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.