Cindy Crawford Sips Turkish Coffee

The last week has been a blur, probably because I was sick for most of it. This was disappointing because I had only 10 days this month to do all the work that had piled up on me while I was away in Lusaka to get a filling fixed (extended by a quick mini-break to Luapula). I’m recovering nicely after some serious caretaking by incredibly kind American (Nebraskan) missionaries who stay 8k down the road from me, but I’m still quite tired and on my way out on another adventure. This week I’m traveling to Northern Province for a project related workshop and will then spend the weekend at Lake Tanganyika with a few PCVs.

In my last blog I talked about procrastinating my trip home. I felt too tired to have the same conversation I have with nearly every wonderful person who picks me up off the side of the road and offers free transportation in exchange for a pleasant chit chat, yet was unwilling to pay the high fee to take a miserably packed and horribly heated bus ride. Thus, I didn’t make it to the edge of town until mid afternoon—a bit late for traffic headed my direction. Fortunately, a dear friend and fellow PCV lives on the road about half way home so I knew that in an emergency I can always crash at his ‘bachelor pad’—a very artistic studio version of the standard mud hut. The first two legs of the trip were really uneventful as passers by allowed me to share car space with them, but I started my Alice in Wonderland journey into stardom as the sun started to hang low and I flagged down a road construction big rig.

A few weeks ago a wonderfully jolly man from Serbia who helps manage a road crew laying tarmac from Solwezi to Mufumbwe offered us a ride half way to Solwezi and we chatted about all the cultural challenges we face in Zambia. (By the way, road work in Mufumbwe may be the greatest news ever. I will have a solid paved road to my house in January!!!Tra la la la la! Oh cycling bliss!) Although he is a solid forty years my senior, I decided immediately he would be a friend because of his great laugh. The big rig I flagged down on this particular afternoon was part of his company and was traveling to their camp, half way home for me. After dropping my new Serbian friend’s name and looking very forlorn and foreign, the driver agreed to smash me into a seat with another chatty fellow and a young woman holding the most terrified 6 month old baby I’ve ever seen. He was so round I couldn’t resist trying to touch him, but any time I looked his direction he wailed about the monster.

It was obvious that I would never find transport all the way home that evening, so the big rig agreed to take me to my friend’s house to check and make sure I could crash there and then take me to the camp and find out if any of the other managers would drive to Mufumbwe the next morning. As we pulled into D’s ‘driveway’ I hopped out to affirm I could stay and after a few minutes discussion walked back to discover that about fifty people were actually on the back of the big rig patiently waiting for me to take care of my business. They cheered a little for me on my return. I felt like royalty—not in the Princess Di way of being altruistic and adored, but more in the Paris Hilton way of being fatuously self-centered and watched.

We rolled into the camp and I was led to a large picnic table where a lively conversation came to a truly abrupt stop. 10 Serbian men put down dainty little tea cups and stared for a horrid minute when I felt sure I had trespassed something sacred. Fortunately, my Serbian friend remembered me and came and introduced me to the rest of the crew and brought me out the best cup of Turkish coffee (with milk and sugar!) I’ve ever tasted. After an awkward ten minutes of sipping coffee at a silent table, he assured me that he and his crew would help me with transport any time I needed and then he went out to his truck and gave me my own special Turkish coffee grounds that he had bought for the next time he saw me waving pathetically for a ride. (Aside: The instructions are in Arabic, so I’m currently guessing on the water/coffee ratio and cooking time when I’m at site. My neighbor Kevin and I often split this responsibility so as to halve the blame if its dreadful. We are, however, both so starved for coffee that it doesn’t seem to really matter how it turns out even if it looks and tastes like proper silt).

I realize now that the silence at the table was primarily due to language barrier and shock at my sudden appearance. (I sometimes forget that Mufumbwe really is pretty bush.) The next morning one of the crew faithfully picked me up and gave me cough drops for a slight cold I picked up in Luapula—I must have coughed a few times the day before. As we toured the road crew sites dropping items at each point until we reached the boma, I was greeted with fabulous smiles and soft drinks and sweeties. My new friend said, “Well, we never see white women here. Its a holiday.” I want a banner: Frizzy Haired Champion of Prairie Chic turns Supermodel. Bizarre.

Things turned sour when I reached home and began sleeping 20 out of 24 hours a day and every muscle in my body thought it had run a marathon or two. Fortunately, after lots of TLC I am prepared to take on the next surreal adventure.

Thanks to everyone who continues to send letters and packages. 9 months (and 200 days at site!) into service its great to know that the connections to home are still strong. I love and miss you all.