London Calling

I said goodbye to Zambia to the tune of a gigantic English breakfast cooked by my roommates and a Turkish water blessing. (I'm not quite sure how Turkish this tradition really is, but it was an excuse for friends from the hostel to throw pots of water on my taxi as I drove away). It was kind of the perfect goodbye.

I left a place that was just coming into winter, and arrived somewhere that was just coming into spring. I used my few days in London as a a time of transition. I didn't think about names or preparations for Ireland or how quickly this is all going, but chose instead to focus on buying a new pair of jeans (and then some), soaking up all the green parks and trying (but failing) to fathom how I can be places that are so entirely different from each other in less than twenty-four hours.

A mosaic spotted at the Lusaka airport.

I'd been in London once before as a sixteen year-old and friend/babysitter to a family who was moving there, so I already knew I loved the city. This time around, I stayed with a friend of a friend in Teddington, a suburb that's about a 30 minute train ride from the center of London. Most days I went into the city.

London was changing seasons and ducklings,


Overdosing on coffee,


An Olympic countdown,

Kids on holiday,

Afternoon tea with Rachel, a Londoner and friend of Kari & Mark's,

Classic telephone booths,
Orderliness & Formality,

Walks along the Thames,


Recognizable sights,

Old brick buildings,
Shakespeare's Globe,


A visit to the V & A,

Suburban bike rides with Bob, my host,

Historical Markets,
and of course, fish and chips (with peas, to make it healthy).

Saying that it was a big change from Zambia would be an understatement.

I don't think I've ever appreciated spring so much before. (Maybe because spring in Burlington, VT is really just cold turning into mud). I hadn't realized in Lusaka how much I missed parks and plants, and flowers; picnics and open spaces, and weeping willows. I indulged and spoiled myself a little (a lot). I went to the theater (saw The Duchess of Malfi at The Old Vic), spent a lot of time people-watching, and bought myself a very impractical red sundress in the sale section of Anthropologie at Oxford Circus. (In my defense, I had just flown out of Africa, it was the first Anthropologie I've seen in about a year, it made me miss my friends and all things Philadelphia, and it was very on sale).

I left Lusaka on Monday, arrived in London on Tuesday, and got to Dublin last night (Friday). It's my first full day in Ireland and there's a lot to say, but there's plenty of time for all that. I'm just getting my bearings, and for now, Dublin consists of walks along the streets as I try to get oriented, a taxi driver from the airport who gave me a half hug when he said goodbye ("Take care of yourself now, dearie"), and being, once again, back to square one in as I try to figure out how to live in another foreign city.

Zikomo, Zambia

Gravestones being sold on the side of the road in downtown Lusaka.

The process of leaving has become such a ritual that I’m not sure it’s hit me that I’m really going. The laundry is done, the music for a long flight loaded, the ticket printed, the decisions of what to take and what to leave behind have been painstakingly made. I was in Zambia for six weeks. In that time, the rainy season ended unexpectedly early and winter began to set on. The puppy and the four year-old who live at my hostel both grew a few inches. I got sunburned and tan and sunburned again, and my clothes look worse for the wear.

Trevor, the Kalulu dog

I thought a lot about how we perceive Africa in the United States, and how Africans perceive us. As is to be expected, I found some stereotypes to be true and others to be ludicrous. I got used to wearing the title mzungu here and I got used to the advantages as well as the missed opportunities it provided me with. Poverty is staggering in many parts of Zambia, but what is perhaps more staggering to me is that this poverty finds itself on one side of town, while on the other there are air conditioned shopping malls with imported South African wine and restaurants no one can afford. My research assistant lost both his sister and his new baby nephew in a Lusaka hospital last week, for reasons no one seems able or willing to explain. There are graves being sold on the side of the road here and men lying passed out drunk in wheelbarrows next to them.

There are kids playing on these same streets, turning the caps of water bottles into pieces for a game of checkers. There is vitality and vibrancy and they are unavoidable, even when covered with the layers of mud from these dusty roads. People take immense care with their shoes here; they are always shining. Clothes are always ironed. I go to people’s homes and somehow, there is always enough to go around. I learned a lot of names. I heard a lot of stories. I watched a man get tears in his eyes while he told me that his son’s name in Bemba means the softest part of his heart; the thing he cherishes most.

I’m not sure I ever learned to love Lusaka. It feels kind of nice to admit that. I think, in some ways, it’s a hard city to love. Its dividedness often makes it feel like several cities in one, and those several cities often feel like they’re separated by huge socio-economic (and often racial) lines. I think that despite overwhelming amounts of friendliness, Lusaka may be a difficult (but not impossible) place for foreigners to feel fully integrated into the local community in a way that’s more than superficial.

But I’m learning that you can still love your time in a place, even if you’re not sure you love the place itself. I loved mastering the crowded Inter City Bus Station, I loved the bad pizza we would line up for on Tuesday nights just because it was such a good bargain. I loved the ridiculously over the top music videos put out by Zambian artists, I loved the excitement that sets in when a road in town is paved. I loved how much it made people laugh when I asked how they were in Nyanja. I like that although they may be fleeting, friendships can form instantly. Despite having mixed feelings about Lusaka, I love Zambia itself. The mass patriotism that the African Cup victory inspired must have still been lingering in the air when I arrived. I think it was the people who made my time here so special: the families who welcomed me into their homes in the N’gombe and Garden compounds, and the fellow travelers/roommates at Kalulu who I cooked with, talked with, and explored with. I loved curling up in Zambia’s hot sun, I loved its lakes and rivers, the sunrises and sunsets, the corn roasted on the side of the road, the colorful chitenjes, the enormous avocados. Flying over Victoria Falls remains one of the most magical and majestic experiences of my life.

Clio & Trevor and the remains of the hot cross buns we ate for Easter

I’m learning that even if you do it again and again, goodbyes don’t actually get any easier. I keep creating homes for myself and then having to walk away from them. I’m getting tired, and yet somehow it is also unbelievable to me that I only have two countries left.

When I was planning my itinerary, I put two European countries at the end of it in part because I thought at this point I might be feeling a bit burnt out. After months of exploration in places that are drastically different from home, I thought it might be nice to be in countries at the end where the transportation systems, grocery stores, and cultures are slightly more similar to what I'm used to in the United States. With just Ireland and Iceland left, in some ways it feels like the hardest parts are over. (I’m sure I’ll find things to worry about in those countries too, it just won’t be finding clean drinking water and avoiding malaria). Besides the combined six weeks I spent in Germany & Copenhagen, I've been an obvious outsider in various places for the past eight+ months and have received a lot of attention for it. I'm looking forward to being able to blend in a bit more.

Preparations for departure

I’m spending a few days in London to recuperate, sightsee, and buy some new jeans before flying to Dublin on Friday (Ireland makes for project country #6). This transition feels big, because it feels like I’m moving closer to home now, chronologically and geographically. It’s exciting and scary and makes me overly emotional. Flights almost always make me tear up. I’d like to blame the movie selection or air pressure, but I think in all honesty, it’s just what saying goodbye is like.

Zikomo kwambiri, Zambia. I will miss waking up here.

Kalulu Backpackers

Name Post: A List for Zambia

Downtown Lusaka

When I was first working on my Watson application I decided to add Zambia to my line up of countries for a variety of reasons. I wanted to visit a country in southern Africa and had heard that in Zambia most people speak English and are notoriously friendly. Zambia is conflict-free and home to an amazingly diverse population largely due to the fact that it borders eight other African countries. The fact that it's home to one of the seven wonders of the world also did not escape my attention.Because of its diverse population, Zambia kept coming up as I looked up naming traditions in various African countries. I read some websites that claimed Zambians named their babies after days of the week (only true in a couple of cases), some websites trying to make a compilation of names from different Zambian tribes, and one website that said there is a coming of age ritual in Zambia where thirteen year-olds choose an adult name for themselves. I thought talking to thirteen year-olds about what names they were going to choose for themselves and how they chose them would be particularly interesting in the context of my research in so many different places.

When I got to Zambia, this myth was quickly dispelled. Although coming of age ceremonies still happen in some parts of Zambia and in some tribes, there was no universal name change at age thirteen, and I’m not quite sure why the author of this webpage thought there was.

It seems funny to me now that I came here with the intention of talking to thirteen year-olds going through coming of age ceremonies, and landed instead in this bustling city where most people have names like John and Frances. That said, there has still been plenty to write home about. Zambia has given me what is probably the most eclectic sets of names I’ve encountered on my travels so far, and some of the most interesting stories. I’ve gotten to talk to people about babies being named after the circumstances of their births, having multiple names (and floating names), how names act as titles, and the introduction of biblical and English names in Zambia. Nothing was straight-forward. With only a few days left in the country (how did that happen?) I've decided that before I leave, it’s important to me to let the names speak for themselves.

I’ve compiled a list of some of the names I’ve learned from people here, the names that may or may not be official. I've found that a lot of these traditional names might still be a fundamental part of someone's identity, but often today, are floating.

Map of Zambian linguistic/tribal groups. Courtesy of Google Images/Heather Falenski.

Buchedo-Born at Dawn (Tonga)

Busiku-Born at Night (Tonga)

Bwalya-Last born (Bemba)

Chibeka-Angel (Bemba)

Chikondi-Love (Nyanja)

Chilufya-Memory of a lost ancestor (Bemba)

Chimuka-Born late (Tonga)

Chimunya-“Same gender”; given to a boy who has an older brother or a girl who has an older sister (Tonga)

Chipo-Gift (Tonga)

Chitoshi-Strong but soft (Bemba)

Chola-Literally meaning “a bag”, Chola is given to a baby who comes after twins (Bemba)

Cholwe-Lucky (Tonga)

Dalitso-Blessing (Chewa)

Kamusu-“From the herbs”, given to a baby whose mother took medicinal herbs to help her become pregnant (Bemba)

Kalonde-Garden Hoe (Bemba)

Kalumba-Lightening (Bemba)

Katumba-Seedling (Nsenga)

Limpo-Gift (Lozi)

Liseli-Light (Lozi)

Luendo-Breeched (Tonga)

Lungowe-Beauty (Lozi)

Lupupa—“The Softest Part of Your Heart”; what you cherish the most (Bemba)

Lusomo-Messy (Tonga)

Mabvuto-Problems. (Nsenga)

Maliro-Grief (Nsenga)

Manasse-To make free from problems (Nsenga)

Manyando-Problem (Lozi)

Mapenze-Trouble (Lozi)

Mapolo-Blessing (Bemba)

Mazuba-Sunlight (Tonga)

Misozi-Tears (Nsenga)

Miyanda--“From the herbs”, given to a baby whose mother took medicinal herbs to help her become pregnant (Tonga)

Mphundu-Nickname used for a set of twins (Nsenga)

Munsaka-Baby Boy (Tonga)

Mutende-Peace (Chewa)

Mutinta-Indicates a change in gender. For example, Mutinta might be given to a baby boy who comes after two girls, or a baby girl who comes after two boys (Tonga)

Mwape-Born with one grandparent (Bemba)

Natasha-“I am grateful” (Bemba)

Ndaniso-Sadness (Zimbabwean)

Nkaka-Only good things (Bemba)

Sabwacha-Born on Saturday (Tonga)

Sakayamali-“Sack of money”, given to a whose family receives lots of gifts at her birth

Tikambenji-“What is there to say?”; Given to a baby who was unexpected (Bemba)

Twaambo-Good News (Tonga)

This list is by no means comprehensive. It was collected solely from conversations with people here, so some of the definitions and spellings might be a bit subjective. There are also a lot of tribes and names that are left out because of who I ended up speaking with, and where in Zambia I was based. There is a lot of room for improvement, but it's a start.

Frazer and Chipo, two guides at sunset in Kafue National Park

I went to Zambia expecting to focus my research on conversations around this one coming of age naming tradition. I had a lot of other conversations instead. I met a Sakayamali who goes by Priscilla at school, I met a man named Lovemore Banda. I saw a picture drawn by Memory Mwale and I now could tell you what the President of Zambia’s middle name (Chilufya) means. I learned to ask my questions about names but also shrug sometimes because some things are passed on for generations and generations and their original meaning or motivations become irrelevant. Kind of like the idea that thirteen year-olds name themselves at coming of age ceremonies, and no one really knows if that happened and died out, or ever really happened at all. Or maybe I just looked in the wrong places. Tikambenji. What is there to say?

On Ho Humness

With Kari, Rose, Levis, Mr. Kambusa and Rose's daughter in her tailor shop in Kambwala market.

There is a building on the outskirts of Burlington called the Ho Hum Motel. My family drives by it frequently and without fail, every month or so, my Dad will say something along the lines of, “You know, I sort of like that name. Ho Hum Motel. It’s not trying to be something it’s not.”

The repetition of this particular opinion has become something I simply roll my eyes at in the car. But like so many memories of home this year, it has become another random moment from the past that suddenly enters my mind while walking down some unknown street in a foreign city. In this case, on my way from the hostel to a Lusaka restaurant.

I was thinking about how I haven’t posted in a few days, and how I didn’t really have anything to say. I feel a little paralyzed this week; I'm leaving Zambia on Monday which means I have more than enough days left to prepare for my departure, but not quite enough days left to sink my teeth into more name research. It's been a bit of a week of the ho hum (which is to be expected, perhaps, after last week's safari).

Ho Hum Highlight: Daily, enormous avocados.

I think that sometimes people hear about my year and imagine that I am constantly surrounded by loud and colorful strangers, and am weaving my way in and out of traffic, climbing mountains, and eating mysterious food. All those things have accounted for some of my year, but eight months in, I'm realizing that a lot of my year has also been taken up with the ho hum. In a year with so little structure and so many logistics to work out, I end up spending an enormous amount of time trying to plan my next steps. Sending e-mails to strangers and googling Lonely Planet hostels in Ireland and Iceland has taken up the majority of my mornings this week. Then there’s the details and questions as I prepare for a departure: do I cram everything into my suitcase or consider mailing a box home from Zambia? Is the postal system reliable? If I send it through DHL, where could I find an empty cardboard box in Lusaka? Then there’s the daily grocery shopping, trying to make the internet work, the walks to ATMs. There’s contacting a Bed and Breakfast in Belfast and a research contact in Reykjavik, there’s taking a break to play with the owner of the hostel’s four year-old son, and waiting for water to come back on so I can take a shower. There's mornings spent trying to write a blog post about names and afternoons spent buying more phone credit and some postage stamps. Some of the best advice I got along this journey was from my friend, Susannah, who told me before arriving in Rabat, “Just try to get two things done a day.” In countries where you don’t know where you're going, where lines are disregarded and time is flexible, I’ve found this advice to be invaluable.

These basics of living and of travel are things that no one really wants to read about. They’re the less interesting parts of this journey, but they're the things that make up the majority of what this year is—the background to them is just constantly changing.

Riding home with Kari in the back of a truck after a Tuesday night movie at a nearby shopping mall.

This post is for the ho hum, to let you know I don't have much to say right now, but that I am here. I am living in Lusaka and doing the daily things we do to keep ourselves going and that I would be doing anywhere in the world. Sometimes the enormity of this year hits me, but most of the time, like right now, I'm just drinking tea to get over a cold, checking my Facebook page, appreciating the cooler evenings that have arrived in Lusaka, and planning a trip to the post office in the morning.

It may be ho hum, but it's not trying to be something it's not.

A Laughter of Hippos

I hadn’t planned on going on safari during my time in Zambia. Although it had always seemed like a fun thing to do, I realized that I wasn’t even sure exactly what “going on safari’ entailed, besides an outrageous price tag. I learned, however, that Kafue National Park (the largest in Zambia and one of the largest in the world), is a mere three hours from Lusaka, and that because it’s currently low season, there were heavily discounted deals. Clio, the Irish contingent of Kalulu Backpackers, had been meaning to go to Kafue for a while because she keeps recommending it to people without having gone there herself. I was easily convinced.

We stayed at Mukambi Safari Lodge, a pretty amazing luxury safari place that I most definitely couldn’t have afforded at any other time of year. We had a chalet next to the river to ourselves and some really delicious three-course dinners. The views of the Kafue River are stunning, and the stillness and sunrises were such a welcome break from Lusaka’s chaos. While there I learned that there’s actually a hit TV show in the Netherlands about encounters with African wildlife that’s based at Mukambi (Van Amstelveen Naar Afrika).

Inside our chalet.

Clio outside our chalet.

Warthog outside our chalet.

Since it’s the end of the rainy season, and the grass is high and difficult for viewing animals, Clio and I mainly almost had the place to ourselves. It is an exhilarating feeling to be living right in the middle of a national park. You have to walk from the lodge to your chalet accompanied by a guard at night in case of lions or elephants. At 4am on Thursday night, Clio woke me up in a panic: “Nell, there’s a hippo right outside our window.”

We spent a lot of time during our two days at Kafue with the lights off in our room, staring out the window and trying to make sense of the dark shapes right outside. We held our breath for the hippos (supposedly the most dangerous animals in Africa) and woke up laughing one morning to the Vervet monkeys stealing the coffee cups we foolishly left outside.

At 5am on Thursday, we woke up to a thermos of hot water outside of chalet to get some coffee in our systems before heading to a game drive. We took a boat across the river, snapped some sunrise photos, and then we were off into the park.

The feeling of waking up with the sun, of sitting in an open safari vehicle and driving through these pools of water and tall grass made for one of the nicest mornings of my life. We saw colorful birds (lilac breasted lolas, fish eagles, and gray billed herons, among others). We saw pukus and impalas and three kudu who made majestic leaps across the road. We saw zebras underneath a tree and monkeys and hartebeests and hippos and warthogs. We tried to see through the many shades of green and strained our eyes and congratulated each other when we managed to find something. A few hours into it we pulled over for sugar cookies and coffee in tin cups. I think I could have driven around like that forever.

Setting out on a misty morning.

Lilac Breasted Lola (my personal favorite).

Kudu

One of many hippos.

Vervet monkey.

Pukus & impalas

We took a boat out to see the sunset that night, drinking Mosi, Zambian’s local brew taken from “Mosi oa Tunya” (the smoke that thunders). A few hippos followed us down the river and we tried to get rid of them. We watched one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, and kept our eyes open for animals. I learned that a group of hippos is called a laughter. I will forever be looking for this word in crossword puzzles. I will forever remember what being surrounded by that laughter felt like.

We didn’t see any lions, or cheetahs, or leopards (leopards are one of Kafue’s claims to fame, because in most other places they’re notoriously impossible to see), but I didn’t really care. The whole experience felt a little bit magical, a little bit like Christmas morning—this feeling of waking up early and actually shivering, and drinking hot coffee and keeping your eyes wide open. The feeling of trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and of being amazed by what we were surrounded by. It is one of those experiences I can’t quite believe this year has allowed me.

I am one lucky girl.