The guest house I’m staying at only accepts cash payments. Which I find hilarious, because my bill is in the millions of Kwacha (best name for a currency ever) and the bills in my wallet are 50, 100, 1000, 10,000, 20,000, and a few 50,000 denominations. I’m trying to count to a million, laughing hysterically because I keep mistaking 100’s for 1000’s and 10,000’s for 50,000’s. My colleague does not seem so amused. I’ve asked to settle my bill the night before I’m leaving, so that if I need to go to the ATM to get more cash, I can.

As I’m trying to count the wads of money that I’ve stuffed into my purse, the desk clerk, Pretty, asks me if I had any room service. I told her yes, that the evening I arrived, I had vegetable curry. She asks me how much it was. Foreign currency baffles me, especially when I travel to more than one country in a trip. Is the exchange rate 7? 61? 5700? I look at her with a blank face. “I don’t know, maybe 9,000? 50,000?” I have no idea.

She calls the waiter into the reception area. He has the menu in his hand. “Hello!” I greet him. “Hello!” he returns with a wide grin. That’s one of the things I love about Zambia. If you smile when you greet someone, you get the heartiest welcome in return. “May I see the menu?” He stares at me. “I ordered the vegetable curry on Sunday and would like to see the price.” “No,” he responds, “it’s not on the menu.” “Yes,” I smile. “I ate it on Sunday. Can I see?” He gives me the menu. “It’s not there,” he clips in with a lovely British accent. I know it’s there, because this is the exact same copy of the menu that I ordered from last Sunday. I turn the page and run my finger down the page. I stop at vegetable curry, 30,000 ZMK. He seems surprised. “How did that get there?” I shrug and tell Pretty 30,000. I tell the waiter thank you.

Pretty totals my bill and tells me the amount. It’s close to three million. I start counting out stacks of money, giggling non-stop. I finish and she recounts.

I look at the bill and realize she hasn’t added in the vegetable curry. See, I’m one of those annoying people who points out when I haven’t been charged for things. I feel it’s karma. That if I don’t ‘fess up, something bad is coming my way. I tell Pretty that I need to pay for the vegetable curry. She asks me if I want to order dinner. I tell her no, but I want to settle my bill. What transpires next is an African version of “who’s on first.” I finally give up, satisfied that I’ve tried, and retire to my room.

An hour and a half later I hear someone knocking on my colleague’s door. “Room service!” the voice booms. I hear some words exchanged, and then there is a knock on my door. “Room service!” Already in bed, I shout, “I didn’t order room service – thank you!” I then hear a knock on every other door on the hallway, to no avail. I find this odd.

The next morning, my colleague asks me if I got my vegetable curry. I look at him, perplexed. Evidently the waiter thought we were *ordering* vegetable curry. When we said we didn’t order it, he simply knocked on every door, until finally someone accepted it. We’re speaking the same language, but there’s something lost in translation.

“You must be new here.”

I’m warming myself in the sunshine, relaxing by an outdoor fountain, waiting for my colleague to return from the bank. I open my eyes and see a very tall, very lanky, very, very, very black man talking to me. I stare at his skin. It’s almost blue it’s so black. Both his eyes and his teeth seem unnaturally white, almost phospherant compared to his skin.

“Not so new, why?”

“Your skin, it’s too light. Why is your skin so light? You can’t have been here very long.”

I shrugged. “A couple of weeks…”

“I knew it. There’s no way you could be in Zambia and still be as light as you are. Look around. No one is as light as you. Stay here a while.”

I laugh. He asks me what I do. I tell him and return the question. He’s an artist, a sculptor, a poet, an actor. He tells me I’m going to see him on television one day and say to my friends, “Hey! There’s Nick. I met him in Zambia and look at him now!”

I hope I do.

There is only one outlet in my room. I feel like I’m playing a real life game of rock paper scissors. Lamp beats laptop cord until battery runs low on laptop. Laptop cord wins until I’m thirsty, at which point electric kettle wins. After water is boiled, it’s up for grabs. Lamp wins if it’s evening; laptop cord wins if there’s still work to do.

My room here in Zambia has a tub with a hand shower. Which would be fine, except that the shower head doesn’t reach above knee level. Looking on the bright side, I suspected I could get some awesome stretches in as I bathed. I was ecstatic when I opened the taps and warm water flowed from the tap. I pulled the knob to create the shower flow, and water trickled out the low shower head. Cold, very, very cold water. Had I run out of warm water that quickly? In a matter of seconds? I pushed the knob so that water flowed from the tap. No, it was warm. This went back and forth for several minutes. Cold shower? Warm bath? After a mere moment’s consideration, warm water trumped.

My colleagues entered the bank. I stayed in the front seat of the SUV, happy for the break. In front of me a soldier, clad in dark khaki green from the beret on his head down to the black of his boots, casually talked to the bank security guard. The solider bent over to examine a speck on his boots. He stood and produced some shoe polish and a rag and bent back over to buff his shoes. I noticed, with some alarm, the rifle which was slung over his shoulder was now pointing directly at me. I immediately envisioned the newspaper headline “Soldier Discharged after Gun Discharged in Fatal Freak Accident.” I stared at the gun. It looked like maybe there was a safety on it. Perhaps? I know nothing about guns. I leaned to one side, out of range of the gun. The solider shifted to polish the other shoe. I was in the line of fire once again. I weighed my paranoia against the likelihood this unlikely event would actually occur. Paranoia won out. I dropped to the floorboard of the car, clearly out of range of the rifle. My colleagues returned to the car, perplexed. “What are you doing?” I sat up. “Oh, nothing. Just thought I dropped something on the floor.” I was quite relieved to see the soldier standing upright, gun pointing at the ground.

I enter my room, see the mosquito net hanging over my bed and my heart skips a beat. I have been enamored with this type of netting since I was a child. For some inexplicable reason, I associate the draping that I see in front of me with royalty, princesses who want for nothing, romantic liaisons behind a diaphanous curtain. For a moment, the average lodge transforms into the exotic.

The facilitator began the discussion by asking, “How many of you have actually read the book?” Only one hand in the crowded room rose. “How many of you know a child orphaned by AIDS?” A few more hands. “How many of you have a family member affected by HIV/AIDS?” Still more. “How many of you know your HIV status?” Nearly two thirds of the hands were raised. “How many of you know someone who has died of AIDS or complications from AIDS?” Many more hands slowly rose. “Now, how many of you have not raised your hand in response to my last five questions?” One sole hand was raised.

The author began, “If the apartheid government had allowed this to happen, the entire world would be up in arms – Genocide! They would be crying. So why did we allow our black government to be in denial about AIDS in South Africa? Why?”

A colleague invited me to attend a book reading in Johannesburg. We sat, transformed by the words of the writer, Sindiwe Magona. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall (if even), yet she filled the room with her passion, her disappointment, her pleas to action. The book involves the FFF, five firm friends, and what happens when one of them, Beauty, dies of AIDS, infected by her husband. As she is dying, she implores the others not to let the same fate befall them.

Moved by the author’s passion, I bought Beauty’s Gift and completed it by the next day. It’s one of those books that when you reach the end of the chapter, you think, I’ll just read one more, and before you know it, have reached the end.

As I was storing my carry-on baggage, the man behind me introduced himself. “I heard your voice – where are you from?” he asked in an obviously American accent. “San Francisco. How about you?” “Baltimore.” The conversation continued as we prepared ourselves for the 11 ½ hour flight to Johannesburg. He had recently been laid off from Home Depot and was joining friends in Zambia that he had reconnected with on Facebook. Facebook! His surprise at being on Facebook at age 42. But here he was – on his way to Zambia, for a mission. Mission? This piqued my interest. I’m not particularly religious, but love observing, participating, learning more about religions. I’m in awe of those who have unwavering faith. How do they know? He talked more about the mission – a 150 acre farm outside of Livingstone, Zambia. I asked him what denomination he was associated with.

“Well, it’s sort of one we made up.”

Really? Now I totally wanted to talk to this guy. I pressed for more details. He wasn’t giving them up. I’ve just finished reading “Under the Banner of Heaven” about Mormon Fundamentalists. Was he creating a new sect? Was he a fundamentalist?

He switched the subject to how Melatonin was originally developed to help women’s menstrual cycle become more regular. I commented that it just put me to sleep. I tried to steer the conversation back to his missionary work. He changed the subject to ACC basketball.

The HR part of me wanted to coach him – dude, if you’re trying to convert people, you’re going to have to be comfortable talking about your beliefs.

The other part of me wanted to smack talk how wrong he was about the Terrapins having a great basketball team next year. In the end, that won. You can take the girl out of North Carolina, but you can’t take the North Carolina out of the girl.

Other people claim they hate plane flights, but I love them. I love the thought of two, or six, or in this case, twenty-two hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. I can read (People magazine, no less!), I can work, I can watch a movie, I can do a crossword, I can sleep, I can talk to my seatmate, anything! I realize that I could make these same choices in my everyday life, but other things seem to get in the way – social commitments, work commitments, doing everyday errands, blah.

I had a lovely German seatmate on the flight from SFO to Frankfurt. He was a very statuesque man and I almost (read, almost) offered my aisle seat to him. I felt much better when he explained he always requested a middle seat because his shoulders were so wide that he didn’t like the aisle seat; people continuously bumped into him. I didn’t feel quite so guilty about my coveted aisle seat. We discussed travel, and the thrill of living in another language – how that affects the way you think, how you express yourself. He had made a lot of money in the watch business (go figure) and invested in a few small properties in Germany. He rents apartments and garages. His friends and family badger him to buy more, invest more, more, more, more, but his attitude is, “Why bother? I live a comfortable life. Not extravagant, but comfortable. If I buy more properties, yes, I’ll be richer, but I’ll have to work more and have less time to enjoy what I have. Who wants that?” I love that attitude. We were having a lovely conversation, both of us plagued by insomnia, until the woman in front of us angrily stood up, turned around and shushed us with the admonition, “Some of us are trying to sleep!” We raised our eyebrows at each other, shrugged, and turned on our i-Pods.

I also love airplane food. Yes, I do. The presentation is magnificent. Little packets of food – a salad, bread, butter, a sampling of a main meal, dessert, *and* a piece of chocolate. It’s great. I’m a sucker for individual portions. And it’s served hot. Who doesn’t like hot food? I have a secret obsession with the refreshing towelletes that all but US airlines provide. I never use them on the plane, instead stashing them in my purse. I feel like I’m channeling my grandmother, who grew up in the Depression and saved twist ties and recycled tin foil. But refreshing towellettes are so useful! Especially when travelling. Suppose you’re in the desert and you’ve travelled for days. You arrive at an oasis and are offered plump dates by your host. You want to partake, but feel the grime and dust of three days of travel crusting your hands. But wait! You know you have a refreshing towellette and you briefly excuse yourself, quickly swiping the lemon scented towellette over your face and hands, returning to the feast feeling fresh and anew. See – there’s a reason I hoard these precious packets.

Not exactly the message you want to hear, particularly from your dentist. Or endodontist, to be more specific. You know, the guy that does root canals.

After over two hours of laying in his chair, mouth wide open, trying to drown out the sound of drills and “another number 10 file, please” with shuffled songs on an iPod, I watched Dr. Wing drop his hands in exasperation.

“I just can’t finish.”

What is this strange language my dental professional is speaking to me? I pressed the pause button on my iPod and lifted my head gently. I tried to mouth a question, but the apparatus in my mouth prevented me from doing so, and I simply made a gagging noise. I tried to formulate a response with my hands, but the instrument tray prevented me from raising my hands more than an inch or so. I finally stared at him, pleading, and raised my eyebrows.

“I just don’t feel comfortable with the work that I’ve done. You had four roots instead of three, which was a surprise, and they’re incredibly long. I can’t finish this today. We’ll have to make another appointment later in the week.”

I thought about this for a moment. He removed the clamps and rubber from my mouth. Not wanting to acknowledge what he just told me, I tried to ask, “What exactly does that mean?” and was consumed by a searing pain in my jaws.

“You’ll need to come back in, I’ll numb you, I’ll continue where I left off. There’s just a mm or so that I can’t quite get. I need more time.” He spoke these words so matter of factly. I was still having a hard time accepting this proclamation.

“And what would happen if we just left the root there? You got most of it, right? Let’s just call it a day.”

It was his turn to eye me with quizzical curiosity. I simply nodded and made a mental note to thank my parents for genetics that blessed me with long legs, long fingers, and as I realized now, long roots.