Clean Sweep

Clean Sweep

I’ve mentioned that the Zambians are friendly, happy people. I seem to recall that being said about a lot of people around the world, but here it seems especially the case. And it is certainly not because there is so much material abundance! I am just beginning to understand some of the why that would explain this phenomena, so I will weigh in on that later. But here are a few observations I can share now.

As I am taking my morning constitutional walk around the neighborhood, most houses show signs of activity no matter how early I go. Kids are up doing chores or are dressed in uniform and heading off to school (at least in the area I'm living in). Nearly every direction I turn, either my ears track a telltale scratching sound, or my eyes follow a small cloud of dust to someone sweeping out the house, yard or street. Most of the brooms are long straw bundles without handles so the speepers (mostly the women) are bent to the task regardless of the age.

I have noticed that this happens even when there seems to be little to sweep. ( A few leaves fallen overnight will be dutifully attended to.) This morning ritual seems to reflect a belief that there is value in clearing the stage for a new day’s activity. And that it's a good idea to sweep away yesterday’s disorder, frustrations, shortcomings, disappointments and create space for something new to happen.

In addition to sweeping, other kinds of cleaning are going on as well. Basins of graywater are brought to the yard to be emptied, and nearly everyone does this in a particular fashion. Instead of tossing out a stream of water in one motion, water is discarded by sprinkling it out  by hand on the earth in a wide arch, as one would do in throwing  grain to chickens. Since most of the yards in the area do not have grass, I thought this curious.

I shared my suspicion with Agness and she agreed that this custom was related to the fact that much of Zambia is dryland savanna, and water is naturally regarded in a much different way than in the water rich Pacific Northwest (although we are beginning to develop some water consciousness). It would make sense that the gift of water should be shared with as much of creation as possible and that life may sprout where even a droplet falls.

The concept of sharing what you have is prevalent in this place, where it is obvious that things that are not abundant and are distributed so all can have something. In this land it is clear to see that nature wastes nothing. The bone-crunching of the cheetah cubs on the kill of a springbuck will be followed by more bone crushing of the hyenas, followed by the vultures, the ants and microbes…

When my wife, Barbara, and I visited Europe a number of years ago, we joked that in France everything was beautiful, and in Germany, everything worked. Zambia is more France than Germany. Sometimes you have water at the tap, electricity at the outlet, internet on the laptop, sometimes not.

You need to wait for things. I think it builds a sense of tolerance and patience in the people. I notice that things that drive people crazy back home, traffic jams, long lines, waiting for a phone call etc., are met here with an acceptance that seems to say, life is too short to waste emotional energy on the inevitable shortcomings of the daily routine. My Zambian experience is saying, "Learn to sweep out the yard to start the day and accept that into every yard some leaves will fall."

Morning chores

Curtis's Dilemma

I recently took in an exhibition of work by Edward Curtis, famed Native American portrait artist and chronicler of the last remaining intact native societies in the United States at the turn of the century. His work was paired with contemporary native photographic artists and was presented with a critique of his methods as not being an authentic representation of the culture for two reasons:  he often had his subjects “dress up” in their traditional ceremonial costumes, and he would erase any references of modernity that might show up in the photographs. Fair enough. But having recently read Shadowcatcher, Curtis’s life story, I find I can relate a little to just what he was up against in trying to capture a culture for posterity in rapidly changing times.

A part of my journey is to try to share my experiences with friends and followers who have supported this adventure. What an incomplete portrait it would be without the visuals to go with the stories. Taking pictures of the happenings around the studio is pretty easy. Everybody knows what is going on. But when I venture out into the city, hoping to capture a bit of my surroundings, I am the outsider and, naturally, I get my fair share of attention and scrutiny as well.

While Curtis schlepped his heavy camera and equipment over rough terrain on horseback, I walk about comfortably with a thin wafer of technology in my hand. But I find myself in what I imagine is a similar dilemma: Do I seize the moment, document it raw, as is or do I announce my intention, ask permission, pay for the privilege, risk spoiling the moment? The artist in me wants to follow my creative instinct. Go for it. The respectful guest wants to be sure not to offend.

Yesterday, when I ventured out early into the neighborhood with a vague plan to capture the scene, I passed a neighbor working her patch of garden and was compelled to freeze that moment. I thought I would get a discreet shot while she was unaware, but then,  I decided to ask. She was skeptical. A white man wanting to get a shot of the “native”.

 “I’m an artist, working with your neighbor at the WayiWayi studio.” The artist excuse had served me well in the past. An awkward moment. I put myself in her shoes. What would I think if I was similarly confronted while casually watering my lawn? After a moment she graciously acquiesced. Then posed. In her traditional, Zambian ceremonial working-in-the-garden costume. The spontaneous, frozen, moment in time was transformed into something else.

 “Will you pay me?” she asked after I thanked her and began to walk away.
Realizing I had nothing in my pocket I replied, “ Sorry, today, I have nothing to give you but thanks".

Morning gardener

Upgrades

I have been staying in an annex of a classroom since I arrived a few weeks ago. It has been pleasant enough but had the minor inconvenience of having to walk some distance to the outdoor bathroom in the evenings. The Yombwe’s have been working on the artist-in-residence facility for a couple of years off and on as funds allowed, and yesterday, it was finally ready for occupation. I moved in to my new digs and was able to walk a few steps to the facilities for my nightly visit(s). Today a “geyser”, a heated water tank for showers was installed on the roof and as the evenings in Zambia are rather cool this time of the year, a hot shower will be a stupendous luxury.
And speaking of living the lap of luxury the Yombwe’s have upgraded their washing machine…With the new facility came the new plumbing and a whole new system!

Regular family wash

New artist-in-residence wash

Kondwani's Dilemma

Getting a bike was one of my top priorities after I arrived in Zambia. I wanted to be able to get out alone sometimes, to experience the essence of the town through my own filters.

WayiWayi is about a 30 minute walk to the heart of Livingstone, and most people who want to go to town take a taxi. It cost about 10 kwacha or one dollar. Like New York City, taxis are everywhere…everywhere there is pavement... which is only on the main roads. Unlike New York, many of the taxis are not registered or identified as such. When you are walking or riding on the street you hear a constant barrage of short horn toots behind you, as taxi drivers see a potential customer and announce their availability. You can't really be sure if the horn is directed at you asking if you want a ride or if the driver wants you to move so they can avoid the many potholes.

Lawrence and Agness's son, Kondwani, was asked to come home to Livingstone from Lusaka (the Zambian capitol) to help out around the house while Lawrence was in Norway. He has been my helper extraordinaire, helping me get oriented, and has been like gold, teaching me the ropes of the Livingstone “system”.

Kondwani was able to get me the bike I wanted, but it needed work so he took me to a “bike shop” at a street market in a section of town called Maramba. This part of town is what we in the US call the other side of the tracks. A white person does not go anywhere in Livingstone outside the many tourist lodges and resorts without being noticed, and more so in Maramba. The population of Livingstone is consistently friendly, but people look out for themselves. In any business transaction they will assume foreigners have money to burn, so I was very appreciative that Kondwani was with me to negotiate a good deal in the bike repairs.

When we were done Kondwani told me he needed to pick up some things at the market that his mom had asked for. He asked if I wanted to come with him or hang out at the bike shop. It seemed like a curious question since our business at the shop was finished (and frankly, being left alone there made me a little bit uncomfortable). But I thought I should ask him what he preferred.

Kondwani is very honest, and his reply made me smile. “Well, when you are with me, the merchants want to charge twice as much.”

“I’ll hang out here, or take a ride on my new bike.”

Kondwani

Maramba bike emporium

Emporium patrons

Double Duffle Snaffoo

A very pleasant and uneventful journey after the initial panic at the Portland airport. Made a point of talking to strangers along the way just to make myself get used to the experience. Two retired nurses from the Bronx ready to experience the African outback, a solo traveler from Perth who was amazed at the friendliness of the airport staff in Johannesburg. A two hour layover at the beautiful airport in “Joberg” (listen to me, talking like a world traveler) allowed me to peek at the current culture of South Africa: lots of white travelers, no white workers (none that I could see) in any position outside of a few pilots.

I was struck by the contrast of the attitude of the workers here as opposed to the typical airport working staff in the US. Here, there was no holding back. Black pride was manifested everywhere. Groups of workers could be seen everywhere laughing, singing, shouting and having fun. By the time I landed after a short flight to Livingstone, I was already feeling like I was settling in and getting used to being a minority in the beautiful sea of black faces around me.

My friend Pricilla would be waiting to pick me up. She had warned me to proceed through the airport tarmac with haste so I wouldn’t get stuck behind a crowd of people at customs. Struggling with my 50 lb backpack and bumbag, I congratulated  myself for being second in line. Clearing customs, I was able to pick two of my three duffle bags off the carrousel and begin to breathe a sigh of relief that it had all gone so smoothly.

For the next half hour I watched the carousel start and stop, start and stop. While the rest of the passengers came to claim their things…no third bag. Damn. So close. Finally, when all the bags had been pulled off the line, an airport guard came to ask me if that bag over on the table was mine. It was.
“Well, there is a problem. What is the black stuff leaking out of the bottom?”
“Oh, s**t…I think that’s ink. I had a bottle wrapped, and it must have gotten punctured.”
“Why ink?”
“I’m going to be teaching art at WayiWayi," and yadayada.
“You’ll need to step over here. And let's see that passport again.”
Uh-oh, looked like I was in trouble now.

Then Pricilla poked her head around the corner to see what was taking so long and more or less came to the rescue. Explaining the situation and giving me a little cred. Off I went to the bathroom to get a load of paper towels to sop up the mess only to find the first of my Zambian realities. The towel rack was empty. OK…I borrowed a rag. The automatic water spigot didn't work. I decided to put any other appropriate bathroom functions on hold.

Finally, with a little help from my friends, we found a plastic bag (no small task) to contain the offending duffle and clear the airport. Pricilla was sure to capture my predicament on camera, and I walked into the Zambian sun. With a load of tools and art supplies, minus a half bottle of ink.

Finally free from Customs

I would give you a hug, but...

Getting Started

The thing about travel is while you want to get away, you also want to take it all with you…the comforts of home: the bed, the jewelry, the bicycle, the cat. But you have to make choices, knowing that whatever you bring may not be enough; whatever you left behind may be the very thing you end up wishing you had.

I brought a lot of tools. Good thing. Zambia has a very limited supply of just about everything. Import tariffs make goods too expensive for most people. So the clever folks use what they have till it’s used up. And then they find a way to use it again.

My host and co-owner of WayiWayi studios, Agness, does artwork with found objects. Her current creations are sculptural wall hangings, which she makes using a local seedpod. They capture the spirit of tribal Africa in a contemporary way.

I have been amazed at the ingenious way that things at the WayiWayi studio get done. Yesterday, we pulled a pottery wheel out of storage that was missing its power plug. No problem. Henry is the fix-it man. Within minutes it was up and running. OSHA, you wouldn’t want to know.

So this is the way things work in this part of the world. No K-mart or Home Depot, and yet things get done with a style and grace and an artistry worthy of envy.

Henry (fix-it-man) also does art

                                             

Agness and Kangwa

Oscar

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Oscar #2

Another Lawrence

                                                                                                                                       
Four TSA checkpoints later, my load was a little lighter (who knew that so many art materials could be used as terrorist devices), and I was on the last leg of my journey. I just survived my longest stretch (no pun intended, but it does work) of the14.5 hour journey from JFK to Johannesburg. My seat was at the back of the plane behind two infants and a stressed-looking mom. No problem. Two of the coolest kids ever. Smiled and laughed and played peek-a-boo for most of the flight…well, a few whimpers and a couple of throw-ups.

I have one regret----that I did not take more time to learn more about South Africa before departure. I have some general knowledge of the struggle for power and order in the rough transition to independence in the countries of Sub Saharan Africa and, of course, the story of Nelson Mandela and apartheid.  But most of it is spotty at best.

So I  was uncharacteristically eager to strike up a conversation with my black seatmate when I learned that he, too, was recently retired. He had been born and raised in Durban, on the East Coast of South Africa. He shares the same Christian name as Lawrence Yombwe, my host. Lawrence Nkabinde told me of his experience going to school with the brilliant Steve Bico, the anti-apartheid activist, and how he was called home from college when his father died.

His father, a world class orchestral and choral director, was returning home along the East coast from a concert in Capetown.  He offered to assist the bus driver back up in the dark and was killed when he fell under the wheel. Being the eldest son, Lawrence was called home to take over the family estate because his mother couldn’t own property under the laws of apartheid.

Though women have recently made great strides toward equality, it is a work in progress, and it is certainly not world-wide. So I spent the first two days in Zambia sitting in on a women’s empowerment conference at the Wayi Wayi studios. The movement is about changing the cycle of abuse and neglect for women through various avenues, such as teaching them self -worth through the arts. This is my hope, that I can add in some small way to that teaching.

Woman's conference at the WayiWayi Studio

Jet Blue in the Final Hour

The first of what may be many miracles was recorded today, before I even got on the plane. Even the Pope would likely consider this one verifiable.

With all the planning that has gone into this trip, and it has been going on for over a year, there have been a few things that I have left totally up to outside help. So in the mad scramble to get all the luggage to the proper weight, packing malarial pills, alcohol wipes, extra socks, etc., I didn’t give the itinerary a second thought. I printed it out, and my wife and I headed out the door, grateful that something as complex as getting a man and 200 lbs of art materials and tools ready to get through three major airports and onto another continent on the other side of the world was finally completed. Big mistake!

Our plan was to drop Barbara off with the check-in luggage so she could get that part going while I parked the car. Our big worry was whether or not we could get away with one and a half lbs excess weight in one of the bags and a half pound in the other.
Sometimes the airlines are sticklers.

So, when the ticket agent started looking at the computer screen with a questioning eye and asked her colleague for help, we began to wonder. Turns out, according to the computer, we were a day late for our flight. Our jaws dropped!  Our hearts sank!

“No, I have the right day," I pointed out the date on our itinerary. “Yes, but there is some mistake on your end,” was the response. "You need to talk to your agent…There is nothing we can do!”

"Well, get me on a plane to JFK…any  plane. I have to make a connection to Johannesburg. I am supposed to be at a conference tomorrow.”

“That’s the problem, all of your flights were booked for yesterday. We have no way of rescheduling tickets for South African Air. See if you can get your agent on the phone and figure something out. You have about a half hour."

Call, call, text text, email, messenger, facebook? Help! Emergency! Nothing. Twenty minutes go by. I’m just settling into the dark feeling that the Dark Continent is not going to happen…not today. Maybe never.

Then, here comes the miracle:  Michael Porter at Jet Blue comes over to us after a long stint at the computer and hands me a packet with boarding passes for the whole trip and smiles…”I found a way." Barbara breaks all security standards, jumps across the scale and gives him a hug. Not to be outdone, I jump over and do the same. Our baggage is expedited (no charge for the extra piece of luggage and forget about that excess two lbs), and I am on my way…goodbye Portland, hello yellow brick road.

 You decide, miracle or just business as usual.

Sitting in the airway station, got a ticket for my destination...horay!

Mighty Rivers: The Zambezi and The Columbia

Comparing rivers to each other is arguably a romantic exercise at best, but both have had a hand in shaping the culture and geography of the lands they flow through. Both can qualify for bringing life in abundance to the indigenous people of their respective lands.  And both hold an allure for adventure-minded people.

The Zambezi remains one of the world's most pristine and unexplored rivers in spite of its size. It is the fourth largest river in Africa. Only two dams restrict its flow, and when you stand at its edge and see the clarity of its water and the power of the current, you don't need to see spectacular Victoria Falls to be smitten. But then there are The Falls.

The Columbia, by contrast, is the most hydroelectrically developed river in the world. More than 400 dams (11 on the mainstem) restrict its flow. There are few places left along its run where the current can be seen as anything more than gentle. I love the Columbia and swim in its waters frequently. I have met the challenge of swimming its width from the Washington side to the Oregon, but in terms of raw power vs harnessed power, these are two very contrasted rivers.

I had a notion that it would be cool to be able to say that I took a swim in the Zambezi, but every single person I have mentioned this to has said emphatically that it's a very bad idea. The depth and the current are foreboding enough, but two words are consistently mentioned whenever the subject comes up: hippos and crocs. The words that nobody's loved ones wants to read in the paper are "American falls victim..." So swimming in this magnificent river is off the list.

Victoria falls as seen from WayiWayi Studios (kidding) but not far away

Perspective

When I ask myself the question “What is drawing you to Africa?”, the big picture answer is: to change my perspective. My quest is not new. We humans seem to require a change in routine from time to time. Many European countries have acknowledged this and have a 4-5 week annual holiday built into their social system. Travel agencies cater to our need. I suspect that as our society becomes more interconnected and complex our need to get away and change it up, increases. Most of us regularly build small breaks into our routine, but occasionally the need for a big perspective change takes hold. In my 25 years of classroom teaching, I was blessed with the opportunity to take a two month hiatus each year, but once the school year started, I was locked into the saddle and rarely took a sick or mental health day. That’s a lot of routine. Jumping on a horse and trotting off over the horizon just to see what was there was a constant but quiet mantra that I kept in check by telling myself, “someday”.

Since my "someday" came with retirement, I am acting on a long held dream. My wife and I had planned to go to Africa together, but when the time came we had to face the realities of the physical limitations that this trip would put on her. With compromising health issues, she had to reluctantly decline. So the trip that has taken shape now is quite different from the one we had planned. The irony is that instead of taking a break from teaching, I am taking a break from retirement to return to teaching. This commitment has me examining what exactly I have been teaching all these years. Art, yes, but how? And did I really accomplish what I thought I was doing? And by what instrument do we measure success.

The last chapters of my teaching career involved me in the new wave of educational reform and accountability. Failing schools and outdated systems led to an increase in testing to measure the amount and kind of learning that is (or is not) taking place. Educational reforms are not news. What was new was the increase in standardized testing. Though the jury is still out as to how this is improving things, I was involved in helping to develop the standardized tests for art education for the state of Washington. I have since bought into the concept that some form of standardization in the teaching of the arts is needed and even desirable.

Prior to these reforms, the sacred cow of  art education was that each teacher has the freedom (and responsibility) to teach the arts in their own creative way. Since the majority of administrators admit they are poorly qualified to assess the arts, arts educators got a pass while other subject areas were under the scope for increased accountability. I enjoyed that “freedom” for a good part of my career but felt the alarm upon realizing that in the new paradigm, that which is not tested or testable will be destined to fall from the curriculum. The panic I felt on envisioning schools without the arts motivated me to get involved.

Working with other arts educators from across the state, we were tasked to come up with lists of standardized arts concepts that we considered essential to teaching the arts. This work led to a number of projects that the state eventually adopted as learning standards and assessments: http://www.k12.wa.us/Arts/default.aspx.
I have since gained confidence in knowing the arts are now being taught in a more systematic, accountable fashion. The teachers have at their disposal a data driven, sequential method to teach the arts as they relate to the skill and understanding at each class level. They still have the right and responsibility to teach in their own creative way, but with guides and support.

The ongoing work of getting art teachers to adapt these or any standards is truly like herding, not just cats, but paint-splattered, feisty, even fierce cats.  That work is now left to a new generation of arts educators, but the fact that classroom art teachers were able to come together to work on creating arts standards and assessments was novel, and I think, a necessity for eventual success.

None of the years I have invested in and outside the classroom has led me to say for certain, however, what any of this has directly to do with the task of bringing forth creativity. And that is the larger question. That question is being asked with urgency not only in the arts but in all subject areas. Standardization does not beget creative thought. And the world is in need of creative thought. Current brain research is telling us that humans are at their most mentally active and creative best when faced with new situations, new information, new environments and, consequentially, when we are out of doors. This is not what schools are set up for. We want to think we have figured it out with our standardized testing, lighting, paint colors, hall and locker sizes etc. , but this one-test-fits-all concept has many students struggling.

Teaching school for me was an involvement in setting up an environment where students would be challenged to use new forms of thought and action to solve problems. The environment and the curriculum was designed to challenge the old world view. That view included the idea that only some of us are creative. We need change. We need to have a new vision to address and work with our current world. Just as the first astronauts described having euphoric feelings looking at the planet from a whole new perspective. We have a need to get out and see new things.  Africa isn’t new, just new to me.

Entertained AND Inspired

To follow up on thoughts about how we humans either find ways to celebrate our creativity or deny, mistrust or misuse it, the old adage holds true: we stand to lose what we don't use. Not that I believe that creativity can really be lost, but what we can lose is the moment, the chance, as my poet/wife says, "To be a part of it all". And what is the loss when the curtain opens on the grand drama of our lives, if we find a way to slip out the back door? What is the result of the muse giving us a call when we don't pick up?

The personal loss is that we begin to form a pattern of denial that allows us to misread the cues of our calling and write ourselves out of the drama. A pattern that strengthens over time. The cycle of creativity is broken. The Muse's call becomes infrequent. The story still is written, but without our involvement and input it is no longer our story.

If we become non-participants in the creative act, we may also become lesser audience members to those we call the creative. This disconnect can cause us to idolize the artist or the creation. A performance or artwork can entertain or even amaze, but it may fail to inspire, if the creative process isn't awake within us. Without the connection that comes from the experience of creating we may quickly  lose interest in the next wonderful new thing that has come into our lives.

This disconnect repeated in person after person leads to a collective loss of creativity. We can see this effect manifested when we look around at negative aspects of our shared world, created without our input, and say "Is this the best we can do?" It is tempting to think that the state of our country, our community, and our environment is not part of our doing. We may think that we are not personally responsible for the terrible waste of human potential as we sit stalled in the traffic jams of our cites. Or the strip malls that are our vista as we sit idling. We didn't participate in designing this, but we were part of an uninspired audience while someone else took on that task.



When we acknowledge that we have a creative self and actively seek to develop it, when we use it in any way that expresses appreciation for life and the beauty and needs of this world, we are contributing to positive change. Invested, we can all offer new life to the collective act of creativity.