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