My colleague told the taxi driver something I couldn’t quite discern. After driving through town, we approached a strip mall-esque structure and climbed the stairs to a Zambian nightclub, Chez N’Temba. We were greeted by an empty dance floor and rumba music playing too loudly. I looked at my colleague. “Later. The people will dance.” I was skeptical. We positioned ourselves on a couch against the wall, staring at the mirrored walls, watching the flashing red and blue neon lights scatter patterns on the empty room.

People arrived sporadically. Women, oh the women and their bodies. Beautiful strong women with jeans that hugged their ample hips and tops that showcased their strong shoulders. Hair in intricate dos, natural, weaves, extensions, short, long, braids, dreads, sculptures. How I wish I grew up in a culture that celebrated a healthy body. I flashed back to my junior high school years, during which I allowed myself only a pint carton of milk (non-fat, of course) and a Little Debbie oatmeal cookie for my daily nutritional intake as I starved myself to a size 6, a size 4, a size 2. Oh, how many delicious meals I missed out on. I returned to the present as more people entered the club. Handsome men followed the beautiful women, men tall and dark, with solid arms, laughing eyes and booming voices, greeting each other with strong handshakes and embraces. A few Mosi Lagers later, I noticed a few people on the dance floor. There wasn’t the frenetic energy of a Latin club, instead there was an easy-going meshing of bodies and music.

My colleague poked me, “Let’s dance.” These thoughts ran through my mind: “There aren’t that many people on the dance floor. I stand out. Will people laugh at me? I think I’ve got rhythm, but is that just like everyone thinks they have a good sense of humor? I’m dressed completely differently in my long sleeved blouse, loosely covering my non-comparable backside.” Out loud, I enthusiastically answered, “Let’s do it!” Once on the floor we shook, we moved, we thumped, we swayed, we rumbaed. More bodies joined us. We squeezed closer and closer together as the dj spun song after song. I threw my head back, laughing, enjoying, feeling the frustrations of the day disappear with each passing beat.

We took a break, laughing, sweating, holding hands as women do in other parts of the world, walking back to our now-warm beers that reserved our spots on the couch. We squeezed in next to the others, people talking animatedly in many languages. I watched the dance floor, happy to have come, happy we stayed. A Zimbabwean acquaintance of my colleague approached her. They chatted in a language I couldn’t understand then she introduced us in English. We exchanged unheard pleasantries over the thumping of the music. My colleague was pushing us together, saying, “Go dance. Have fun…”

I’m always slightly intimated when dancing with a new partner. Will we follow each other’s cues? Will we have similar moves? Will we trip over each other’s feet? Max’s calloused hands grabbed mine as he faced me on the dance floor. I followed the somewhat salsa, somewhat rumba pattern of his feet as he retreated, I approached and vice versa, our hips swaying side to side, upper bodies still. He nodded, a brilliant white smile illuminating his dark face. I returned the grin, watching his laughing eyes, feeling I was doing okay. His massive arms were suddenly around me, lifting me in the air, spinning me around. As he gently placed me back on the dance floor his voice boomed, “You CAN dance…”

It’s been somewhat frustrating to be on a continent as fascinating as Africa and be confined to a hotel/office all day. Yes, I know I’m here for work. And the work is fascinating. I’m utterly thankful that I have a job where I love both the mission of the organization and the people I work with. But still…

The Plan
Due to the unfortunate/fortunate cancellation of several meetings, on Wednesday afternoon we discovered our Thursday schedule was completely free. The hotel manager walked past our lunch table; I stopped him.
“Is it possible to go to Victoria Falls tomorrow?”
“Why, of course. I’ll have my secretary check transport for you. When would you like to return?”
“Tomorrow.”
He looked at me incredulously. “You realize it’s 500 km each way.”
“Yes. But I only have one day. Is it possible to either fly there and fly back in one day or hire a car?”
He chuckled. “I’ll get back to you.”

The reservations were made. Edgar was to pick me up at the hotel at 5 am. We would drive the 4 ½ or 5 hours there, spend several hours at the Falls, then return, hopefully off of the roads before night fell.

The Pickup
At 5:15 I was in the lobby with only the night guards. I called Edgar on his cell phone. He said, “Oh, yes, I’ll be right there.”
Wanting to confirm we were spending the day together, I asked, “Did Chris ask you about going to Livingstone today?”
“Oh, yes, right there.”

Several minutes later an elderly man appeared.
“Edgar?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head. I sat back down as he asked the front desk clerk for Room 205. I approached him again.
“I’m Lori. From room 205.”
“Oh, you asked for Edgar.”
“Yes. Are you Edgar?”
“No, Edgar is on another assignment. I’ll take you to my house where another driver will fetch you.”

I pondered this. It just didn’t feel right. But I also really wanted to go to Victoria Falls.

“Where’s Edgar?”
“He’s on another assignment.”
“But just yesterday he confirmed this trip.”
“Yes. He’s on another assignment. It’s okay, come with me. I’ll take you to my house.”

I stood there, weighing my options. The hotel desk clerk said, “I think you do not feel safe. I will write down the license plate number.”

I thought about this. Okay, so if I were abducted, they could look for the license of the rental car, by that time probably rented to a couple from Australia. It just didn’t feel right. But maybe this was the way business was done in Zambia. Maybe I just needed to go with the flow.

I got in the car with not-Edgar. He drove me to the outskirts of town. We arrived at his house and he hopped out of the car to open the ever-present gates that surround every home, every building. “Have you had your coffee?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Oh, come in. Have some coffee.”
“No, I’m fine.” Even as I said the words, I thought, “Hell, this is like hitting a 13 in Blackjack when the dealer’s showing an 8. You’re all in. You don’t stop until you have a winning hand. I might as well make the best of this.” As I was getting ready to tell not-Edgar that yes, I would have a cup of coffee, a taxi arrived and a man jumped out and approached the gates quickly. “Ah, your driver is here.”

The Journey
Words were spoken, cash exchanged. The driver entered the car. “I am Joseph,” and with that we were off.

The first few kilometers were in silence. I didn’t know which direction we were supposed to be going. My mind often races to the worst case scenario. Hm. If this was a plot to abduct me, I should be proactive. Supposedly it’s harder for a kidnapper to hurt a kidnappee if a personal bond has been established.

“So, have you done this drive before?” Joseph explained, yes, many times, but this was the first time this year. I began inquiring after his family, what I’ve noticed is the common and expected thing to do here. “I am a widower for three years now. My wife, she was carrying our fourth child and it died inside her. She went to the hospital to have the dead baby delivered, it did not work, she bled to death.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It’s hard, you know, to find someone like your wife, someone to spend the time with.”

Silence filled the car.

Hm. What question should follow the story of how you became a widower? His question broke the silence, “Miss Lori, are you married?” When I replied no, he exclaimed, “Oh! You are a bachelor like me. You move to Zambia and take care of my children.”

Hm. Not sure how to respond to that one either.

I steered the conversation to more innocuous topics: weather, the drive, sports. As soon as we left the capital city of Lusaka, we were in the country. Greenness surrounded us. Trees, grass, fields of maize, infinite beautiful green pressing up against an increasingly bright blue sky. The only other traffic on the road was people walking to work and/or school, an occasional bicyclist. Small round huts with thatched roofs occasionally peeked out from the roadside.

After passing through a few small towns, a few smaller villages, and 500 kilometers of open road, we arrived to Livingstone. We walked the narrow path from the parking lot to the entrance of Victoria Falls. I’d seen pictures of the Falls at the hotel; I’d heard about them; nothing prepared me for what I was about to experience.

The Destination
I turned to Joseph, “What’s that noise?” He laughed. “We are here.” A thunderous roar greeted us. I turned the corner of the trail, and there, through the trees, were the Falls. I stood awestruck. Unbelievable amounts of water cascaded, no crashed, into a steep ravine. The torrents hit the bottom of the chasm with such massive force that the water then sprayed back up to nearly the top of the drop. I stood there, my mouth agape.

After several minutes, we continued along the trail, getting closer and closer to the edge of the ravine where the Falls fell. As we got closer the mist became thicker and heavier, until we were standing in a virtual downpour. I laughed as the water pelted me, drenching my not-waterproof jacket, my not-waterproof pants, and my not-waterproof t-shirt. I stood at the edge of the ravine, mesmerized by the Falls and the absolute magnitude of them. The roar, the wetness, the expanse, the smell of the air purified by such massive amounts of water. We navigated each trail, stopping to admire the Falls from every vantage point. At each location, I couldn’t pull myself away from the view – the beauty and true awesomeness was hypnotizing. Words escaped me; each view was met by squeals, gasps, clapping, or sighs.

After several hours of meandering from view point to view point, we made our way upwards to the River Trail. Suddenly we were before the Falls, walking alongside an incredibly calm, gently flowing Zambezi River. This was what turned into the Falls a mere meters away? No fences prevented us from dangling our feet in the river, though there was a rock with childlike letters proclaiming “No bathing. No washing.” We sat on the hot stones of the riverbank, relishing the warmness of the sun as it slowly dried our drenched clothes. I lay back, watching the fat, unnaturally white puffy clouds drift over the calm river. My eyes grew heavier and heavier listening to the calming sounds of water passing over random rocks in the river.

I suddenly woke up, almost dry. Joseph still sat beside me, watching the pattern of the river as it crept toward the edge of the Falls. I yawned, then stretched. I knew we needed to go back to the car. I knew we had a five hour drive and had been warned not to be on the roads after dark. I knew I didn’t want to leave this peaceful place.

There are tent cards in our rooms that boldly proclaim, “High-speed wireless Internet access is available in this room.” Not so much. My colleague wanted to use this service. She obtained a username and password, tried to launch wireless internet, and couldn’t get a signal. I noticed that the bars on the wireless signal indicator on her laptop vacillated between none and almost one. I suggested she take her laptop down to the lobby, where I had seen “hot spot” indicators. She refused, saying she was comfortable in her room and the sign said high-speed wireless Internet access was available in the room, so therefore she was going to work from her room. “But you can’t get a signal,” I protested. She picked up the phone and called the front desk, requesting assistance. I started to leave and it was her turn to protest. “Stay. You will learn.”

Minutes later, I opened the door, very surprised to see four hotel staff standing there. “There’s not room for all of you in here,” I laughed. Two came in, a man and a woman. The tall, lanky man hunched down in front of my colleague’s laptop. He clicked on this and that, opened windows and closed them, typed in passwords and checked settings. I sat in the one chair in the small room and watched, practicing patience. After about half an hour, he turned and looked at his colleague, standing, watching over his shoulder. “The technology, it fails us.” “Yes,” she said, “it fails us badly.”

“Why?” asked my colleague. “Why does the technology fail us?” The whole scene seemed somewhat surreal to me. Just go down to the lobby. The technology will not fail you there.

“I think,” he slowly surmised, “that it is the rain. The rain, it makes the technology fail us.” I thought for a moment. Could rain interfere with a wireless signal? Hm. I had not heard of that before. “Where is the router?” I asked. “The router, it is on the roof. When the rains come, the technology, it fails us.”

Now it was my colleague’s turn to be puzzled. “Why does the rain make the technology fail?” The tall lanky man thought for a moment. “Well, it is not in the books, it is only my observation. When the rains come, the technology, it fails us. Maybe you can work down in the lobby. I think the technology does not fail us there.” “No,” my colleague replied, “I am comfortable here. The card says there is high-speed internet access in the room. I am going to work from here. Unless… does the card lie?” My exercise in practicing patience was completed.

“I’m heading to my room. I’ll see you later.” After reading a couple of chapters on the history of Zambia, I headed downstairs.

There in the lobby was the tall, lanky man and my colleague, working from her laptop. “Come here, Lori! The technology, it works now.” I felt like exclaiming, “Hallelujah! Oh, technology, thank you for not failing us!” but I didn’t. I could only smile.

We checked into our rooms at the Holiday Inn in Lusaka, Zambia. I immediately unpacked my suitcase, placing toiletries in the bathroom, hanging clothes in the closet, and generally making the room appear very lived in. I proceeded to open all drawers, just to make sure I knew what was where. In the top drawer of the nightstand was a Bible placed there by the Gideons (not surprising) and three premium Rough Rider Studded Extra Sensation condoms (surprising). Complements of the Gideons as well?

I spent the day in Soweto. I’m amazed at how many times recently I’ve learned something and thought “How did I not know about this before?” I thought I knew about apartheid; I thought I knew about the struggle; I knew nothing. A couple of hours reading placards and watching videos in the Hector Pieterson Museum left me in tears.
In tears because it amazes me how people have such an enormous capacity for cruelty.
In tears because it amazes me how fear drives people to commit such heinous acts.
In tears because it amazes me that this isn’t history; this is my lifetime.

The one thing I don’t like about South Africa is the hype about crime. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. I haven’t seen anyone get mugged or car-jacked yet. The guidebooks, colleagues in the US who have visited Jo’burg, colleagues who live in South Africa, the hotel staff, everyone warns me about crime. I’ve been strongly advised not to go out by myself after dark. Do you know how hard that is? I don’t know anyone here and it gets dark early.

Truthfully, I think the chances of me getting hit by a car are much higher than being the victim of a violent crime. I’ve been here a week and still can’t remember which way to look before crossing the street.

I’ve been reviewing CVs for candidates for our Zambia Country Director position. What I’ve noticed:
CVs are freaking long. I don’t think I’ve seen one under 12 pages.
Most of the candidates were born in June. Curious.
Most of the candidates have 6 or more children. Interesting.
Many list the name of the primary school attended. That’s some history.

In the medians of the highways here, no, not really medians, the lines that divide oncoming traffic, stand boys selling things. Newspapers, baseball hats, globes, maps, cell phones – the most random assortment of items. Today a young man approached our car, offering to sell us a sun hat, plastic coat hangers, or a slingshot. Random.

I don’t feel like I’m really in Africa. When I learned I was coming to Africa, I had visions of wild animals, wide open grassy plains, children’s beautiful dark faces learning to read.
The reality of my situation – I’m in a suburb that could be anywhere in the world. I spend my days conducting meetings, going to government agencies, interviewing people for jobs in our local and regional offices. I walk the paved streets, surrounded by massive construction projects, tons of concrete, meeting people of every shade, from blue black to lily white, dressed in Western clothes.

I realize I smile a lot in foreign countries. I smile because I’m seeing things I’ve never seen before. I smile because I don’t understand what’s going on and smiling is a reminder that I’m a very lucky person. I’ve smiled a lot in South Africa because even though everyone is speaking English I don’t understand what they’re saying. I hate having to ask people to repeat themselves (especially multiple times) so I smile to mask my uncomfortableness and embarrassment.