Village Life- Part One

Now was time for a true test.

After 10 days of navigating through Zambia as tourists, arriving late for every complementary breakfast, sleeping in beds with freshly-washed white sheets with boxed mosquito nets and interacting with friendly, affluent Zambians, we departed the capital city and rode 12-hours north on the night bus to Stefan's village of Mwanachama, in Luapula Province.

By day, the bus station in Lusaka operates like an open-air market, teeming with hawkers selling sunglasses and belts stampeding through the crowd on puddle-filled dirt ground, while stationary sellers sit behind their undercover booths filled with shampoos, hair-dye, cell-phones, batteries and various other black marketed first world items. By night, the square block has an eery resemblance of a colorfully choreographed concentration camp: Zambians lying closely together, sleeping underneath brightly-printed blankets covered so tightly around their figures they look like body bags. Once our bus rolled in and we gathered our luggage from underneath, we carefully stepped over them all to reach the main road.

Though most volunteers regard hitchhiking the 12-hours north to be the ultimate traveler's experience, the bus ride with Peace Soldier was one in itself.  I’ve been on many a long, overnight bus during the past eight months, but none could be matched with the ripe scent of freshly shat-in pants that is Peace Soldier’s trademark.

Stefan and I were taking turns cracking open the window and catching whiffs of fresh air, while Zambian pop-gospel (“Zampop”) music videos were stuck on repeat for the entire length of the journey. Forget sleeping on the night bus. We decided after this ride that we better part with the company, lest we needed a night bus again.

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After the bus ride and taking a taxi at 4 am to the Peace Corps Provincial house in the town of Mansa, about 20 kilometers from Stefan’s village, the driver insisted that Stefan pay him in exact change.

“I don’t have it, can I owe you, say, tomorrow? You can have my cell phone number,” Stefan pleaded.

“Alright, I will call you now now so you have my number. I will come by in the morning,” the driver replied.

Three hours later, at about 7 am, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer comes knocking on the door of the room we were staying in.

“Uhhh...hey man…sorry. There’s some guy outside, he says you owe him some money.”

Stefan jumped out of the mosquito net. How was he supposed to already have exact change by now? He went to negotiate with the driver, and I assume ask a volunteer to help him out.

“Strange and irrational,” I laughed. I just might come to like this culture.

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That same day Stefan and I took off on our mountain bikes just before sundown, headed for his village. While I was a bit nervous to ride on the incline under the hot African sun for so long, the trip proved to be pleasurable—for the most part.

The faded red-dirt road contrasted with the early blooming stalks of maize and the occasional passer-by under a perfect blue sky equated to a perfect bike ride—the type city-dwellers lust for, I’m sure. There are no traffic laws.

But once we rode nearer to the village, outside of their respective huts where ya mayos (mothers) were preparing dinner, the kids began to multiply and chase after us. They held out their clenched fists and began screaming, “Jah man! Jah man!”

I jumped from calm to overwhelmed in a matter of seconds. “What are they talking about??” I yelled to Stefan.

“It’s a little joke I play with the kids while I’m passing by,” Stefan told me. “They yell ‘Jah man!’ and I give them daps.”

I tried to extend out my fist while little kids punched me, some as hard as they could. (I hadn't yet learned that part of the game was pulling back my fist, meaning "I won!") And once I pulled my fist back in for good to gain control of my bike again and steer clear of the potholes, the kids just punched my arms, while I stood there astounded and tried not to recoil. 

This would serve as an introduction to what I found most overwhelming about village life: Biking through the bush while little barefoot kids ran after us, attempting to latch onto  the backs of our bikes screaming ,“Jah man!”

Further along in our stay Stefan realized, after a fateful day when I’d just had it. From the corner of my eyes I saw the kids lurk from their front "yards." I knew what was coming. Once the kids started pushing the back of my bike, without giving it much thought I came to a screeching halt. I turned around, and with a deep-throated yell, I let out, “FUMAPAAA! (Leave!).” Causing Stefan to stop a few meters ahead, turn around, and start belting out in laughter.

So we developed a system. Stefan would ride ahead and stop, attract the kids’ attention, while I whizzed past and he eventually followed. It worked out pretty damn well.

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