Lawrence's Painting

Lawrence Yombwe

Watching Lawrence work on a painting is a thing of beauty, grace and purpose. I doubt that he makes a decision to begin a painting until he has settled the issue of whether or not the theme is ready to see the light of day. Once he begins on a course, the painting seems to paint itself, and he, the master magician, makes the process appear seamless. I was lucky to be able to track his progress through a painting from beginning to end over the course of a couple of weeks. And when the mood was right, I able to pick his brain a bit about what his process is and how he is inspired.

Lawrence has a deep connection to the concept of family, fixed by his tribal roots. Through his painting he returns to this theme again and again. His concept of family grows to take in the community and their stories. It becomes larger still as he takes on social issues that are a response to the global issues of our times. His work is mostly figurative, and most often his subjects are overlaid with symbols that refer to tribal identity and also hold deeper meanings. This distinctive use of symbols has also become a signature of his work.

Figures overlaid with tribal symbols

A landscape begins to form

Lawrence begins by stretching hessian (a coarse jute fabric) over a frame. In this case the frame is a very large one, 10’ x4’. Lawrence sometimes takes off on a painting with very little preparation, but in this case, he works over a thematic idea with drawings, sketches and cut-outs that he tapes temporarily onto the surface of the fabric. This helps him get a sense of the placement and scale of the intended composition. On this painting, the images are worked out and sketched in with dark graphite or charcoal. Then he applies a series of overlapping washes that magically begin to form a landscape that supports and gives a sense of place for the figures.

Figures join the landscape

As the painting progresses and the figures are secured in the background, Lawrence begins to work the fabric from the backside, pushing paint through the weave of the jute so that it makes an appearance on the front surface as small pixels. This process requires him to travel quickly from the back to the front again and again to see that he is achieving desired results. This method yields a kind of pointillist effect to parts of the painting, and Lawrence chooses which sections to manipulate further or leave unaltered.


                        

Pixels of paint push through

It was fascinating to watch his progress over time. One day it would appear that he was finishing the painting, and the next day he would have covered the entire painting with another wash and seem to be starting over again. He used multiple washes over paint that was already dry, and controlled how much effect any of the washes would have by leting the wash sit for a short time, then rubbing out the parts that he did not want to be affected.

Reworking with washes...late night work

I have done enough painting to know that it is typically a lengthy, laborious process to satisfy the demands of the artistic vision. Watching Lawrence tackle a painting, it is obvious that he is driven by his vision and gives himself energetically to his work. I would see him out in the courtyard late at night working in the pale light of a florescent bulb.

I have been privileged to experience a camaraderie with Lawrence, as we have shared, in depth, discussions of our work. What a blessing to have had the opportunity to see such a skilled artist move through a creation from concept to conclusion, and to have been a part of this special artistic community!

It all comes together

Tribal Cousins

The constant comings and goings of the variety of people at WayiWayi Studio have provided me with fascinating examples of the many languages, characteristics and customs of some of the many different tribes of the Zambian people. I have learned to recognize a number of tribal characteristics because of my association with employees who come from the community to work here daily to assist in chores, help with the teaching and work on the residence facility.

The Tonga are a common tribe in this area. They have occupied the southern part of Zambia for over 1,000 years. Tonga is the Shona tribe's word for independent , and I have found the Tonga whom I have met to embody that spirit. Then there are the Bimba of the North, the Tumbuka of the East, The Lamba of the Copperbelt, the Toka Leya of the South and the Lozi of the West. And, of course, there are sub tribes... but basically Zambians are made up of a lot of tribes...each with its own customs, language and rituals.                                                                  

At least 72 different tribal languages are spoken here. Each tribal language includes words and phrases common to most tribes. Most have roots in Bantu, and all share use of at least some English. The average Zambian is multimultilingual. Unfortunately, I have very little knack for picking up languages. Even though the workers guide me faithfully on simple phrases, I write them down on scraps of paper and fish them out of my pockets in order to say “Good Morning, or Thank You” properly to someone in their own tribal language. The effort is much appreciated.

Lawrence is from one northern tribe, Agness from another. And though it is not unusual for tribal members to intermarry, clearly there are distinct divisions between tribes. Everyone seems to keep track of their history and knows their roots. Agness has been gold for me, helping me gain insight into the personal back stories of the people whom I meet, and Lawrence has a love and knowledge of history. With their help I have pieced together a broader understanding of what I am experiencing in my multi-culture environment.

One question that I have posed to them is why they think the Zambian people seem so happy? Surely there is history of tribal warfare in the not-so-distant past. What they shared was a surprise and inspiration to me. Zambians are not traditionally a warlike people, and throughout their history there has been an absence of tribal animosity. The tribes basically coexist in the spirit of cooperation and sharing of resources.

The creation of Rhodesia (the former British Colony that was comprised of what is now Zambia and Zimbabwe) took the form of a cooperative business deal between the local chiefs and Cecil Rhodes. Zambian tribes did not suffer the bloodshed and warfare that was the fate of other southern African tribes, such as the Zulu to the East. Zambians certainly suffered losses to their cultural identity with occupation, but amazingly, they also found ways to cooperate and “get along” with the British.

Yonde really likes to goof around...so does Russell

As you see, Kondwane is much more serious.

One endearing custom that exemplifies this spirit of cooperation is one the Zambians call Tribal Cousins. In any group there will typically be people from various tribes. The differences between them actually become assets.  For example, the injection of humor into an otherwise serious situation, while in terrible taste inter-tribally, is perfectly acceptable and even expected for someone outside the tribe.

A funeral, typically a solemn event, will have representatives of other tribes present who will do the cooking and the chores to free up the grievers, but they also have permission to lighten the mood. Jokes, funny stories and playful teasing are welcome. Even in casual street gatherings, members outside one’s tribe have permission to poke fun, lambast or make light of one's concerns while one’s tribe would not do so.

Having the distinction of being totally outside anyone's tribe, I soon learned that my injections of humor were universally welcome. After I discovered that the custom of Tribal Cousins was the imbedded reason behind this phenomenon, I concluded that I was probably not as clever or witty as I might have imagined. Fortunately, the Zambian penchant for laughter does not rate humor so critically.  I have enjoyed easy, laughter-filled conversations with most of the people I have met here. In this society, people give each other the space to have fun and be happy, and we are all the richer for it.

Martin enjoys a lighter moment in the shade

Petty Beaurocrats and the girls

I will begin this by stating the obvious: As an outsider in this land, I lack the cultural and  historical experience required to qualify me to make a serious critique on almost any subject. Also, it is not my intention to share my observations as an effort to convey a truth. It is in this spirit that I offer the following observation: the Zambian system of government and business seems awash with undesirable aspects that are often the trademarks of inefficient bureaucracies and their attendant petty bureaucrats.

People who, in my opinion, take their jobs and positions of authority way too seriously. Also, there seems to be a general attitude of acceptance by the public for many of the accompanying petty rules and regulations that seem so unnecessary and yet, are interwoven into common daily activities. (Sound familiar?  Yes, the US and many other countries are also awash with petty bureaucrats!)

 Zambians are proud, hardworking people, and it is not surprising that when there is an overabundant supply of people who need jobs, people are hired to do things that do not seem essential, such as: gatekeepers attending open gates, or uniformed protectors to watch your car while you park in in a perfectly safe public space or someone to hand you a ticket upon entering an establishment devoid of clients so that you will be waited on in proper order.

The contrast with my own cultural experience was highlighted when I accompanied my host Lawrence to a local bank to transfer funds to a friend, Martin, who lives in neighboring  Botswana.  Martin needed to purchase ceramic supplies for our project. Upon entering the bank we were invited to wait in line by a uniformed guard. When our turn came, I attempted to accompany Lawrence to the teller to explain the particulars of the transfer. As we approached we were told that rules only allowed one person to go up to a teller at a time. We ended up conducting our business by shouting information back and forth across the bank foyer, Lawrence at the teller, me still in line. No plea for common sense will work to dissuade a rule keeper from his job and similar strict adherence to rules can be expected with nearly every business transaction. Being polite, patient and accepting are requirements necessary to move the process along as quickly as possible.

What I believe I have observed in Livingstone as a social norm is a certain respect for the regimented systems imposed on indigenous people under the formal control of British colonial occupation. I suspect that fixing social status by wearing uniforms and following strict protocols may have resonated with the people and even mirrored indigenous systems of establishing social status through dress, ceremony and ritual. One thing is clear, that gaining independence did not bring an end to this aspect of display of authority. In Livingstone, and I assume most of the country, all school children wear uniforms displaying the colors and style of the school. Anyone in fact who is in charge of anything will likely have some form of dress that announces the status of their job.

While I retain my visitor status, I have been in a position to simply observe this phenomena, and rarely did I feel any frustration arise that I surely would have felt had I faced similar restrictions on my home turf.

Some of the Saturday girls

The one exception came when I lost an opportunity to teach classes to a group of girls at a local high school. This project was particularly exciting to me because I had planned to teach a project that high school students were doing at the same time back home. I was excited about the possibilities of the students Facebook-sharing their experiences across the globe. This opportunity went south (no double meaning here) when protocol was not strictly followed prior to setting up our first meeting. No amount of explanation or apology was going to alter the decision to cancel this opportunity. Things can get complicated and often do when cultures come together. I had prepared myself to accept failure along with success when I signed on as a cross cultural ambassador, but this was a tough one.


The silver lining was that I had more time to work with another group of girls that I will call the Saturday girls…which I will share in a future blog.

Victoria Falls, or Mosi-oa-Tunya- "The Smoke that Thunders"

Flying in to Livingstone, the pilot alerted the passengers that Victoria Falls, the world’s largest, would be visible to those lucky enough to be seated on the right side of the plane…I was not. I knew it was only a 30 minute drive from Wayi Wayi Studio to the falls, and there would be  ample time to explore it once I was settled in. On my daily walks, I had occasional views of the surrounding countryside, the vast, dry savanna that dominates this section of the sub-Saharan continent. Hovering hundreds of feet into the air hangs a massive plume of mist that marks the falls. To my eyes, it looked like a cloud of industrial exhaust, much  like what I see in the sky west of my home in Vancouver on a cool winter’s day.


A week after I arrived, my chance to view the falls came with an offer from a group of women involved in Global Sojourns Giving Circle, an organization that supports and sponsors girls who are trying to better themselves (and the organization through which I met Lawrence and Agness).  I was invited  to join a busload of girls who come to WayiWayi Studio for free Saturday art classes and a group of girls from a local high school.

Most of the young people of Livingstone have never seen the falls. It is a lengthy walk from the city, along a busy highway. And once there, you can only hear the thunderous roar and see the mist, unless you pay to walk on the falls trail. Most cannot afford it, so the girls were excited to be going and filled the bus with their laughter and singing.

The girls at the falls

The Zambizi River separates Zambia and Zimbabwe at the point of the falls and can be viewed from either country, but most locals will tell you the viewing is better on the Zambian side. After fees were paid, most of the group rented rain slickers at the trailhead, but I declined, having braved many a Northwest rainstorm. I figured a little mist would feel great on a hot day. Big mistake. The trail is carved into a cliff a few hundred yards from the face of the falls, and unlike Niagara or any other falls I have seen, the topography is such that you can walk a good distance in front of the falls as if you were centering yourself in a theater. You look directly at the spectacle in front of you, as cascading whitewater more than a mile wide, drops 350 feet into an unseen chasm far below. And sends another rush of water back up as spray, mist, rain, whatever you might call it that immediately drenches you to the bone. And it is cold.

Crossing the footbridge

 I tried desperately to see the face of my droplet-covered pad screen to record a video of the spectacle and ended up pushing the selfie button by mistake. Later when I reviewed what I had captured, what I saw was a water soaked close-up of me, valiantly panning back and forth, sure that I was filming one for the Ages.

In May the river is near its peak flow, and conversation was nearly impossible through the roar. The girls, having been sufficiently impressed, were soon eager to return to tranquility, and the adults were more than happy to oblige. This required crossing a slippery, narrow footbridge, spanning the depths, as the girls clung to us in semi-panic.

Me, thinking I was getting "the" shot

The hot afternoon sunshine had us dry  and comfortable in a short time, and as we hung around the area reading about the history of the falls, we were visited by resident baboons and monkeys looking for a handout. Our adventure paled in comparison as we read about how Dr. David Livingstone had come upon the falls from upriver in a dugout canoe on his journeys into the heart of the continent.

A litle slice of the falls

The Kiln

The idea of packing the makings for a portable kiln to my destination at WayiWayi studios was one that I struggled with because it involved purchasing and transporting a complex array of equipment and assuming it actually could be set up and become a useful addition to the program once my residency was over. My own limitations of knowledge and experience in kiln building certainly were considerations to think about as well so when I finally got around to asking specific questions about what to take at ceramic supply stores, I was predisposed to be talked out of the venture. That didn’t happen. I was encouraged at every level to go for it and so it came to pass that I became a missionary for the art of Raku and a deciple of kiln-building.

Laying out the kiln site

Raku kilns can be constructed in a variety of ways but I was interested in a low budget affair that did not require brick construction, only a relatively thin shell of insulation (high temperature fiber blanket), a metal cage and a burner device attached to a pressurized bottle gas source. Since Zambia has no art supply stores, let alone ceramic suppliers, I needed to carry the insulation and burner with me counting on being able to find the metal cage and bottled gas locally. By the time I had purchased and packed a variety of other odd accessories related to the kiln and glaze making materials, I was sure that one of the many TSA checkpoints I would need to navigate through would suspect that I was carrying bomb-making equipment, but I arrived with all intact and with much local support began the assembly of the kiln.

 Martin the potter and I with the finished kiln

Lawrence had contacted his friend Martin, a potter who lives in nearby Botswana who was excited about the project and wanted to help. We wired him money and he drove some distance to South Africa to a supply store to purchase kiln shelves, some bricks for the base and some other items. His background and experience was essential to our success. We put our heads together and and through our colaborative efforts were able to figure out how to get the results we were after.

Oscar and Almakyo 

With help from a few other local artists, we assembled the kiln in a few days and Martin, Lawrence and I fired it for the first time. We had some success, we had some failures, but we learned a lot and everyone involved was ecstatic.


Sitting around the kiln while it was firing (as potters are inclined to do) the discussion turned to the history of pottery in Zambia and I learned that the history was far richer than I had imagined. Going back to one of the first archeological finds of African civilizations, at a place called Broken Hill, pottery continues to be associated with human activity in Zambia up to the present time.

 During the colonial occupation, the tradition of pottery making was encouraged and supported in schools across what was then, Northern Rhodesia,  but after independence, lack of funding has rendered most of the ceramic programs inactive. In some rural areas, the traditional pottery makers still produce but the pots are fired in primitive style, with large wood fires and the relatively low firing temperatures make the pots beautiful but fragile and short-lived. Additionally, traditional potters are having to travel longer distances to collect the necessary firewood and are depleting the natural resource and adding stress to thier environments.

Women bring traditional pit-fired pottery to the market

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                               
One of the artists helping with the kiln building, Almakyo Banta, is a student of the Zambian history and happened to have pictures of native Zambian women building large pots that predate National Geographic Magazine. Our talk turned to the concept of building kilns that might be taken to the villages where these women are working and introducing them to the higher temperature firings possible with these portable kilns. The comment was made that if it took four of us two days to construct this kiln, it would take two of us one day to repeat the procedure and a small business (of which Livingstone is rife) could be turning them out in numbers with very little capital investment.
Excitement for the idea has grown as the days go by and as I will be leaving soon, it will be with a thankful heart that I was encouraged to pursue this idea and that the industrious friends I have made will be taking this project forward.

Finished kiln with first load of ceramic pieces

Sunday Morning in Livingtone

If you are planning a trip to visit Zambia and you find yourself in Livingstone on a Saturday night and have no particular plans for the next day, let me recommend going to bed early so you will be up in time for an experience unlike any you will find suggested in a travel brochure. I have been taking casual walks and bike rides through the town in the mornings and afternoons when it is cool.  One Sunday morning I happened to choose a route that put me in a neighborhood that had an extraordinary number of churches.

Now it should be said that Livingstone has churches like American cities have Starbucks…seemingly on every other corner, so what I mean by extraordinary is that I passed by 7 places of worship within a few blocks of each other. Some of them were back to back. None had steeples or stained glass. None had any features at all that distinguished them from any other building in Livingstone, which is dominated by cinder brick, cement and local red brick architecture. Many had no walls, but all of them were filled to capacity with the overflow spilling onto the surrounding grounds. They seemed to be competing for God’s attention with full voices raised in praise and celebration. This was the real deal gospel music like I had only heard in recorded form. All of them were blowing the roof off praising God with amplified accompaniment from any number of instruments. To say Africans love music is an understatement. When large groups gather and love it, it is something to behold.

seven churches within a few blocks and the music fills the air

 

Clay- Heartbreaker & Heartthrob

 I remember a moment when I was with a group of fellow art teachers visiting the Seattle studio of internationally celebrated ceramic artist and professor of ceramic arts, Patti Warashina. She made us all laugh when she suggested to us in her opening remarks that as far as working with clay is concerned, “we shouldn’t even get started. It warps, it cracks, it breaks your heart.” It was hilarious because anyone who has worked with clay has had that moment when all his/her best effort is dashed by a slip of the hand while the clay is in the fragile state of drying, or by an overaggressive temperature climb in the firing, or by some shortcoming in the construction technique that only shows up when the piece is subject to the fire. All who have taught the ceramic arts have had to explain to disappointed students that the kiln gods do not favor one’s good intentions or outstanding personality and character traits. Bad news comes to the worthy and unworthy just the same. So there we were, a group of teachers eager to inspire our students to greatness and expecting to hear encouraging words from an expert who instead, reminded us of what we already knew...ceramics is a hard taskmaster.

So, we ceramic artists and teachers live with a resignation that failures and disappointments come with the territory. I came to Zambia with a plan to use the local clay to work with my own art and the art of the students. When I found out I had access to clay from the banks of a local river, I was thrilled. I immediately began the process of drying, pounding, watering and squishing the clay (using the old-fashioned grape stomping method) into usable form and setting it out in the sun to dry to a workable moisture content.

How we dry clay in Zambia

Several days of intense labor later, after picking out small stones and chunks of organic material, I managed to work up a sizable quantity and was ready to make some art. I was very impressed with the color, texture and workability of this unique Zambian clay. It had just the right amount of plasticity, stickiness and structure to sculpt and throw on the wheel. I created several pieces that first day and set them to dry. I noticed they dried quickly, and as they hardened they seemed to set up like concrete. Very tough and solid. What a find. I loved this clay!

I checked on them regularly that next day and was pleased with the progress right up to the point when they were in the final drying state. Within minutes, they transformed from blissful potentiality to cracked ruin! The love affair was over. I hated this clay.

*#!!Zambian clay

Over the next few days I experimented with a number of techniques to try to make it work, but all ended with the same disastrous results in the final drying state. Then, while preparing for a class, Agness reminded me that I had promised to work up a batch of paper clay to demonstrate, and it hit me…paper clay…I had brought a book on the subject but had forgotten about how impressed I had been with how adding paper pulp to clay gave it unique working qualities. Agness produced a batch of paper pulp (from recycled paper) which I added in varying quantities to the clay mix. And voila! The magic worked…the next batch dried perfectly without a crack….
                                                            I love this clay.

Everybody gets into it

Zambian clay transformed /w paper

Agness the Recycle Queen

Shortly after I arrived, Agness and Lawrence and I made a list of the things that we hoped would be accomplished during my residency. These included: teaching art classes, visiting neighboring schools and orphanages, meeting with interesting people connected to the arts, building a kiln, making my own art, taking trips to important local sights, and doing odd jobs to improve the facility, including putting up some storage shelves for Agness’s collection of recycled art materials. This last item was high on my priority list because I brought with me the gift of carpentry and handyman skills that have taken a lifetime to hone and are fading as I age.

Like most artists, Agness collects things that she feels will someday be useful. She has a large inventory of what most Americans would classify as trash. Since garbage collection vehicles and services are very limited in Livingstone, trash in outlying areas is taken care of by incinerating it or burying it somewhere on the property. What doesn’t get dealt with at the source, ends up accumulating in the public spaces and byways, like in cities anywhere. And, like anywhere, it is a problem that just won’t go away. So people like Agness think outside the (trash) box and try to do their part to make something that has negative value into something that can be cherished.

In her classroom, milk cartons become monsters, pop bottles become rockets or giant pencils, paper plates are transformed into tropical fish. Kudos to Agness for doing her part to transform trash into treasures.
       

cars form cans

Masks from jugs

Pig planter pop bottles

cardboard houses

milk carton minions

detergent bottle fish

                             


   

Elections

Coincidentally, the political election cycle is also upon the nation of Zambia, and the similarities of the process here and back in the US are obvious. The opposing parties take to the streets and airwaves hammering out the message that they alone hold the key to the country’s future, as they scramble, beg and connive to garner every vote.

The president of Zambia, Edgar Chagwa Lungu, took the opportunity to deliver a speech on Freedom Day, a national holiday celebrating the sacrifices of the freedom fighters who fought to gain the country’s independence from white rule. Though English is the dominant language in Zambia, my very American ears are not wired to decipher the accents and colloquialisms, so I miss a lot of the nuance. But as I listened to his longish speech, which he read in measured monotone from a prepared text (sans teleprompter), he paused regularly to look directly at the camera throughout to emphasize one word: Women. He devoted the entire speech to praising the progress of women’s rights under his administration and continuing plans for the future. Wise man…or perceptive man, wise speechwriters.

In my life, I have witnessed successive calls for reform to break the spell of many kinds of oppression and prejudice that we have visited upon ourselves. Each wave reminds us that we are living in a world that is skewed to favor the few, to isolate and disempower the "other." The natives, Blacks, hippies, disabled, gays, trans/ bisexuals.  And now it seems, in Zambia, the spotlight has returned again to the oppression of women.

Each cycle of reform brings us the opportunity to self-examine, to see how we have been unaware or unconcerned. Unquestioned acceptance of the social norm is a blanket we use to cover the reality of our personal prejudice and bias. But the world is changing, evolving with or without our participation or consent. Our species has clearly arrived at a crossroad. Our nest is being reordered, and our politicians are giving voice to the obvious: we will not be going forward without the women.

How Howard Came to be Wired

Knowing that power fluctuates in Zambia, I purchased as a gift, a to-die-for tool set that runs on rechargeable battery packs. I also purchased, as recommended, a universal electrical outlet adapter that can be made to fit any kind of plug one may encounter on one’s universal journeys. After unpacking and sorting out my things, I was very pleased to find that the universal adapter did in fact adapt to Zambia’s exotic outlets and that the gadget even had a couple of USB ports to plug in my electronic devices. After carefully reading the manufacture’s instructions (which I normally avoid doing), I plugged in my battery charger to top up before using the tools. As soon as I turned my back to walk away I heard a nasty sounding pop and turned to see an ominous puff of electrical smoke lofting to the ceiling. This had the effect of putting a damper on my entire operational plan, not to mention my day.

Part of me was frustrated that one quarter of the load I had hauled halfway across the world, fifty-five lbs of expensive gear, had been hauled for nothing. And part of me was crushed that I was not going to be able to amaze my hosts with my equipment. Fortunately, I had had the insight to pack a spare charger, but now I sure wasn’t going to plug the other one in to try again until I could find someone who could explain what had happened. I was a bit embarrassed to ask, but so what!

Howard the electrician

My question was answered the next day by Henry, our resident pretty-much-fix-anything man, who upon reading the fine print, (Okay, so I didn’t read all the manufacturer’s recommendations.) explained that I was now in 220 volt land, and that trying to plug any 110 volt device in here would result in the same kind of fireworks. My universal adapter wasn’t so universal after all. I took a trip to the hardware store only to find they didn’t have the device I needed and had no idea where to find one. All tools in this part of the world were wired to 220 and apparently, I am the rare person who travels the world carrying their own tools from home. I began to suspect that these tools were destined for the boneyard.

Then Howard, the chief electrician for the artist-in-residence facility, showed up at WayiWayi to do all the wiring. I liked him immediately. As I write this blog, he's been working here for about a week. He knows his business and has sure been a major problem solver for me.

Howard thought he knew of a place to find the device I needed to use my equipment. He went into the city to look for it, and after a long search from one store to another without finding it, only being referred to other stores, he showed up some hours later actually holding it in his hand. He had tracked it down! It was the last one available in the city! And I was back in business! Over the next week or so I had occasion to chat with him and, of course, let him borrow some tools.

On the evening he finished the wiring job, Howard returned the charger he had taken to confirm that it was truly blown. It was, but he showed me that he had taken it apart and tracked down the exact piece on the circuit board that was fried. He offered to go back and try to replace those parts to bring it back to life. I declined, saying I had a spare and came from a place where such things were usually just tossed. He told me how much he so had admired the craftsmanship and quality of its design.

Then Howard told me the story of how he had come to be an electrician. He was raised in Muntuwabulongo in a Southern Zambian village without running water or electricity. When he was a small boy a bus rolled into town, and Harold fell in love. He knew in an instant that he was going to go somewhere where he would work with big complicated things. Later, an instructor in a middle school was explaining how an electrical motor worked and had a small motor attached to a bell. When Harold heard the bell go off he said it “jumped into my heart." Actually became his heart. He finished his schooling at the top of his class and has been in love ever since.