the point we'd all be longing for. The routine we had come to accept had been broken. It had been decided by our driver (and protector) that we would get to our destination in a sept-place while the other group of five continued with him. We said goodbye to our friends as they re-mounted and rode off into the sunrise. And that was how we came to be free of our camion.

The Lighter Side

I've noticed that my posts over the last couple months have either been about work or being sick. I felt the need to write this one to assure you that there are good and fun things happening here too.

Bat Migration, Round 2

On a warm late October morning six friends and I wedged ourselves into a rented Pajero and set off in search of bats. Of course, no trip up Great North Road would be complete without the customary visit to Fig Tree Café; a little oasis of coffee and baked goods for the bleary eyed traveler. A second extended pit stop later on, this time to locate black-market fuel, left us with only just enough time once reaching Kasanka to speedily pitch our tents before we booked it over to bat headquarters. Seeing them for a second time let me appreciate even more the unique sight in front of me that evening, and again early the next morning against a sunrise backdrop. The bats even put on a special pre-dawn Halloween show for us, flying in near cliché pattern across a brilliantly lit moon complete with halo.

(Low flying bats)

Elephant Orphanage

One of Lusaka’s special places, the Elephant Orphanage Project is located close to the city just off the main southbound road. It’s a growing project modeled on larger ones, such as in Nairobi, which is currently focusing on increasing their capacity and improving the site's facilities. At the moment they house about half a dozen orphaned elephants at their Lusaka site. Their stories are all moving, each having been rescued when their parents were killed or when they were nearly killed themselves. Watching them romping around their boma, play fighting, tackling one another, and struggling dramatically to climb out of their mud pit, it was hard not to feel a sense of camaraderie with these surprisingly human creatures.

(Sneak attack does not go as planned)

Market exploration

I’m seriously considering writing a guidebook to the markets of Lusaka. It’s a good idea, I know, don’t steal it. Over the past few months, on both workdays and weekends, I’m constantly being shown new places or stumbling on them after taking a wrong turn. In that time I’ve seen the range of our city’s commerce hubs. There’s City Market, where cow hearts sit across the aisle from hand tailored dresses, and your shopping has less to do with your taste and more to do with the flow of the crowd around you. Then there’s the Zambian Art and Design show, which sits at the other extreme, where the parking lot is crammed with SUVs, and expats and Zambians alike come to select Christmas gifts from beautifully made pieces. Deciding which to visit is sometimes less about what you want to buy and more about what you want for lunch. It may sound dubious to those of you at home, but it’s a viable weekend pastime here and there's always something new to discover.

Graduation

Last Saturday was the first time I’ve been able to attend a graduation ceremony for KF students. This occasion marked the first of our students to graduate from Chalo Trust School. The ceremony, though stifled by muggy weather, was well run and had great musical interludes. The graduates, sweltering in their attire, looked more than ready in both the figurative and physical sense to shed their gowns and embark onto the next stage of their lives. The most inspiring moment of the day came from KF’s own Mr. Mukena, whose impassioned speech urged the new alumnae not to wait for handouts, but rather to take their future into their own hands, to put themselves out there, intern, volunteer, and refuse to take no for an answer until they begin realizing their dreams.

(Justin, KF Class of '12, with his mother at graduation)

And how could I leave out Thanksgiving dinner, which is becoming a great tradition in my life here. This year, two dozen people brought almost as many dishes, making it a feast of spectacular proportions. The spread featured all the standards plus some bonuses like pork belly, homemade bread, and butternut soup. One long communal table set with candles and construction paper hand turkeys really made it feel like the family dinner many of us were missing back home. By the end of the night I was plenty full, and plenty thankful.

Let me close with the last, perhaps greatest, development of the past months. I’ve been introduced to what could be the most spectacular doughnuts ever to be deep fried and sugared, right here in Lusaka. Perhaps I’ll look back on this post, shake my head and note, sadly, that this was the beginning of my downfall. I think it’s probably in my best interest to embark on another weekend adventure soon, if only to break what is fast becoming a tasty weekend ritual.

The Appreciator

Check out my friend Emma's brainchild, a blog about appreciation in all forms. With contributors from all over, it's a place to acknowledge, celebrate and groove on the things that matter in life.

The Appreciator

On the Importance of Insurance

How well do you know your insurance? I’m directing this specifically to friends living abroad. Do you know what hospitals in your area are approved by your policy and what your coverage is? Two weeks ago I was ambushed by a mystery disease and had to figure all this out as I went along. My advice is to check now.

I’ll preface this by saying I’m back home in Lusaka now and feeling much better than before.

After feeling sick for a few days I eventually sought the advice of my good friend, who’s a neurologist, and his colleague, an infectious disease specialist. I went to the hospital where I received an ever-evolving diagnosis from the doctors there. For a while they thought it could be meningitis, then they were sure it was malaria, then a bacterial infection. After a few days of not knowing what to treat, I opted to use my evacuation insurance and be flown to a very good hospital in South Africa. That process was pretty impressive; the ambulance drives right out onto the tarmac to meet the plane. It was a small one with a bed for the patient and a few seats for the medical team. The team was top quality and I felt like I could really put my trust in them, although I may have been influenced by their sweet matching jumpsuits. After an hour and a half in the air we landed in Joburg where another ambulance was there to get me. No lines, no waiting; this is the way flying should be.

The battery of tests they ran in SA all came back normal and they were able to rule out anything life threatening. Ultimately they diagnosed me with some mystery virus that needed to burn itself out. After getting jabbed in every part of my body, sampling a diverse array of pain killers, getting my brain imaged and my spinal fluid drawn, and not being able to go anywhere without trailing my IV drip, I feel very lucky and happy to be out of hospitals with no more serious diagnosis. I also feel very fortunate to have had so many people help me out during the process, checking in on me and helping me make decisions about my health in a confusing situation. It's hard to be far from family at a time like that, but I know they were glad I had people watching out for me here. Insurance is important, but good friends are equally vital.

FINCA, A First Look

FINCA was founded in 1984, only one year after Grameen Bank (the brainchild of Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus), making it one of the oldest microfinance institutions in the world. The organization was born from the notion that a lack of collateral was the main obstacle preventing people with low income from accessing credit. Allowing a group of borrowers to personally guarantee one another in lieu of physical security was the cornerstone FINCA was founded on.

In 2001, FINCA Zambia opened its doors for the first time in Lusaka. It arrived with the strength of 17 years experience and development backing it up. A pioneer in the Zambian market, its model met the needs of local small business people in new and innovative ways. Access to capital without collateral enabled these people to grow and expand their operations. What’s more, FINCA offered an approach targeted to their specific needs in a way large banks were previously unable to. It wasn’t long before the enormous potential of filling this gap was recognized by others and the microfinance market started to boom. Currently, there are at least eight MFIs operating in Zambia, with others looking to enter the market and traditional banks developing their own microbusiness departments. Offering Zambians access to traditionally inaccessible financial services (going beyond just loans) is a thriving business right now, and you will find the same holds true in many developing countries around the world.

When we consider my experience with FINCA we’re talking about a much smaller timeline of course. I’m coming up on my two month mark soon, and it’s about time I explained what I’ve been doing. My first year in the Junior Manager Program was designed to give me an inside-out understanding of how FINCA Zambia’s operations work. Logically, the place to start was as a Loan Officer; the front line and foundation of the whole organization. After a few weeks of orientation, mentorship and training, I became a certified Business (Individual) Loan Officer exactly one month ago. This means I find my own clients, conduct analyses, disburse loans and manage a portfolio. There’s no better way I could’ve built my understanding of this business than working at its heart. I’ve learned a great deal about how businesses operate, and how to analyze those operations within the specific context of the endemically informal Zambian market. Each loan is a unique challenge with an intriguing story that must be unraveled. I take great pride in tailoring the right loan for each client and seeing them use it to improve their businesses. Since starting, I’ve taken on ten clients in businesses ranging from groceries to butcheries to pie-making. The loans have ranged from 600 to 2,000 USD and have been used for buying soft drinks, rebuilding a roof, doubling pie production and buying chicken feed, to name a few. My repayment rate is, as of now, perfect, but it we’ll see how it fares over the next week as many of my first payments come due.

FINCA has brought many changes to my life here. I ride my bicycle to work or take the bus. My office is deep in the bustling downtown area, nestled between bus stations and markets. I work with an all Zambian staff, and most conversations in my office don’t take place in English. This has really given me the opportunity to improve my understanding of Nyanja (my starting point in the list of 70+ local dialects). My coworkers are really supportive of my efforts and go out of their way to help me learn, which is very encouraging. All of these things have boosted my understanding of Zambia and given me a much more acute sense of belonging. It’s a function of both the time I’ve spent here and the new environments I’m in, but the result is I’m really enjoying where this new year is taking me.

(Soweto Branch)

(Sikufele, my first client, at his grocery)

Side note: while it's not New England autumn foliage, our trees are putting on a pretty spectacular display of their own right now.

Like Riding a Bicycle

Lusaka is not flat.

Like many things about this city, its rolling hills are subtle and understated. But when you’re pedaling up one in the surprisingly hot early morning sun, they become slightly more obvious.

This is one of many new things I’ve learned since downsizing from four wheels to two.

I’ve learned there’s such a thing as bike traffic. Though I’m usually the one getting passed, I had to laugh the first time I got stuck in a line of slow bikers- sometimes there’s just no way to escape Lusaka congestion!

I’ve learned that biking alongside minibuses requires careful study and concentration. It doesn’t take long to notice the subtle signs that can help you predict their erratic behavior. Sure, the conductor banging on the roof usually means they’re about to pull out (blindly) into traffic, but if he hasn’t actually closed the door, it’s probably just a ploy to attract more customers. Also, take note of whether pedestrians make even the faintest eye contact with the driver; they won’t hesitate to pull the bus over anywhere, even if it means running you over. No bus stop? No problem.

On the flipside, I’ve learned Lusaka road rules make for a unique and entertaining commute. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing one of those old computer games like SkiFree the way I hop curbs and slalom potholes (don’t worry Mom, I’m wearing a helmet). I’m just waiting for that abominable snowman to jump out of the trees and chase me down waving his little stick arms.

I’ve learned that a loaf of bread is a perfectly reasonable amount of groceries to attempt to carry while riding, whereas a whole chicken, a 24 pack of toilet paper and other assorted items is most certainly not.

I’ve learned danger lurks in surprising places. Crossing the railroad tracks with a train approaching? No worries; it’s moving about a meter a minute. Nor is there any great risk when fording the main trucking highway. Spot a gap between those diesel fuming monsters, commit, and you’ll be fine. It’s in the crowded markets where I meet the true nemesis of my commute: the wheelbarrow. Here they call them Zamcabs; wheelbarrows with rebar extensions soldered to their ends to allow them to carry extra large loads. They’re the main means of shipping goods around the markets, and they get paid by the trip so you can imagine how quickly they’re barreling through the crowds. Being unlucky enough to end up in the path of one of these will really put a dent in your day (and your shins).

I’ve learned that, for a guy who hasn’t owned a bike since he was 15, I’m enjoying my new mode of transportation much more than I was expecting to. Let’s see if I change my tune once the rains start…

Power to the Twenty Somethings

We are lazy and have no real skills. We are pampered and entitled. We are idealist and unrealistic. These are things we heard about ourselves. No jobs, no opportunities. Even graduate degrees won’t find you work. No one is hiring fresh-faced liberal arts students holding a CV stacked with unpaid summer internships. These are things we heard about the world. The closer we came to graduation, the louder these observations seemed to echo. Pessimism abounded, and even in the promise of our degrees we could feel its weight.

Crossing the threshold, we faced our generation’s mal due siècle and dealt with it in our own ways. Though we were confident, we were not unshaken, and though we were privileged, we still dwelt on our disadvantages. In the first year we ran the gambit of occupations, from rockstars to interns to waiters to teachers. Some continued onto grad school while others traveled the world. For all of us, though, it was a year of discovery and exploration. Like standing on the platform at a bustling subway hub, there were many directions to choose from. Picking a track to travel down, one that would likely take you far from where you currently stood, was at times an overwhelming decision.  For many of us, myself included, it was a testing and often frustrating process.

Over one year has passed since I left for Zambia. When I came back this summer, I was bowled over by how everyone’s lives had settled and strengthened, like the cement in the foundation of a new home. Everywhere I visited, I was struck by how friends had established themselves, pursued remarkable endeavors, and built up impressive lives.

To name a few, but not come close to exhausting the list:

Traveling to Afghanistan to teach at the country’s only music school, bringing the strength of music to students who could truly use it.

My little sister, moving into her first apartment with a friend, cooking meals, going to work, berating me for eating all the snacks in her pantry.

Starting a business in the rough and tumble world of New York finance. Facing down setbacks, innovating and pushing forward, confident of success.

Moving across the country to pursue a passion for glassblowing; starting from scratch and paying dues. Becoming a stand-out artist producing incredible works.

Holding down a full-time job while earning a Master’s degree at night and still having time for a social life and camping on the weekends.

Building robots, getting published for work on smart wheelchairs, while at the same time turning an apartment into a welcoming and comfortable home

I really can’t impress enough how often I felt this way during my visit. Over and over I marveled at my friends’ lives with delight and a dash of envy. In each one I saw the evidence of a willingness to pursue dreams, to doggedly shrug off challenges, and to surround themselves with things that made them happy. I feel very proud of my friends, and twenty-somethings in general. In the direct sunlight of the real world, rather than withering, we have proven we can flourish.

 

(In America)

A Year in Music

In a few days I'll be leaving Zambia for a little while. Though I'll be back in August to start anew with FINCA, this still feels like the end of something. I've had a wonderful time wrapping it all up while orienting the incoming fellow, Jill, to KF. She's perfect for the position and already a hit with the kids; I'm excited for her and maybe a little jealous too. Since I expect the next few days to be as busy as the last, I'll rely on other people's words to summarize my year. So maybe this is a little lazy and self-indulgent; there are still some good songs in here.

July - September

(Young Blood, Ten over Ten)

October - December

(Skinny Love, Little Secret)

January - March

(Someone Great, Wait So Long)

April - June

(Chikawama, Blood) 

Past, Present and Future

One night, about a week after I first arrived in Zambia, I had a nightmare. I dreamt it was the end of my fellowship; the whole thing had flown by and I hadn’t decided anything about my future, hadn’t changed at all as a person. I awoke in a cold sweat, but the dread quickly turned to relief when I realized that was all a year away. It’s funny to see how that dream holds up to the reality that’s finally upon me. I actually don’t feel like I’ve changed much, but I do spend just about every day with myself so it can be hard to tell. I also haven’t reached any definite conclusions about my future or purpose in life. Somehow, though, the sense of failure I felt in my dream isn’t there. This year has felt so natural, exactly the right thing for me at this time, and, while I wish it could go on much longer, I’ll be glad to spend these last few weeks reflecting happily on my time with KF and PiAf.

Happiness comes easily these days with all the good things going on. In May, Sarah, one of my oldest college friends, stopped by for a visit on her way home from Cairo. To prove the pyramids have got nothing on our natural wonders, we struck out on a whirlwind tour of the country. Her first weekend we got drenched at Victoria Falls, swooned over baby elephants in Botswana, and floated into the sunset on the Zambezi. The next weekend we drove down to the Kafue River where we relaxed in natural hot springs, front row seats to a spectacular starscape overhead. It was wonderful to have her here; she fit perfectly into life in Lusaka and I hope she’s already planning her next trip.

(Excited about elephants)

With all the time I’ve been spending thinking about future plans and reflecting on the fellowship, I have to work to appreciate all the great things happening in the present. For example, this past weekend I went to Ndola, a nearby city, with a few friends to watch the Zambia national football team play their first game back on home turf after winning the Africa Cup in February. To make it more special, this was their first game at a recently completed state-of-the-art stadium funded by the Chinese government. The anticipation level was high for what was expected to be a challenging match against Ghana, out to avenge their AFCON semi-final exit at the hands of Chipolopolo. We were all pleasantly surprised by the weekend: great seats in a beautiful stadium, an organized and happy atmosphere to the whole event, and a spectacular showing by the Zambian team for the win. It reminded me what a great country this is and how I’m not ready to leave.

(Game time in Ndola)

Which brings me to my final point: the future. Ever since sometime in February, this topic has occupied an ever-increasing share of my brain activity. Looking for a job was somewhat overwhelming when I wasn’t sure what field I wanted to work in or even where I really wanted to be. I talked to many people here, got plenty of advice and considered it all carefully. In the end, an opportunity rose to the forefront which made a lot of sense for me. While it’s a bit premature (I haven’t yet signed the papers or received the work visa) I can say with confidence that in August I’ll be making the transition from education access to microfinance, working here in Lusaka with FINCA, an international MFI. I really look forward to learning much more about this area of development, which I’ve spent time studying and observing in the past. At some point, when the ink is dry, I’ll take some time to explain the position I’ll have, but suffice it to say it’s meant to be an intensive but instructive crash course in the field. Ultimately, I feel very lucky to have found an interesting position in a place that I love, close to friends and students who I care about very much. 

Bike for KF Thank You Video

Last Saturday, over 30 riders took part in the inaugural Bike for KF event in New York. Organized by members of the KF USA team, it raised money to support the ongoing mission of connecting students to quality education in Zambia. With the help of all the students and my friend Jacob, who donated his video equipment and expertise, I put together a thank you video that was shown to the participants after the event. It's a short video with a straightforward message, but I thought it came out nice. Who knew we had such on-screen talent in our midst?

A Smashing Good Birthday

April again. Seems like a good long while since it was here last. My golden year made its final curtain call as the 24^th approached. What a truly golden year it turned out to be. So much new love in my life for people and places, so many experiences I’m privileged to have had. Reflecting on all of these developments, I floated my way through a beautiful Tuesday. Over an early morning coffee I penned long overdue postcards and buried myself in the wonderful Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. During the day I bounced all over, polishing up applications with students and visiting our Grade 12s in holiday tuition. I had a lunchtime call from my family and it was great to hear from them. Too quickly, it was 6 o’clock and the drowsing sun was waving its last goodbyes. I had planned a small dinner for the evening with the help of two friends, preferring some Chinese cuisine to my usual night of cooking. Most of my friends had apologetically excused themselves, citing work overloads or previous commitments. As it had been last minute, I wasn't too surprised and was happy to share dinner with an intimate bunch. It turns out I had been systematically deceived and manipulated, in the best sort of way. Walking into the restaurant, still completely and embarrassingly oblivious, I found a room filled with people. It truly made me feel very loved that they would all come out, and I have to really thank my friends Cecile and Jes for organising the whole con. We enjoyed a delicious meal, and afterwards, gathered around the television to watch Chelsea take on a heavily favored Barcelona side in the Champions League semi-final.

In the days leading up to the game I had received my share of sympathetic looks and condolences, the general consensus being that Barcelona was going to destroy my favored side. The first half of the game didn’t do much to sway that belief either; as Barcelona scored early and Chelsea defender John Terry received a red card, leaving his side to play a man down for the remainder of the match. But a beautiful goal from Ramires and a dogged defensive strategy found Chelsea in the default lead as the second half came to a close. The tension built as the Spanish side, dominating possession, took shot after shot on the Chelsea goal. Finally, it came to a head, but not how anyone would’ve expected. Torres, having done little since coming in as a sub, suddenly found himself on a breakaway, miles away from the nearest defender. One on one with the keeper, he calmly sidestepped and, with utmost composure, tucked the ball into the back of the net. Improbably, near impossibly, Chelsea had won and moved onto the final, reversing the shame of their loss in the same situation three years ago, and giving me a very special birthday gift. In summation, it was about as spectacular as birthdays come.

You may be wondering about the title of this post. “Has he renounced his identity?” you might be asking yourself, “does he suddenly think he’s a Brit?” Not to worry, my American slang heritage has retained its integrity. “Smashing” is a literal reference, in truth, to the day after my birthday. A very windy day it has been. An adolescent wind is blowing, temperamental and dramatic, and like an adolescent, still coming to terms with its strength. Backing the van out of the driveway today, a particularly ugly outburst grabbed hold of one side of the open gate, slamming it shut directly into the rear window of the van. The wind will definitely not be going to prom now. Completely shattered, there was nothing to do but remove the glass and pick up the pieces. KF’s ever-helpful accountant was on the scene in no time. Together we went through the surprisingly (even by Zambia standards) complicated process of filing an insurance claim. We drove all over town (me just a little bit closer to owning a convertible) to collect the necessary documentation. Back and forth: my house to police station to insurance company to garage. My favorite part of the day was when we had to go back to my house to type up the handwritten police report, print it, and return to the police station for his signature (“who cares if we don’t have computers? All reports still need to be typed!”) 6 hours later, the paperwork was united in bureaucratic bliss and the claim was filed. Now let’s just hope it doesn’t rain between now and the new window…

"Watch the Sun Come Up"

A year later and I still can't get enough of this song (or video)

Knowing Namibia

In Nambia, there are only about 5 people per square mile. In Zambia there are 50, in the US, 84. Yet despite this relative emptiness, or likely because of it, it was one of the most fulfilling places I’d ever been.

Every night was a good night, each one a sturdy conclusion to a robust day. Usually we slept in the fold-out tents atop our rented truck, the pre-dawn glow our alarm clock. On nights when we slept in game parks, the deep staccato lion calls carried us in and out of sleep. One evening we showered on warm adobe earth, under open air with only a few sticks separating us from the brilliantly moon-lit sky. After dark, we cooked fish or meat, pasta or chili, washing it all down with deep red pinotage from Stellenbosch. We lit candles in beer bottles and watched the wax slowly trip and tumble over itself, memorializing its demise. In the mornings we welcomed sunrise with coffee and granola, or sometimes with the sizzling of eggs and bacon or French toast in the cast iron skillet. On those days when we were up well before dawn, a riotous symphony of stars welcomed us, audibly happy to be noticed after the setting of the moon.

One morning, a morning where you can feel the heat of the sun not long after it’s risen, we set off to hike the Olive Trail through the Naukluft mountains. Loose stones and steep slopes at first required slow, careful steps, but once we crested the green rise we were privy to the beauty of the rolling hills. We drank it in from the edge of a cliff, picking our way along game trails to get there. We were surrounded by magnificence: soft peaks sliced at intervals by sheer walls of exposed rock, carved by the slow violence of a long forgotten river. Descending into the evidence of its existence, we peeled away the layers of makeup adorning the hills. Down and down we went until we reached the rocky bottom. On the canyon walls we could see the pressed colored lines which describe eons in a matter of inches. Towering above us, this chronological cross-section constantly reminded us of our insignificance in matters of earth and time. Encased in this silent presence we sometimes scrambled, sometimes tripped or jumped our way along its winding channel.  Rocks of infinite size and hue were strewn from wall to wall, interrupted intermittently by politely sloping cacti or abrupt and rigid quiver trees. In the shade of a great ochre wall we sat on cool boulders and ate meat and cheese which filled our stomachs and apples that awoke and encouraged us. Among white rocks we bathed in spring water completely clear, and while it was cold, it was good and refreshed us. We emerged from these walls as infants from a bath; clean, new and glowing.

The Namibian landscape cannot be easily described. It is a country with a thousand faces and a million personalities. They flow into each other like water, though the transitions are often surprising. Rolling fields of downy white grain punctuated with red rock mountains give way to hundreds of tumbling hills and gorges. Thick red sand becomes green grazing pastures just over the next rise. Towering boulders, like pebbles kicked up by giants, are only a few hours from the flat fine sand of the coast. Through it all we drove, on lonely roads where our only company was the dust cloud trailing behind us.

(Spitzkoppe)

(The Namib Desert)

We explored the dunes of Sossusvlei, hiking to the top of one for sunrise. The sand was deeply red in the new dawn light, contrasting incredibly with the cloudless blue sky. Trekking over others, we found ancient forests of petrified trees spread like Medusa’s casualties across the cracked white clay. On other dunes in the north we hopped on planks of wood and rocketed down their sides, tracing their curves and hurdling their humps. At times hitting speeds of 70 km/hr, it was a quick way to get to know the land, while also getting very sandy. In Spitzkoppe we explored massive mounds of rock, from deep in the shade of their crevasses to their sun-burnt orange tops. In Twyfelfontein we read ancient messages in images carved into the soft stones and watched the sun set on an old and sacred place. We crawled over the land, challenging its vastness, peering into its secrets, listening to its silences and absorbing its beauty.

(Petrified trees at Deadvlei)

(Sand boarding in Swakopmund)

(Rock engravings at Twyfelfontein)

In this country we did what you cannot elsewhere. We raced ostrich and wildebeest and courted giraffe and steenbok in Etosha Park. We swam in the frigid Atlantic and sweltered under the desert sun in the same day. We saw the wreck of a ship not three years old washed up on the Skeleton Coast. Above all, we saw the earth and the light of the sun and the phases of the moon and the numbers of the stars like I never have before.

Enrollment vs. Education

Millennium Development Goal #2: Achieve Universal Primary Education

It should come as no surprise that education ranked as one of the eight areas the UN chose to address in its Millennium Development Goals; targets set in 2000 to promote development and reduce global poverty by 2015. There is little debate about the value of education. A lack of basic education closes off many opportunities to individuals and limits their empowerment in society. Additional education is proven to increase potential income over the course of life, raise national wealth, and, as most of us know, allows an individual to compete for a wider range of jobs. What is up for debate is how best to deliver this important service. I believe the UN is getting it wrong.

The key question here is: in the push for universal access, are we promoting education or simply enrollment, and what effect is that having on quality?

In his paper The Long Walk to School, Michael Clemens sheds light on the realities behind the numbers in countries who have seen substantial increases in enrollment rates. In the mid 1990’s, Togo increased primary education rates from 69% to 84% over only two years, but about 50% of students failed and were held back. Around the same time in Rwanda, failure and repetition rates increased by a factor of three, to which much of the 57% rise in enrollment rates was attributed. Massive enrollment rate increases in Malawi went hand in hand with a drop in quality of schools to one of the worst in Africa, and Uganda’s claim of doubling the number of enrolled students was accompanied by a doubling of average students per teacher and a halving of student test scores.

A common strategy for achieving universal enrollment is abolishing school fees. Governments can also strive for economic stability and growth to create jobs and incentivize education. These policies often leads to “explosions in enrollment” which put pressure “on already overburdened education systems,” in countries such as Kenya, which is used as an example in Charles Kenny’s “Getting Better: Why Global Development is Succeeding.” And education systems are suffering. In Filmer, Hasan and Pritchett’s A Millennium Learning Goal, students with primary education in less developed countries around the world often displayed underachieving results. 31% of students with a primary education in India could not read a simple story and 29% could not complete simple math problems. Only 25% of 15 to 19 year olds in Ghana could score more than 50% on a simple math test with one and two digit problems. Kenny summarizes it nicely: “the challenge is no longer staying in school but actually learning something while there.”

The point I’m driving at is increased rates of enrollment don’t necessarily reflect increased rates of education; in fact they can sometimes reflect quite the opposite. This comes from a decline in a number of factors including student to teacher ratio, available teaching resources, teacher qualification and facility capacity. In short, when government investment in educational capacity fails to keep up with enrollment, quality will decrease. Furthermore, investment is bound to lag behind when these changes occur practically overnight. It is predictably difficult for a system to prepare to handle a million additional students in a short amount of time as was the case in Kenya after the launch of its primary schooling initiative in 2003. So, abrupt changes to education enrollment are likely to exacerbate any issues public schools are already facing.

In many African countries there is a serious market for private schools, which seem to spring up on every corner. If a family can afford to pay the fees (or students earn scholarships to attend), they offer a strong alternative to the many overcrowded and underfunded public school options. When governments abolish public school fees and push enrollment this can draw students from private to public schools where they could face a reduction of the service they are receiving. In James Tooley’s paper Is Private Education Good for the Poor? he shows that students in private schools score better in subjects such as Math and English. He also found that private schools typically have better student to teacher ratios, better teacher commitments and sometimes better facilities than public schools. On a local level, I can draw from research done by my predecessor at Kucetekela Foundation, Jamie Nadeau, which shows that massive differences exist between the public and private schools the organization interacts with. For example, the student to teacher ratio in our former three private secondary school partners was, on average, 9.3. Compare this to nearby public secondary school options which averaged 30.6 students per teacher. Those same private schools had, on average, a Grade 12 examination pass rate of 94.3%, versus 74.1% at the public schools. 91% of the students graduating from those private schools enrolled in either college or university, whereas only 53.8% of graduates from the public schools did the same. This all reinforces the point that government policy change that encourages large shifts from private to public schools can negatively affect the quality of service the students receive. Rather than undermining the advantages of private schools by encouraging students to relocate to public schools for the sake of enrollment, policy makers should find a better way to make use of and learn from their successes.

Governments and Education Ministries should focus on putting enrollment rate increases in lock-step with quality and capacity improvements in schools. While there are some who raise questions about how much government policy can actually influence improvements in education, providing the highest quality service to the largest number of people will, in the long run, positively influence those factors that do affect education (such as parents’ level of education and income). The UN should refine its goal to incorporate this essential element. Otherwise, they may be pushing governments to produce numbers rather than results, potentially leading to reverse progress.

What good is access for all without benefits for all who access?

The Big City

I was under the impression I had been living in a city. You know- a teeming hub of industry and business; a place where people go to be with more people. I thought I was living in one, then I went to Nairobi last week. Suddenly, I was feeling more like a small town boy on his first trip to the big city. Nairobi is Lusaka on steroids; the set-up is similar but everything is bigger and there’s more of it. Also, it has some rage issues. Malls are also the foci of life, but these ones are usually far fancier and many times the size. There is also traffic, but Nairobi traffic is on a whole new level, boasting the biggest and baddest jams I've ever seen. Rage-wise; drivers are more aggressive and regularly pulls stunts like driving on the sidewalk or crossing the highway divide and taking over a lane on the opposite side. There’s also the crime issue. While we did get robbed, thankfully the perp was a monkey and we only lost some bananas. We did have a close call, though, with a mob blocking a road and waiting to ambush cars. In general, people watch their back much more and are wary of being caught outdoors alone or at night. On a more positive note, there is so much to do there. In a week alone we visited an elephant orphanage, a place where you can feed giraffes, and hiked in a forest preserve within the city. On top of that, we bowled, went to a water park, visited a museum, ate incredible food from Ethiopian to gelato, and explored the teeming city center.

  (At the elephant orphanage, photo credit Molly)

(Getting some love at the Giraffe Centre)

The Princeton in Africa retreat, the reason I was there, was fantastic. Sharing in the stories and experiences of the other fellows helped me better understand my own. For the first time, I felt like I was really part of a community and support network. Jane was our host, which was appropriate as she had visited many of us in the seven months prior. She paid us all back a hundred-fold. Her careful organizing and thoughtful planning made the week happen and let us enjoy everything Nairobi has to offer. On Wednesday, all the other fellows either went home or headed off to hike Kilimanjaro. I stuck around the city another two days. We took a minibus (matatu) out of town to visit Andrew, a friend I’ve known since middle school, and the first of my home friends I’ve met up with in Africa. We toured a sustainable farm/school where he worked in the past and was visiting from Uganda. Then we came back to the city and had some fun. All of this added up to an incredible week that renewed my enthusiasm and appreciation for this year and made me realize how much Lusaka has become home.

(PiAf fellows at the retreat)

(Andrew and I)

Mapping my Breakdowns

In honor of KF purchasing a new vehicle today (huzzah!), I'm posting a map of all the breakdowns and car troubles I've experienced since arriving in Lusaka. They're split between the Hilux Surf and Corolla I was driving alternatively for a time. They range from the repetitive to the totally unexpected, and, as you can see, occurred in a wide variety of locations. At the least, I can now say I know how to sort out an overheated car.

(click to enlarge)

Just to highlight my personal favorite incident; #5 involved a faulty fuel gauge telling me I still had a quarter tank left. This put me in the tight spot of running out in the middle of a main highway which has no space to pull over. The only thing to do was throw it in neutral and roll backwards downhill into oncoming traffic until I reached a turnoff. Thankfully the other drivers, not wholly unused to this sort of sight, were quick to take evasive action.

A Tale of Two Cities

A friend, quoting a guidebook, once described Lusaka as a city that “does not easily lend itself to superlatives.” I can see where they were coming from. Nothing about this place screams “look at me- this is Lusaka!” Nothing is overly big, loud, impressive or intense. There is no iconic monument, landmark or scenery. Hell, when a new mall opens, that’s big news here. In the most affectionate way possible, I would call it a tame town. However, there is one uniquely interesting thing about this place, something that sets it apart from anywhere I’ve ever been. In truth, it’s actually two cities sidled up right next to each other; more “twin cities” than Minneapolis and St. Paul. Sure they share infrastructure, government and a porous border, but that’s where the similarity ends. They are a metropolitan odd couple; two towns with two very different, though constantly intersecting, stories.

On the one hand is the city in which I usually find myself. A glorified urban sprawl revolving around strip malls and shopping centers. It stretches for many times the area of its neighbor, full of spacious residences and unclaimed land. Its roads are well maintained and the traffic lights work. There are shade trees, manicured lawns and gate after wall after gate, all crowned with razor wire. The people you see are usually in vehicles, and on the road you pass 4x4s one after another. Its restaurants have names like Portico and Plates and serve up delicious meals alongside cappuccinos and milkshakes. Within its shops, you can locate just about any appliance, convenience or luxury you could desire. Of course, this is sometimes a metaphorical city as much as a literal one, as its limits do not always follow strict geographical boundaries.

The other city, the one I rarely visit, is a fraction of the size but infinitely more dense. It's located to the west, straddling the largest north-south roads, and was once the center of all Lusaka. It is full of cars and people and stores and people and concrete and people. Every square inch of every block is utilized. There are shops within restaurants and restaurants within shops. Sidewalks double as merchandise displays, parking spaces and eateries. Cars are double, sometimes triple parked and roads back up behind slow moving buses. Even the walls are full; painted edge to edge with shop names and products images. All around there are people. You are swept along in a current of life, business, movement, color, noise, smell. You could wander this riotous labyrinth endlessly, always discovering something new.

To be honest, in one of these cities I feel comfortable and at home; in the other, I am a total stranger. I can blame my detachment on the miserable traffic, the lack of parking, the many convenient alternatives closer to home. Perhaps, though, it could be that where I live and spend most of my days is not too different from where I once lived, and where I avoid is the honest truth about where I live now. Walking around downtown today, I realized I need to find a better balance. Even after seven months, I’m just beginning to learn what it means to live in Lusaka.

Copper Bullets Strike Gold

Late Sunday night, in a bar in northern Lusaka, we watched history take place. Wrapped in Zambia-patterned fabric, faces painted red, green and black, we held each other tightly, hardly breathing as the African Cup of Nations final went into penalty kicks. We could hardly believe it had come to this. Zambia had held off a more experienced and heavily favored Ivorian side for 120 minutes. They had survived a penalty in regular time (typically a certain goal) through the grace of Drogba's faulty nerves. And now here they were, going shot for shot in penalty kicks to determine the outcome. Even that couldn't be decided in a normal way though; after neither side missed any of the five, it progressed into sudden death penalties. Ivory Coast was the first to miss, we could barely believe it, but tragically the next Zambian kicker couldn't seal the deal. Then, a miraculous second chance when the Zambian keeper managed to save the following penalty. This time, Zambia didn't miss. For the first time, the trophy did not elude them. Completely unbelievable, totally unexpected, and utterly relieving after one of the most stressful games I've ever watched. The bar was a blur of green energy jumping dancing excitement. Hugs, vuvuzela blasts, people on shoulders, dancing on the bar; it was wonderful madness. 

The next day became an unofficial holiday. The team would be returning to Lusaka with the trophy and it seemed like the whole country turned out to watch. By the time we made our way to the stadium where the ceremony was taking place, there were already thousands of people filling the stands. Because we were carrying our cameras, my roommate managed to get us onto the field, right in the epicenter of the action. It was an unbelievable opportunity to take photos. People were decked out in Zambian colors, absolutely bursting with energy, and couldn't wait to pose for pictures. After a few hours of that, things got quite a bit crazier when thousands of fans stormed the field. It was all the police could do to clear a small square for the upcoming presentation. After about six hours I succumbed to my heat exhaustion, thirst and hunger and started off home. Getting out of the stadium and surrounding area was no small feat; every road, sidewalk and roof was teeming with people. After getting a bit lost trying to avoid the crowds, some kids showed me a wall I could scale and I managed to get back to the main road. The crowds here were equally impressive as everyone lined up to see the players as they traveled from the airport to the stadium. Not the burning heat of the day nor the fact that the players were running four hours late could dampen the mood of the city. Everyone was greeting each other warmly, cheering every vehicle brave enough to pass through the crowds, and, unceasingly patient, awaiting the arrival of their national heroes. It was a great day for Zambia, and I count myself very lucky to have been here to share it.

(Some scenes from the day - all photos coming soon)

(With the Zambian coach, Herve Renard)

Football and Football

Déjà vu: I’m in Southern Africa, the Pats are in the Superbowl and we’re playing the Giants. This time was going to be different, though; this time I resolved to stay up and watch it live in hopes of creating some butterfly effect that would break the curse of four years earlier. Luckily there were like-minded Americans (and one brave Dane) willing to do this with me. The game started at 1:30 here and lasted until almost 5 am. We kept ourselves awake with homemade guacamole, mango juice popsicles and a selection of Youtube videos (as we were sadly deprived of all the American commercials). It was a hair-raising, nail-biting experience, but not just because of the action in the game. Halfway through the 3^rd quarter the power went out and we were left sitting, stunned, in darkness. Would our determination be for naught? Would we have sacrificed our Monday productivity for no reason? Two … three minutes passed with only a flicker of light at one point to tease us. Finally, after about four minutes it came on and stayed on. It was bittersweet: if it had stayed off I wouldn’t have seen the multiple dropped passes, the inability of the offense to keep possession or score when they truly needed to, or the Hail Mary bouncing around in a sea of players with single digits on the clock. I guess our efforts were too small to change things, but I definitely prefer watching it happen to waking up to the bad news.

In the realm of what the rest of the world calls football, things were looking a lot brighter. In the Africa Cup on Nations, Zambia’s relatively untested and unknown side was doing serious damage in the group stages. They gave Senegal a good thumping (leading to numerous harassing messages from friends in Dakar), managed to draw with Libya and edged out the co-hosts Equatorial Guinea. In the quarter finals they thrashed Sudan 3 to 0 and then steeled themselves to take on the dangerous Black Stars of Ghana last night. The more stubborn of us managed to get in an hour of frisbee before the match started but as soon as we heard the waves of cheering coming from all sides of town we quickly called the game and booked it to the nearest bar. It was a ton of fun watching in a crowded bar; the spirit and excitement was infectious and compounding. It was a close game and Ghana looked like they were slowly breaking Zambia down. But, with about twenty minutes left, Emmanuel Mayuka curled in a beautiful ball from outside the box and gave Zambia the lead, as well as the confidence to keep Ghana in check. When a Ghanian player was sent off with a second yellow card, the win seemed within our grasp. Counting down the last seconds of stoppage time, we cheered Zambia onto their first final since 1994; less than one year after a plane crash off Gabon took the lives of almost the entire national team. The excitement level is growing higher and higher here; I imagine by Sunday’s game it will be at fever pitch. Vuvuzelas sound their distinctive call late into the night and cars everywhere are adorned with flags and Zambia-patterned cloth. I can only imagine what Lusaka will look and sound like if the Chipolopolo boys can pull off the upset over Ivory Coast this weekend.