For the past month and a half, I have helped organize and run a youth soccer league here in Lusaka. If you click on this article taken from The Post, Zambia's leading newspaper, you'll find a pretty good description of what the league is all about. And if you look closely you might even find a picture of me in the photo collage. But I'll summarize briefly what the league is all about. Fifteen teems from around Lusaka, most of whom are affliated with orphanages and drop-in centers for street children, compete in the league. Every Saturday morning, the competition begins at 9:00 at the Italian Club, a soccer facility boasting a state-of-the-art 5v5 turf field. Teams have the opportunity to play the game they love on a really nice pitch and then take part in the Grassroot Soccer program. Essentially each child gets to have fun on the pitch and off the pitch as they learn about HIV/AIDS prevention.

The Kidsafe League is the brainchild of Luka Moens, an incredible organizer and a good friend. Luka had the idea to get the private sector involved in creating this opportunity for children that they never would have had otherwise. It has worked marvelously. The league has garnered a lot of media attention from newspapers and television and rightfully so. I am so proud to be a part of it!

This past Saturday we were able to hold a Christmas party after league play. With the help of sponsors we were able to feed 200 kids, entertain them with a local theater group and give everyone a gift. We secured a large amount of Nike gear from the organization RAPIDS which means that every player in the league will now have their own brand new uniform. That's not a bad Christmas present.

No one has ever tasted gum this good. In fact, no one has ever actually tasted this gum. But still everyone believes that it's chewable Any time because the fun-loving cowboy says so.

Monday I took the 7:30 bus to Livingston, Zambia's tourist capital. I organized a joint business/pleasure trip for myself with marvelous results. This past week there was six day long national soccer tournament held in Livingston at the Dambwa Basic School. 24 teams from all over the country came to play and it was a huge success. This was like no other tournament I'd ever been to because all of the teams slept on the floor of the classrooms at Dambwa. The cooked in the courtyards and come to think of it, I have no idea where they bathed. But apart from playing soccer, I had set up a GRS program with one of my trainers, Ebby. We took the captains from each of the teams and trained them and it turned out great. GRS doesn't usually do tournaments, but because this one lasted for a week, there was enough time to run through the whole curriculum with the kids. I was impressed by how well organized things were run, even though, to the untrained eye the whole tourney might have appeared overly hectic.



All the kids and coaches from Lusaka, had gone down to Livingston on the train, which somehow takes 48 hours. It sounded hellish. I took the bus down and we made it in under six hours, albeit it's a more expensive mode of transport. I went down with my friend Marc who I'd met at the refugee camp. He's from Barcelona and moved down here because his wife is stationed here with Medicines Sin Fronteres. Marc's about to start a job as a government consultant but until New Year's he's just chilling. So we got it and booked a room at the backpacker's lodge, Faulty Towers. It was nice enough even though we soon found out there was an American all-girls teen tour also staying there. While Monday and Tuesday morning I had work to do, in the afternoon, we went to Victoria Falls. I also took Ebby.



The falls are truly awesome. They aren't even at full capacity and I was amazed. On the trip down I realized I have never been to Niagara Falls, so I have little to compare it to, but it didn't matter. It's one of the seven natural wonders of the world and we saw it from all sides except the part of the falls that lies in Zimbabwe. We hiked down to the where the water ends up after it drops. We did everything but take the helicopter ride. Actually, the area is a hot bed for extreme sports. There's bungee jumping, gorge swings, hang gliding, whitewater rafting.

Now's the best time of year to whitewater raft and Marc and I woke up early Wednesday morning for a full day of rapids. I've never really rafting before so 23 rapids with half of them being level 4 or 5 was no picnic. We flipped three times over the course of the day and each time I went overboard I thought I was going to die. The worst was getting thrown under the raft and scrambling to get out from underneath the boat while swallowing water. It instills a sense of panic that for me is not worth the adreneline rush. I survived though, exhausted and slightly disgruntled at the end of the day. Our guide Choongo just didn't do it for me. But after they fed us dinner back at camp, we saw a video of the trip and I was able to laugh at us flipping over and make light of what I thought only a few hours ago was near death.

While on the raft I got a little introspective when I saw that the company that made it was named ark. I was in the front of the boat and somehow was deemed the leader, so everyone was following my stroke; there was no time for slacking. The kid next to me was like, "Oh shit, this is Noah's Ark." I realized that perhaps my dislike for water has something to do with my namesake. I am not a great swimmer and I've never enjoyed being in the water that much, tumbling solo down rapids was no exception. But I love boats, and it all makes sense. I'm Noah; I'm supposed to be on water but not in the water. If I find myself in water that means symbolically somehow I've failed to save the world from the Great Flood. Or maybe that's reading too much into it. Regardless, Livingston was awesome.

I have been out of Lusaka for a week. Last Friday, I took a weekend trip up to Kasanka National Park with a bunch of friends/people I'd never met before. During November and December each year five million straw-coloured fruit bats take up residence in one hectare of Kasanka National Park's mushitu swamp forest. Saturday night, we left our campsite and headed for the swamp. We set up shop in the middle of the marsh and waited. We asked one of the guides when the bats would start flying. He looked at his watch and said, "two minutes". Two minutes later, at 6:15, like clockwork, the dusk sky was flooded with silent wings. It sounded like an ocean breeze as the entire colony streamed out from their roost in search of food. For about 25 minutes I was mesmerized by the erratic flight of the largest congregation of mammals in the world. I felt like I was watching a dragon army going off to war or something.



In the morning we hiked to where the bats' roost. We had to go through some heavy brush and I almost fell in a stream crossing it via a rotten log. The whole weekend was amazing. It's so crazy that I can get out of the city for a few days and find myself in a national park, breathing fresh air and witnessing nature in a way I never have before.

On a side note: Do you know what the ABC's of HIV prevention are. Abstinence, Be faithful, use a Condom. Did you know that George W. Bush only supports the first two and is ignorant enough to believe that promoting condom use means promoting sex before marriage ergo we mustn't do that because then kids might do something unchristian and actually have sex prior to the wedding night. Come on! A bigger problem here is that all the money the U.S. government earmarks for HIV/AIDS comes with the caveat that the promotion of condom use is essentially prohibited. Therefore the biggest prevention technique for not spreading AIDS is not condoned by our government under Herr Nitwit W. What really infuriates me is that people can be ignorant enough to believe that kids will abstain until marriage. So what if the bible says so, we are living in the real world! And in the real world people have sex. This is why religion can not dictate public policy and world health issues. We have to be realistic. And we are just not doing a good enough job.

Zambia's own version of the New York City bodega:

I've been meaning to take a picture of this banner that hangs right across the street from Millenium Bus Station in the center of Lusaka. You pass by it every time you transfer at Millenium and it always disturbs me. Today, I took advantage of the fact I had brought my camera and crossed the street for a good shot. To my dismay however, the banner had changed. Before it had said something to the effect that HIV was a virus created and manufactured in New York City for the sole purpose of re-enslaving the populations of Africa and killing them off. Conspiracy theory? I later found out that this belief is held by many Zambians. This has now been replaced by an even more nonsensical sign:

Who said detachable hoodies went out of style?

Let me briefly describe public transport in Lusaka. You are waiting at a bus stop. Suddenly, five minivans come screeching to a halt right in front of you. The side door of the five buses slide open simulteanously and out jump five boys, or conductors as they're called, who all fly to you like white on rice and try to grab you and shove you in their particular van which happens to be already full with 16 men and women, four babies, one crate full of chickens and a bushel of carrots. The van only seats 9 mind you. As you are squashed between two women who's combined ass space should be measured in car lengths, a baby drools on your neck. Then you must wrench your hand into your pocket (which has already been consumed by the lady's thigh fat) to pull out your greasy fare of 1500 Kwacha. You pass the money to the conductor (the driver is always silent and solemn) who requires that you tell him which stop you get get off at so that he can immediately forget it and therefore forget to give you back any change you might deserve. If you are lucky, right after you get on board the bus pulls off to a filling station in order to thoroughly waste your time and also put half a liter of diesel in the tank.

Before you get off it is always worth reading what is written on the windshield in large colorful letters. You have to read it backwards because the message is not for you. It is for the world to know what clever little phrase the bus driver has chosen to summarize his existance. From Hellraiser to Paulo Maldini to grammical wonders like Original Born to Breed, the answers to all great mysteries can be found on the windshields of Zambian public transport.

When you are about to suffocate between two buxom ladies, you usually realize that your stop is next. You customarily hiss at the conductor who has his head out the window because there is no more room for it inside the van, and he in turn flicks the ceiling of the car twice with his finger which is the universal sign that tells the conductor to pull over. You jump out of the bus, probably knee someone in the chest, and yell "Freedom" as if you were Mel Gibson, only to be consumed by a cloud of black smoke that the bus has spewed out as a farewell gesture. That's on a good day.

I just got back from a four day fishing trip up the Zambezi river in Mozambique. It was incredible. We stayed at a fishing lodge run by an Afrikaner hunter named Carel. He really looked the part of the quintessential hunting guide. These are his calves.



I went with four guys who were all at least 15 years older than me and who still have a sense of British empire. They were all really fun to fish with and fascinating to talk to because of their historical perspective which included a collective memory of Zambia over the past thirty years. At one point they reminisced about the first place to serve ice cream in Zambia in the early 90's.

It's right before the rainy season here so the water is at its lowest. This is the perfect time to catch Tiger Fish. These guys are badass fish, akin to pyranhas in that they're cannibals and have razor sharp teeth. They can get up to ten kilos and put up a vicious fight. We baited the line with tiger fish filets; it's their favorite. I caught four of them over the course of the trip. This was my biggest, about 3.5 kilos.



I also caught a Voondu, a type of giant catfish (whose grand daddy I'm sticking my fist into). The whole trip was cast and reel and relax. We brought all our own supplies in to camp: food, fuel, beer, ice etc. All the meals were cooked for us by the staff there though. Everything was a feast and the highlight of course was fish. Zambia being a land-locked country and all, my only source of fish is canned tuna. Even though it's bony, fried tiger fish is tasty. And Bream too is delicious. Every night we'd eat by candle light and mosquito and then conclude the evening drinking whiskey and looking up at the stars. It was the clearest I have ever seen the night sky in the southern hemisphere. Truly brilliant. Then every morning I'd get up and walk down to the dock to load the boat and start the day off right.




This is a picture of the lodge from the water. If you look closely you can see two giant hippo skulls flanking the path to the main hall. It being a hunting lodge and all there are skulls everywhere. However I did receive many live hippo yawns along the river. Also noteworthy is the giant tree on the right. It's called a Baobab and when it gets old it has a trunk as thick as a sequioa. These trees are really impressive and legend has it that their grandeur went straight to their heads. It's nickname is the 'upside down tree' because for most of the year it lacks any foliage. Apparently, back in the day, the Baobabs thought they were that cat's meow. The Gods did not appreciate the trees pride so they turned all of them upside down and forever more the Baobob's roots stick in the air instead of the earth. I can't say the same for myself, I tried yoga last week for the first time ever and was unable to stand on my head. Anyway, my first trip outside the country was a success. Now it's back to the grind.

In the U.S. you take the trash out to the curb once a week and it's collected. Here in Zambia, a crucial element in this system is lacking. The government doesn't pay anybody to clean up the trash. This translates to garbage being virtually ubiquitous. In the streets, in the gutters, in the bushes. Often people will dispose of their own trash by burning it. Everywhere you go, people are burning piles of trash. Even before you see the smoke rising, inevitably the smell of burnt peanuts wafts to your nose. I don't know why I have such a strong association with this smell as peanuts specifically, but there is nothing to be done about it. Charred peanuts have inscribed themselves in my nasal passages when it comes to the putrid smoke that infects a surprisingly large area around the fire.



This picture was taken on the side of a dirt thoroughfare leading to Mtendere, one of the poorer compounds in Lusaka. Sometimes you'll see kids sifting through the rubbish looking for something to put in their mouth, edible or otherwise. My friend Gesh asked me if there was anything like this in U.S. He was furious at the Zambian government for allowing this to be the standard of the capital city. Witnessing the amount of trash every and anywhere has made me realize how little I know about what really happens to trash after we take it to the curb, but it must be at least a semi-sufficient solution compared to the waste problem here.

In case you've forgotten what I look like, here is a friendly reminder. Now they call me Jesus in the streets.

So, unbeknownst to most of America, 50 Cent has Zambia on lock! In the '90's it was Tupac, but now 50 rules supreme. I could not believe it the first time I saw the Barbershop G-Unit(G-Unit being 50 Cent's crew), but it really exists and no, I'm haven't gotten a haircut there yet. The shock has mostly worn off that everywhere I go I see kids wearing 50's face on their chest. But that's if they have enough money to by a silk-screened t-shirt. Otherwise there is plenty of clothing that just bears his name.



I took this picture at the refugee camp. I see a lot of these but for girls the prefered style is the 'Jennifer Lopez' tee. Not JLO, Jennifer Lopez spelled out. There must be one factory pumping out 50 Cent and Jennifer Lopez clothing a mile a minute. My favorite is the "50 Cents" shirts which I think are still promoting captitalism just not of the "get rich or die tryin" variety. By far one of the craziest things I've witnessed here is the following:



Click on the image so you can get a closer look. That's right, this fourteen year old kid burned 50 Cent into his arm. That's how much they love him here. And I thought Bob Marley and Che were ubiquitous. Apparently 50 takes the cake. I asked him why he had done this to himself and he answered, "I dun No," like he was Bill Cosby's child. I think he mumbled that he would probably regret it later. And while I agree, this is still priceless.

I just came back from my second sojourn to the Miyukwayukwa refugee camp in Western Province. While there were nine of us on the first trip, this time it was just me, Peter, and Nchimunya, and I was running the show. It was a challenge and a lot of responsibility but, in the end, we accomplished what we set out to do. My favorite part of the trip was being invited to the hut of my friend Alan, a Rwandan refugee who has been living there for two years and who recently had twin baby girls. I had thus far never been in any of the homes in the camp and this one was of average size consisting of one room, about 10x15, split into two by a mud wall. His girls were beautiful.



The main purpose of the trip was to have the camp's first ever Grassroot Soccer graduation to celebrate the kids' completion of our program. We originally trained the facilitators in April and it's supposed to be an eight week course so it obviously took a little longer, but the important thing is that the kids are now equipped with all the information to be "HIV/AIDS prevention experts" as we like to say. And 240 kids graduated! So it was a huge success. We also awarded the educators for their hardwork and perseverance. However, right before our departure I learned from the heads of the program there that the educators were unhappy with the gifts they received. The best facilitators who put in the most energy felt that they deserved more for their efforts. This made me both furious and discouraged. We give and we give and instead of appreciation I get outstretched hands wanting more, more. It really made me upset because here I am giving them my time and energy and on top of that material gifts and I don't get anything in return, not even thanks. It was really a lesson in the meaning of selflessness. Apparently this behavior is not uncommon coming from refugees although I don't particularly like the implications of this generalization. Also, seeing past red, those who work the hardest with the program should be acknowledged for their extra effort. But I have until next month's trip to figure out how to accomplish this without creating a hierarchy that will cause any trainers to quit.

I'm heading back to the refugee camp tomorrow morning at dawn. This time I'm going alone to head the program there and hopefully hold Miyukwayukwa's first ever GRS graduation. Over the weekend we had a visit from Tommy Clark, the founder and head of Grassroot Soccer. It was great to have him here to witness what's going on on the grassroot side of Grassroots. We went to see the Zambian national team play Angola(who made it to the World Cup). Zambia won 2-0 and I have never been in a more joyful atmosphere nor had so much fun celebrating a goal. While after the last game I went to, in which they lost, there were riots, this time everyone was all smiles and shouting "No fighting, no fighting." I'm going to chalk it up as the most exhilarating thing I've experienced here thus far. I'm off to the bush until Sunday. Look for some new pictures on Monday.

Here I find it's easy to get caught up in reveries. Something will remind me of a moment, and I'm suddenly back at Newton North, running endlessly around the track. Or I'll be back at Wesleyan in my sophomore dormroom. It is sad to think that such times are so far behind me. Idyllic times. But then I remember a course I took last spring where we thought deeply about the nature of time and tried to escape this concept as a linear thing. The notion of non-linear or circular time serves as a hopeful reminder that memories are not simply brief fleeting things, but rather the fabric of our existence folded over and over on to itself so that the past isn't far away at all, but merely wrapped in celophane. And it only takes the pressure of our concentration to poke through the thin layer of the present with which we are so often consummed. Here I find it's easy to get caught up in reveries. And then I'm jolted back into the dust, the smell of burning garbage, the shoeless children.



This is me at a Grassroot Soccer graduation, one of the many things I do. Zoom in on this picture. Through some bizarre lighting trick, part of the graduate's face is invisible. For argument's sake, let's just say that 1/6 of his head is gone. Imagine this is the face of Zambia. One out of every six people here is infected with HIV. It's hard to walk down the street with this in mind. How could four of the people I rode on the bus with be infected? Probably another two are and don't even know it. The hope is that kids who graduate come out of the program with more knowledge and therefore better decision-making tools. Maybe this way, future reveries will be filled with the satisfaction that a difference can be made.

If you ask any Zambian what’s for dinner, there is only one answer, Nshima. Pronounced without the ‘n’, Nshima is made from ground maize flour boiled with water and then paddled to create a thick dough that can be shaped into paddies. Zambia’s native cuisine is based around this dish, and it’s often accompanied by chicken or beef, or vegetable relishes.

Nshima has the consistency of a rather solid porridge, or a cross between a Japanese sticky bun and cornbread. It has a distinct texture more than it has a distinct taste, and it is the beef and tomato, or rape around it that supply the flavor. An adult will probably down at least three large paddies in a sitting. Like most staples, the dish serves as the filler yet not the source of flavor.

My first Zambian meal was a learning experience. On the night I arrived, we had tradition Zambian food cooked by Namsanga, our housekeeper. There was no silverware in sight, and I was quickly given a lesson that encompassed etiquette and technique. Before eating, we washed our hands; this was polite and also necessary because everything is eaten with the hands. Once served, the initial step is to tear off a small piece of Nshima from the larger paddy. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else that the white lump was steaming hot. Imagine picking up mashed potatoes that have just come off the stove. Next you roll the Nshima around between thumb and forefinger until it becomes a ball. With your thumb, you make an imprint as if you were making cookies and that’s where the jam filling was to go. Only instead of jam, you scoop up one of the relishes on your plate and take a bite.

My first mistake was trying to use both hands to eat. I was warned that this was a one-handed affair. Having grown up with a lefty’s sensitivity, I asked if it was poor form to eat with my preferred hand. My friend Gershom explained that, while my grandmother would have slapped my hand in an effort to make me use my right, it was okay nowadays.

At the end of the meal, I was full and my hand was covered in food. Instead of rushing off to wash again, I stared contently at the grease and hardened specks of Nshima encasing my fingers, relishing my introduction to this new type of food. Little did I know that our trip to a refugee camp beginning the next morning meant Nshima for lunch and dinner for almost a week straight. But that’s the Zambian way.

So this is my new home. I thought I'd give you some midweek basics. It's pretty spacious. We each have our own room and bathroom even though there is only one shower in the house. You can't see it, but on the second floor there's a balcony where we can grill. Yes, there's a pool, but it is filthy and the people who own the place don't seem in any rush to clean it. In other water related news, the tap water has this awful smell to it, so washing anything is completely unsatisfying. Supposedly the management is fixing the problem, but who knows. The worst part is that our lone shower stinks. I've resorted to taking sponge baths in my bathroom. There is no rhyme or reason why some of the water is decent and other is foul but I'm guessing it has something to do with the pipes.



My room: The Ronaldhino poster was up when I moved in and, to me, it says, "I'm here, I love smiling and playing soccer!" It really ties the room together. Also there is this Winnie the Pooh detail on the walls which I really enjoy. You can't see it, but there's a mosquito net above my bed which comes down to envelop my every night. It takes some getting used to, sleeping in the net, but hey, I've got a double so I'm living plush. The one down side of the room you'll notice on the right. That piece of fabric is my door. They say they're going to install an actually door but I'm not holding my breath. It's not ideal, but a curtain door does have a certain amount of understated charm.

Well, because I've been here for twice as long as the last time we spoke; or rather, the last time I wrote and you read, I feel like so much has happened. And it has. While the western media said the Zambian presedential elections went off without a hitch, this is not quite true. The incumbent, Levi Mwanawasa was sworn in on Thursday, but his his name right now in Lusaka is something of a curse word. His chief opponent, Michael Sata, won the votes of Lusaka and the Copper Belt, the capitol and the center of industry, respectively; the heart and hands of the nation. But the presidency was won in the outer provinces, the farm lands. Sound familiar? And while I'm not sure about Sata, or Wato, meaning paddle, as he is affectionately refered to here (he openingly hates foreigners and praises Robert Mugabe often), I was also not so sure of the riots that went on last week throughout Lusaka. Or, for that matter, the fact that there were I think seven million registered voters, and closer to nine millions ballots cast. Very shady happenings indeed.

Everything has calmed down now. Yesterday I went to go watch the Chipolopolo Boys, the Zambian national team, play Bafana Bafana, the South African national team, in a qualifier for the African Cup. On a side note, why can't the U.S. men's soccer team have a cool name like that? While South Africa beat up on Zambia, the most exciting part of the match happened prior to the opening kickoff. After the Zambian National Anthem, the entire stadium raised their fists in the air a la the '68 olympics, a silent salute to their nonpresident, Michael Sata. Everywhere I go you can hear people chant Wato, Wato and many still consider him their leader.

Yesterday was also a momentuous day for another reason. It was the first game for the Manda Hill Rangers, the team for which I am now the player-coach. The Rangers are a team made up of street kids(ie orphans) who were taken in by this amazing Scottish family, the MacDonalds. Christine and Don now house and clothe twenty-five street kids that they have adopted. They are truly miracle workers. Just a few years or even months ago these children were homeless, sleeping in the street and begging for food. For many, sniffing glue is the way they survive in a haze of forgetfulness. Now some of them, through the kindness of the MacDonalds, have the opportunity to go to school and play football with me.

The age range of the team is 17-22. We have practice three times a week, Tuesday-Thursday, and a game every weekend. Games are actually five-a-side on a turf pitch. We play in the premier division and its pretty competitive. I have some really talented players and it's exciting to coach my own team. Yesterday, we tied Africa Sportsworks 5-5. In the last minute of play we scored an amazing goal to make it 5-4. But instead of holding our ground for another thirty seconds, all my players forgot how to play defense and the other team tied it up. I was furious. In general, these kids don't really know how to play defense to begin with. But that's where I come in. I'm going to work them into shape hardcore.

Besides coaching the Rangers, I've also been put in charge of all IOM affairs. IOM (International Organization of Migration) is the group that runs the refugee camps. This job basically means that I'll be the one making trips to Miyukwayukwa, probably monthly. I'm quite excited about this opportunity to continue training our facilitators at the refugee camp. While last trip there were nine of us, this time it'll just be Lumbiwe, Peter, and me. Our next trip is October 25-28 and when we go, we'll have the camp's first graduation from the GRS program. This graduation is going to mean a lot to these kids and I am truly happy to be a part of it. The planning and budgeting of these trips takes a lot of effort, and even though it's two weeks away, I've already begun thinking about it.

In general, I'm still adjusting to being here. It's not always easy. In fact, it's often not that easy, and I still haven't gotten used to all the stares. I miss my family and Elizabeth dearly. Also, Heinz Ketchup. And of course, I think about all my people a lot. But there's nowhere to turn towards except the road ahead.

We landed at the Lusaka Airport and exited on to the tarmac beneath a red rising sun. Everything leading up to our arrival had been about the business of travel, but once we touched ground, a knot formed in my stomach, the bitter realization that I was here, departed from one world to another, unknown and complex.

At the airport the GRS triumvirate was finally united. I had flown with Meredith and our boss, Leah, picked us up. These are the girls who I’ll be living and working with for the next year. I liked both of them immediately and I think we’ll make a great team.

We had the rest of the day to unpack and relax because the following morning we would be making a trip to Miyukwayukwa, a refugee camp in the western province made up of displaced Angolans. The trip was supposed to take around six hours, but ended up taking twelve. This was my first introduction to Zambian Time (the pace here is a lot slower). When we arrived at Miyukwayukwa, there was no one there to greet us. Apparently the message that we were coming never got through to the appropriate people. Even more disheartening was the fact that some of the refugees were under the impression that Grassroot Soccer was never coming back to the camp. I was disappointed that everything was so disorganized. They had to scramble to find a place for us to stay, but eventually everything worked out. However, the lack of communication cost us day. Arriving on Friday in the evening, we didn’t really do much work until Sunday afternoon.

There were nine of us that made the trip: five GRS people and four BSA. Breakthrough Sports Academy is our partner organization when we go to the refugee camp. Basically, before the two programs came to Miyukwayukwa there was no soccer. We set up the GRS program to give adults something positive to do in the community and to educate the kids. BSA started a soccer league in the camp. Now everyone in the camp comes to watch the games. Along with BSA, we trained them how to set a league and gave each team brand new jerseys and brand new balls (by jerseys I mean donated uniforms, one team even wears Connecticut College jerseys. I was pissed. Where’s Wesleyan at?) Anyway, along with the three mazungos (the word for white people), there was Peter and Isaac, two of our top GRS facilitators who actually ran the training sessions, and then BSA coaches Lumbiwe (26), Mutale (19), Konda (49), and Nchimunya ( 27).


---------------------Nchimunya, Isaac, Leah, Peter, Konda and Me---------------------

We were able to see a league game on Saturday, and then on Sunday there were finals held for each division (U-12, U17, Over 17, and U-17 girls). The pitch they play on is strictly dirt and no one has shoes to play in. There was a huge crowd to watch the games. They say people here have stopped drinking as much and instead watch the soccer matches. As soon as we sat down to watch the games, we were mobbed by a group of kids. They don’t really wipe their noses here so a lot of them just walk around with their faces covered in dried snot. These children were infinitely cute but I was reluctant to take my camera out. Leah said I’d get over it. One kid pointed to my water bottle, asking for it, and I acquiesced. This started a small riot which ended in one kid chasing another and beating him down. I won’t do that again.

We met with the GRS leaders from Miyuwka and also Chivanga, another camp two kilometers away. They told us of their grievances. The soccer coaches they’re supposed to work with only wanted to play soccer and not do the GRS part of the program. Also, because the balls pop really easily here, at some point all the balls ran out causing league play to stop and consequently the GRS program. There had been a standstill in the month of August. Now there was a mountain of work to be done, but Monday was a turning point. It was the first time I felt real love for this place.

Monday morning we met with all the GRS/BSA members. We went over our agenda and goals for the upcoming day and month: Message boards in both villages, better communication, a schedule that includes both programs together, and GRS graduation in late October. Even though they had trained in April, they still hadn’t graduated any children. It was quite dismaying. But over the course of the day and the following morning, we instilled in them the tools and knowledge to be successful in the coming month.

That night at 17:00(everything’s in military time here) Ma Linda had us over. When we got there she was finishing up some paperwork for the next day’s repatriation of a number of refugees back to Angola. Ma Linda is the archetype of a matriarch. She is one of the bosses at the camp and everyone does her bidding. She was a wonderful host with a wry sense of humor. She had sodas brought for us and then a heaping plate of six delicious village chickens. There was an odd mix of silence and conversation at the table. I was anxious to keep it up and learn more about Linda. She told us she was from West Africa, went to college in Indiana and then did relief work in Serbia before coming to work with Angolan refugees. Somehow someone suggested we go around the room making up a story as a group. Ma Linda started about a man from a government going to an insane asylum to examine whether or not two inmates were crazy. Then each person added more and more to the story. It turned out to be quite bizarre but hilarious. In the end, Ma Linda blessed us and told everyone never to live with regret and to look forward towards hope, and to know in everything good or bad there is always something to learn. I felt like the whole thing was some idyllic dream of a welcoming to Zambia that only ever happens as fantasy. And yet this time is came true.

Tuesday afternoon we headed back to Lusaka. The van broke down numerous times, once while the radio was blasting “Dame mas Gasoline” (they actually had to put more diesel in the tank). But we made it back, eager to be home before Presidential Elections the following day.

I have two weeks until departure and plenty to do. Buying new socks is chief on my list. Boston has emptied itself of all my friends and you can tell autumn is coming. But for me, the sweaters will stay in the drawers, the flannel in the linen closet. I am trading in seasons this year for two springs and summers. I am excited, apprehensive. The time has come for me to face the fact that I am out of college, I am leaving most of what I know, and I am embarking on a journey. Exiting America is necessary. Not that I feel like James Baldwin or anything, because I see how easy my time here has been. How full of comforts and joys, and very rarely hardships. But to leave will be good. I want to focus my own energy and youth into something that will be positive and not just for my self. Do I need to leave my home country to achieve such ends? Probably not. But I am leaving with the knowledge that everywhere one turns there is something to do. And when I return, I will use the knowledge gained to effect positive change here as well. I depart an idealist. I'll keep you posted...