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. 

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