The Country that Cried Wolf

If you’ve been following this year’s Africa Cup of Nations, you’ll know that Tuesday wasn’t a great day here. All of Zambia let out a collective groan that night as we watched qualification to the quarterfinals slip through the fingers of the national team. Unable to score against Burkina Faso, the defending champions made an early exit from the tournament; an underwhelming performance in the face of overblown expectations.

After the euphoria of last year, the disappointment was deflating. Fans took it on the chin though; there was little blaming or finger pointing and praise could still be heard for the players and team. Still, the day had a noticeably subdued air. Until about 4:30, which is when the city went mad.

I was riding the bus into town, waiting in a queue to turn into the station, when another bus went speeding past on our left, the driver laying on the horn. It might not have caught my attention, but there was an unusual amount of noise coming from the station as well; something was amiss. More cars now laying on more horns, and the lowing of vuvuzelas could be heard over top. I wracked my brain, unable to remember if there was a match today that could cause such excitement. I hopped out of the bus and questioned the first jubilant person I saw. To my disbelief, he told me Zambia had just qualified for the quarterfinals. Wondering if he had missed the game the previous night, I asked him how this was possible. He told me Burkina Faso had used a player with a red card in the match, a breach of rules that would strip them of their points and award them to Zambia, putting us through to the next round. Immediately catching his enthusiasm, I started high fiving everyone around me.

The whole station was going crazy; people were running around waving their scarves and flags, buses sat empty as drivers and passengers alike milled about, discussing the good fortune. I still couldn’t quite believe it, but when we boarded the bus, over the rising din outside, I could hear them discussing this turn of events on the radio. Well that did it for me, I was sold. Could this many people be wrong? It’s even on the radio! I texted friends and joined into excited conversations. As we rolled through standstill traffic we waved at pedestrians and motorists; our smiling faces reflected back at us, flags waving everywhere. What luck! What unbelievable luck, I thought to myself in amusement, glowing in the knowledge that it wasn’t going to end so quietly.

Well it certainly was unbelievable. As we progressed out of the downtown madness, the warmth of belief ceded more and more to a cold, gnawing doubt. How could no one have noticed that player already had a red card? Out of the coaching staff, the ref, or all the fans watching, it just didn’t make sense. Desperate for some confirmation, I opened up my laptop on the bus and, heart sinking, found no trace of the story in the news. On comes the radio announcer, pleading for everyone to calm down, to stop flooding the station with calls, that no one could say for sure yet whether this was true. That’s when I knew, and judging by the quiet on the bus, everyone else was coming to the same realization: we were all participants in a massive and incredibly pervasive rumor machine.

In the end Zambia stayed eliminated, but even with this second round of disappointment it was still a glorious half hour. For a brief moment, we got to believe in luck and the unexpected. What was most telling about all of this was how we ate it up. It could’ve been a case study for mob mentality, or how easily people will believe what they want to. Pushing any critical thinking to the side, we lost ourselves in the belief that second chances do exist, and buoyed each other in this blissful conviction. It was pretty shocking, the sheer number of people who participated in this delusion and the speed at which it spread. But this was no fair weather turnaround. There was no about-face of loyalties, no case of criticism magically turning to celebration. This country loves its team, in success or failure. No one had to quickly put their jerseys back on or their flags back up; they were already on, they’d never come down.

Home for the Holidays (sort of)

A tradition is a hard thing to define. We do it because we do it, because maybe we’ve always done it. They snowball, originating in some small action at first, but gaining more weight with each repetition. They are sentimental in a way routines usually are not, but both give us a similar sense of comfort and security. I’ve always relied heavily on traditions to give definition and meaning to events like holidays; Christmas more than any other. This year, celebrating for the first time away from home, I saw what remains after the bulk of those traditions is stripped away.

Up until I watched them walking out of the Lusaka airport baggage claim, I didn’t quite believe that my family would be in Zambia. After a year and a half, the two worlds of home and here were feeling separate and distinctly different. The twelve day experience of fusing them together was both strange and exciting. Seeing Lusaka through their eyes was refreshing. They pointed out all the little things that make this place special and interesting, and unintentionally reminded me of how lucky I’ve been here.

To allow for acclimatization, we spent the first few days in the capital. They settled in comfortably at my friend’s house, who also lent us her car while on holiday (thanks Jes!). We visited the ever-entertaining elephant orphanage and later the same day played with two feisty lion cubs in Lusaka West. While trying to find a shortcut between the two places, I inadvertently pushed my family into the deep end of the city. In a convoy of minibuses, we navigated a particularly muddy, cratered and congested area of New Soweto market. While it was a bit of a shock at the time, it was a lucky opportunity for them to see one of the many sides of this city. We wrapped up the first leg of their visit by having dinner at the home of some good friends, where the meal was delicious and the embarrassing anecdotes flowed as freely as the wine.

(New Soweto market, Photo credit Sophie)

On the 22^nd we flew to South Luangwa National Park in the northeast of the country. It was my first visit to this popular destination so I was equally excited. The holiday we enjoyed over the next few days with Robin Pope Safaris exceeded even the rave reviews of my friends. Even though it was the rainy season it was unseasonably dry, allowing us to enjoy the game drives even more. Our guide was excellent, very passionate about birds in particular, and he showed us the beauty of the Luangwa valley. Christmas day was especially memorable; our first lion encounter in the morning, a holiday lunch, and then sundowners on a picturesque hilltop. I don’t think we could’ve asked for a better experience.

Following another evening in Lusaka dining with friends, we flew down to Livingstone to see Victoria Falls. I particularly enjoyed the flight as the pilot happened to be a friend and I was able to sit in the cockpit to observe the landing. It brought back childhood memories of meeting the pilots on a commercial flight; the only thing missing was the little pin-on wings. Compared to our languid safari schedule we were very active in the nation’s tourism capital. We marveled at the falls from every angle, even getting a bird’s eye view from above. The highlight for me was getting the chance to share another experience with my family, showing them around Victoria Falls town in Zimbabwe where I’d been almost five years earlier. It reminded me how long they’ve been supporting (and putting up with) my travels.

I think my family enjoyed themselves here. In a relatively short time they experienced many different things that make Zambia what it is. They also saw firsthand the people and places that make my life what it is. They finally met my friends and girlfriend; important people I’d previously only been able to convey through words. And in the end, we were together for the holidays, which was special for all of us.

What did I gain from this experience besides some holiday weight and a bunch of pictures? I learned the meaning of Christmas, sort of. I’ve seen that our traditions at home are a huge part of what makes Christmas what it is. Some traditions can adapt to a change of context (family time, watching Elf on safari, presents under a two foot fake tree), while others can’t be translated. The void left by those missing others, though, is fertile soil for growing new traditions, and that’s a very exciting thing to realize.