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.