A weird new love for the Slovak Christmas

        Rolling to the airport through the maze of the Parisian metro...

I think the song In Your Arms by Meredith Andrews describes very accurately how I am feeling right now… 

It’s December 20 again.

After a tough semester I am finally home bound. It will be my first Christmas in Slovakia after three years. It’s different this time because I am not coming from the States but from France, hence the amount of stress before the trip is almost non existent in comparison with the usual trans-Atlantic flights. 

It’s also different because my attitude towards spending time with my family has changed radically since the last time I went home for Christmas. Coming back to our little village in South Western  Slovakia always used to feel like a chore for me; something that was required of me but that I didn’t liked doing. The reasons for this are several, one being the general atmosphere of family disaccord that often overwhelms the feeling of joy and peace in the air you’d expect in this time of year (those from broken-up homes will understand). Also, I never liked the fuss around Christmas presents and the mistaken idea that the amount and price of the presents you give to each family member testifies about the amount of love you have for them. 

But I think that being deprived of a Christmas dinner with my mom and brothers for two consecutive years and seeing two alternative versions (one year with an absolutely amazing host family and the other with a dysfunctional one) made me understand one thing. Whatever the amount of misunderstanding and pain there might be hovering around in the family circle, I have no right to deny love to my relatives, even at the expense of getting hurt. I am able to do this because, as it goes in another song by JJ Heller, "I will never cry alone". See, there is a love in me that I am learning to experience that is deeper than family disagreements and nervousness, stronger than accusations and anger that spring up like weeds among my relatives and which were deeply rooted in me until recently. It is the love that requires me to forgive, to often forget, to apologize even when the apology will not be accepted, to be vulnerable. I am doing this because I have tried other ways of dealing with the chaos at home and only this one has worked at giving me freedom from the behaviors that make my family run in a vicious cycle. 

This love is highlighted to the whole world every Christmas season by the One who's planted it in me. Therefore I am ever more motivated to live it out with my family, however functional or not, during Christmas. As I said, I am still learning to experience this love that God showed to me, so granted this stay at home will bring about mistakes from my side and perhaps some hurts from the other. But I don't worry because I have forgiveness from my mistakes and a healing for my hurts. That doesn't mean I shouldn't keep loving my fam fully and devotedly. It just reminds me of the refreshing reality that I can't love them by myself.  

With this knowledge and with a new zeal to spend one month with "the ours" as we say in Slovak, let's take off!

The courtship of the Parisian sky

As much as I am terrible at keeping my blog alive, I have to make this super quick post.

I am sitting at the desk in my humble but cozy room, and I can’t help but stare at the sunset yet again. I feel so blessed for having this view. Our tower has 18 floors and I live on the 15^th with a South-Eastern view on the historical center of Paris. Imagine the silhouette of the Mont Martre and the Eiffel Tower in the distance, overwhelmed by the burning cyclamen and orange colors of the setting sun. Actually, you don’t have to imagine... 

                            

                         This is how I was welcomed on the first evening in my new room in October.

                          The amazing thing is that each day the sky dresses up in different colors...

                             ...and that it's gorgeous even on a rainy day like today.

Seeing this every evening after coming back from the bustling, busy downtown, really inspires me to give thanks to God for bringing me here. Getting my nerves soothed daily by the Parisian sunset, that is quite the wonder…

The joy of comfort food

Do you know the sharp, ever present feeling of missing something when you travel? I don't mean the one that tells you that you're missing you family, your dog, your guitar or your boyfriend. I mean the one that screams: "I want my mama's food!" I think all travelers feel it from time to time. I've been documenting my homesickness for Slovak cuisine for a few months so here are some samples. They may seem a bit banal but they really put my heart back into its Slovak place.

 

Sour bean soup of my grandma which ended up tasting quite authentically.

 

Carrot salad à la grandpa. I grew up eating this three times a week and I'm convinced that's why my eye sight has improved from +7 to +0.25 throughout my childhood.

 

French potatoes, Slovak style. Yum.

 

Now, I hope I will get to this level of cooking skill one day. It was made for me by my grandma after I made a surprise visit home in October. Eating this game (buck I think) sauce with dumplings and cranberry jam, I knew I was back on the block.

This one is a random piece of bread I snapped in Zambia. It reminded me of rožok, a type of white-bread roll you can only find in Central Europe. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it brought tears to my eyes.

Here is the imperfect masterpiece of my recently-acquired cooking abilities: perkelt. You may have seen this picture up on the blog earlier when we cooked it in Lusaka with the faithful help of my coworkers. In the previous blog post I called it paprikáš which turned out to be the wrong name. I was corrected by my grandma that paprikáš would require adding cream to the sauce. As you can see, Slovaks are very specific about their ingredients.

I also cooked the traditional potato halušky a few times but unfortunately we ate them before I could take any pictures. Yet another good reason to cook them again.

Just one random visit to Slovakia

A few weeks ago, I decided to make a surprise visit home during my fall break last week.

The reasons were the following:

- It's so much closer to fly home from here than from Raleigh, North Carolina!

- I only spent two weeks with my family in August after not being home for a year. Definitely not much time together.

- A small break was necessary to zone out from the past two months of stress, especially related to my housing situation. I just wanted to lie in my own bed, hug my pillow again and feel like I do have a home somewhere after all (this "where do you feel home" question always gets a bit tricky).

So there I kicked it off at Charles de Gaule!

I got to Vienna around 11pm and it was snowing! But by the time I got to Bratislava it became rainy and slushy...

 

The first surprise came when my little brother came from a party and found me hiding under the blankets. The next morning I surprised my mom (we both cried, but don't tell anyone), my middle brother with his girlfriend, and our neighbors. 

On Monday it was time to see my grandparents. On the way to their house I got reminded that these  fall-colored vineyards that line the hills of our capital are something I always love coming back to see.

We spent a wonderful afternoon together which finished by inviting them to a traditional Slovak restaurant to belatedly celebrate my grandpa's 70th birthday.

Later that week we went to see my other grandma who lives in north-eastern part of Slovakia called Záhorie and who still didn't know I was home. The visit included celebrating All Saints Day together and seeing my cousins in a nearby village.

I took the train back to Bratislava and I couldn't resist to take pictures of the train station. Many of my childhood memories are tied to it so I always feel very nostalgic going through.

  

Saturday was a movie/shopping day with my little brother to celebrate a big milestone- his 18th birthday. He's an adult now! And can get jailed!

We bought him some winter apparel (a school bag and a cool scarf that I was told Slovak guys wear these days), went to see Skyfall and grabbed some McDonald's before going back home. Excuse the cellphone-camera quality and our engaged looks.

And on Monday- sad day- back to Paris after 10 amazing days of surprises and cherishing with my family. Can't wait to see them again in December. Next time it will be for a whole month!

Changing housing

After not even a whole month of living on the outskirts of Paris in La Plaine- St Denis, I am moving to the Parisian quarter of Belleville (known for it's student night life... I don't know if I should rejoice or be concerned :P). It's been a tough struggle to find a decently priced accommodation at the time when Paris gets flooded with new students. I went through this at the end of August when I first came, and this time around it was even more competitive. Fortunately, I already knew where to look (and where not to look!; there are lots of sketchy housing offers online) so it took me "only" three weeks of intensive research (as opposed to two months in the first case) to find a room in a collocation with a family for a miraculous price of 380 euros. The usual price tag for a tiny Parisian studio of 10m2 is 500eur, climbing up to a 1000 euros a month in the more central locations. Blame the French housing bubble.

In brief, the reason for my moving is the high rent (600 euros/month for an almost non-furnished, cold room), the location (St Denis is one of the least favorite banlieux/suburbs in the whole of France) and my landlord's not-so-compatible behavior. I took the room because I didn't know the realities of Paris at the time and because I couldn't find anything else. This experience cost me in terms of nerves and money but it's one big life lesson I will be taking away with me from Paris.

Let's hope Belleville works out better!

*Here we are sharing a light moment with Patrícia, my faithful new-found Slovak sister who helped me with moving, in front of my empty wardrobe.

Arrivée!

I'm in Paris!

After spending 19 hours on a bus from Bratislava, I finally got off at Gallieni with my two oversized suitcases (one of them bursting with food) and a hurting back. I miraculously made my way through the escalator-free metro to Ledru Rollin to my temporary accommodation spot.

The first week I will be staying at Auberge International des Jeunes, a cozy and not pricey student hostel near Bastille. I recommend it to all young and adventurous travelers to Paris who are limited by their budget. It costs me 14 euros a night with breakfast and a nice staff in the high of the tourist season. Each night I get new roommates since I am in a 4-bed room and the people change around. So far I've met a Japanese, three Germans, some British girls and a Norwegian. The whole hostel is bursting with international youth which is definitely an environment I love moving in. Pas grave, eh?

I am exploring the beauties of Paris while looking for an apartment (I spend most of the day hooked up to the internet browsing through petites annonces that are mostly very much above my budget). Visiting the flats takes me to weird parts of town as well, such as the east 18th arrondisement which looks a bit like a post-war zone the closer you move to Gare du Nord. On one side you find bustling streets full of tourists wanting to see Sacre Coeur on Montmartre, one kilometer away you think you're no longer in Paris since most of the buildings are run down and predominantly inhabited by immigrants. There are several parts in the city that I'd definitely not call "tourist-friendly". Not that they don't appreciate tourists. The tourists wouldn't appreciate the lack of high-class glamour in parts like these. In fact, most of Paris' 12 million inhabitants live in places that are not at all chic. It just depends on what kind of Paris one comes to see.

School starts in a week and I'm a bit nervous because I opted out of the Welcome Program (hence I am generally lost in the things academic at Sciences Po) and because all my classes are going to be in French. But it makes me excited with anticipation at the same time. I'll finally get to experience a European university life with all its ups and downs for a whole year!

So here the French university&life journey began.

Opening the heart to the past

I have been wanting to open this red box for some time but I was never physically present to do that.

Throughout the year I was just hoping and praying that my mom wouldn't throw it away (which she tends to do with random boxes when in her cleaning mode).

The contents of the box(es) are very special to me. Trifles, you may say, but special nevertheless. It's a collection of different objects that I've been gathering since I was a teenager. To be honest, I was very cautious opening it. I didn't know what I'd find this time because I rarely dare to look at all the stuff and often chose to pick through it. It has lots of funny and childish things in it, but it brings back some very painful memories as well. However, I have decided this summer that I have to start putting to rest the ghosts of the past and learn to face the things I would much rather erase from the timeline of my childhood.

It's actually quite a nice journey exploring the contents. Among other things, you would find my first paycheck ever (from the Slovak Radio Station where I presented three of my poems as a 10 year-old; shame that my poetic juices have drained since then), a photo of our beloved guinea pigs who are all in the guinea pig heaven now, my old library passes (I was a bookworm big time until about 16), butterfly stickers, a pocket mirror, twinkling pencils and similar girly accessories. Some stuff I never liked picking up (but I kept it for some reason anyways), such as a bunch of keys from the house where my dad lived with his girlfriend and where we used to go for visits, or a few passport pictures of myself as a 12 and 13 year-old that I hated looking at until recently. I always thought I was ugly and disgusting, and that it was a reason for why I was bullied at school. Looking at the same pictures now, I can see a beautiful young girl who believed her and her surroundings' lies, with sad eyes that could cry at any moment but are well-hidden behind those uncool glasses and a semi-convincing smile. It pains me to see myself looking so beat down and with so little self-esteem, but I thank God now that I see how far He's taken me since then and how He taught me to love myself so that I can in turn love those who bullied me and not hate them anymore.

The main reason for opening the box, however, was the treasure of every teenage girl, my journals. I buried lots and lots of information about how I coped with the good and bad things that came after my life got a different spin just before my 10th birthday. I had a very "writer friendly" stage between 13-14 years when I produced 5 or 6 journals, most of them filled cover-to-cover. That was when I loved reading L.E.Blair's Girl Talk, a 90s paperback series about five high schoolers who were each keeping a journal. Of course I had to do the same. And thankfully so! It's a great way to spy on memories, many of which I have largely suppressed. Then there were 2 years of silence when I was angry with the world and thought writing journals was for kids. I regret not keeping track of what was going on with me then, because it was quite the spectacle (I think my mom can talk to you about it). But I sobered up and discovered at 17 that keeping a journal is actually a very mature thing to do. It helps me make sense of what's happening in my head and in the world around me, and it serves as a sort of a chronicle I keep for myself and others in the years to come.

Amazing how a single box can tell so much about a person. Now I understand why my grandma gets so excited when we are sorting boxes of her old photographs or why my mom gets all nostalgic unwrapping Christmas decorations from the attic. Every object we own has a piece of our history attached to it, and it's up to us to keep some of them so they can remind us of the sad and happy stories we can talk about to our older selves and to the ones walking along with us.

A traveler's miracle

Let me tell you, my traveling luck is quite a spectacular one. Sometimes the trip works out smoothly, but for the past years the balance hasn’t been so much on the formidable side. In short, I lose bags, I lose flights, and I lose money. I comfort myself by saying that one day my air travels will make for amusing stories to my grandchildren. I used to absolutely love flying, people watching in all those big airports and making friends on the plane, but then some bizarre things happened to me while traveling. Ever since then I am a bit fidgety each time I fly since I subconsciously expect something bad will happen. Well, as I said, bad things don’t happen always, and I am now learning to appreciate even the bad that I stumble through (e.g. realizing that I can live pretty comfortably for a month without the clothes that I thought I needed so much since they had to be left at home after I’ve missed my check-in). 

However, I am grateful to God that this time around I don’t have to “praise Him in the storm”. Instead, I can thank Him for a safe and hiccup-free journey from Lusaka all the way to Vienna (at this point I am still sitting in Cairo airport so anything could happen, but I am living by faith :D). I have to confess that I am not a master at Philippians 4:5 (you will love it if you like incredible challenges), where Paul gives the advice not to be anxious about a single thing but instead rejoice, rejoice (he actually said it twice), pray and give thanks to God while being honest about what I need. He attached a great promise (which is good for one’s blood pressure as well)- the peace of God surpassing all my understanding, will guard my heart and mind. Simply put, don’t stress and you won’t stress! Understand why I’m not that good at it? Trying to worry about my flight leaving on time (or leaving at all), my luggage being handled by some elusive airport staff, what I’ll watch and eat during the flight, the weather forecast for my destination and the rest of the globe I’ll be covering, digesting all that at once can give you a bit of a headache. No wonder I need some supernatural dose of peace. I tried inducing it by myself but it rarely works.

So, my lesson. I spent my 10-hour layover in Cairo praying, thanking God for the journey so far, and taking deep breaths to kill the physical stress and the anxiety over whether I will have to pay 150 euros for my 2^nd piece of checked luggage. But of course I did other fun stuff as well (for those who might not find praying and mental exercises amusing- I understand you); I also surfed the Internet, read and explored the airport. My mind got distracted from the stress and I actually enjoyed the day!

I liked this billboard in one of the airport halls. Although I don't appreciate classifying one people as 'the greatest' (it's been here a few times in the past and you know what it caused), it's nice to commemorate a revolution in this way.

When I finally went to the Austrian Airlines representative to pick up my last boarding pass of the trip, I was praying some more and singing in my head, only to learn that nobody cared about my second bag and that I was free to board my plane to Vienna. So I can say it worked! 

Four and half hours later, I am hugging my crying mom and two crazy brothers whom I haven’t seen for a year. What a miracle!

Wrapping my mind around it

Sitting at Johannesburg’s O.R. Tambo International Airport, I realize that those 11 weeks, or almost 3 months of my stay in Zambia, are now officially over. I looked forward to it so much literally for years, and now it’s done in a snap of a finger. It’s amazing how the time flies when you’re enjoying yourself. I guess that’s why people say that life is short. At this speed, my life is quite the highway!

I’m realizing that it’s very difficult to make sense of what all has happened when it’s still so recent. Maybe for the sake of my friends and family asking me right off the runway “So how was Zambia?!” expecting a concise, one-line answer, I should create a provisionary summary of this trip. “It was awesome!” shouldn’t do it; I would do injustice to my hosts and the host country by summing it up in the most overused word in the English dictionary. But how to phrase it?

It was different. It was challenging (I wouldn’t lie saying this; I just forgot the word for challenging in Slovak). It was a learning experience; I learned a lot about Zambia, its people, my best friend, and most importantly, I learned a ton about myself. A sample of the latter would include: getting reaffirmed that I have a hard time staying idle (at work, in my spare time, even when I’m sick), being wary of making friends with men (sad, not very convenient, and something I have to work on), or the tendency to change my accent depending on the social setting (e.g. work, the immigration office, the plane, in-country travel, chilling with friends). Another interesting one is that I might not be able to see myself working for an NGO long-term in the future. A post about that might come a bit later. I think this thought still needs a lot of intellectual and practical scrutiny, but it seems like I might not be headed in the NGO direction. But as I say, don’t take my word for it yet.

I think figuring out what has happened to me, with me, and maybe even through me during the time I have spent in Zambia will take some weeks, or even months. It might be like peeling back an onion; first I will notice the (teeny weeny) tan when I contrast my arms to my brothers’, then the change in my English when I speak to other international students in Paris, and then things will start surfacing about a change on the inside- my worldview, my reasoning, my understanding of the issues Zambian, Southern African, African and global. And on the deepest level I hope to discover a spiritual change that I’ve experienced. I flew in to Zambia knowing that it wouldn’t be possible without my “Sponsor in the sky”. I also knew that He allowed me to go there for a reason. Reflecting back on these three months over a period of time will help me understand the reasons, and see the results. Results in me, and also in those who I spent time with. Because spreading His sponsorship to others is what it’s all about for me :)

I snapped this one my last day in Mpika. I love the colors. It reminds me of autumn, the transition between two seasons. Right now I am similarly transitioning from a season in Zambia to a new one in France. And it's great to be transitioning through my tiny home town.

Tingly feet

Be has had her first experience of the foot spa!

Let me tell you about it.

It was warming up in the hallway and making a humming sound, and she was scared to pass by it for fear it might do something to her. She only got convinced it's safe to pass after consulting it with her grandma, her main advisor/authority around here. Sure enough Munty and I made her try it!

We had to leave it on the lowest vibration and she was more than happy with one minute of food massage. But watching her count the bubbles and monitor everything was priceless. I don't think she particularly liked the tingly feeling on her soles but she experienced another one of the 'strange city things'. Too cute!

On flying wheels, soon again.

Just thought I'd upload a simple travel map of my upcoming trip home. I can't- can't- can't believe it's been 3 months already! This Sunday afternoon I'm taking off at Kenneth Kaunda in Lusaka to transfer twice (in Johannesburg and Cairo) until I get off on Monday evening at Vienna Int Airport to be driven home by my sweetest family whom I'll see after a year.

Yay!

The charm of power cuts

At first I was annoyed when ZESCO, the main Zambian electricity company, would cut power every other evening (during prime food time!) for two hours. I was annoyed mainly because I have ignored the wise advice of my friends who suggested that I purchase a flashlight (or a torch as they call it around here) before I head out to Zambia. I decided that I won’t stereotype and won’t expect regular power shedding as I often hear is the case in many African countries. Well, three months in, the cuts are now as haphazard as ever, both in timing and length, and I still haven’t purchased a torch. I guess I “got used” (another Zambian phrase :). And I’ve also discovered positives about evening blackouts.

It’s true that without power at night the TV is off and one can’t even read to pass time. Some would grump and be bored, sitting around or napping in the dark, and initially I was also. But later, I realized that I can get to know my host family better in moments like these. We are ‘forced’ to talk much more when the TV is off (and the candles offer the only light), and the conversations teach me a lot about the family relationships and culture in general (that is, when I understand what’s being talked about in between the Lozi and Tonga phrases). The fact that we’re talking by the candlelight creates a special atmosphere. We also play games (Monopoly is Munty’s favorite- she's quite business-spirited; I prefer Scrabble- I hear that's a typical nerd trait), joke around and just relax. What a bonding.

But yes, we always rejoice when the fuse box clicks back. We can finally finish cooking supper.

It all came together Part 1: Inquire. At all cost.

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Following up on my previous post, with joy and extreme relief in my heart I can announce that both the immigration and the University of Zambia issue are now officially solved.

First, about the visa extension. (Disclaimer: It's not as serious as the title suggests)

I have paid the last visit to the Immigration Department the Thursday before I left for Mpika. After waiting for some time for the Accounts manager, I was finally given my temporary employment permit- a green, passport-sized book with a stamp granting me business engagement longer than I originally asked for- until late September. But before the officer handed it to me, she said that the boss wanted to talk to me. I was a bit surprised but thought that she might just have some additional questions since I showed up at the Department some five times.

Questions she had! 

She told me that the officers have filed a report that I’ve been rude to them. She also accused me of calling one of them “rubbish”. I gasped for air and couldn’t believe my ears. Instead of them apologizing me for the incompetent treatment of applicants (I wasn’t the only immigrant being spoken to arrogantly during my visits), I was supposed to apologize for something I hadn’t even done. As calmly as I could, I told her that I didn’t cuss anyone out since,

1) I don’t use the word rubbish even on a regular basis (it’s British English),

2) I find cussing cowardly since one can’t express his/her opinion about a person in an intelligent way.

I also explained that I didn’t come to her country to offend people, especially not government officials, and it didn’t even make sense for me to be rude since I wanted my application to be processed fast and without any controversies.

But since she gave me the opportunity to speak out, I told her my view on the officers’ arrogant attitude, and how I felt they mistreated other applicants as well (I witnessed that each time I was waiting there for someone to attend to me).

     That is the fateful door. 32.

I try to understand why in fact I was called into the boss’ office. Looking back, I don’t think I have said or done anything that could offend an officer who is well equipped to assist and answer applicants’ questions and concerns. Maybe I asked too much, or maybe just the mere fact that I asked bothered them. Maybe they thought that by calling this young and apparently inexperienced foreigner to the Director’s office they would teach me a lesson or two about being (overly) inquisitive. I can say I have learned my lesson. I will keep on being nosy. Respectful, but nosy nevertheless. I followed all lawful procedures and paid them $300 in fees (which I still can’t get over- I don’t get paid, I’m a student, and the NGO I am affiliated with is non-profit and not really lush with cash; where am I supposed to find the money?). So I see it appropriate and my right to ask questions and have them answered politely (just tell me if you don’t know).

I was leaving the Pensions House for the last time that day (I pray and believe so!), feeling a bittersweet sense of victory. After a 2 month-long hunt I got my papers and am no longer an illegal immigrant. At the same time, I felt humiliated and offended by literally the whole Department turning on me. But I can conclude that it was a good experience. Next time I will brace myself better. And ask more.

Not in a good mood, but...

I know it’s dangerous to write posts when one is ‘emotionally unstable’ (in other words a bit angry/annoyed/frustrated, as I am right now) but I will give it a try anyways. I was told that blogs are about expressing the real experience, not a sugar-coated version of it, even if it implies that one has to be a little less objective while describing a particular situation. At the end of this not so pleasantly written post however, I will express a glimpse of hope that keeps me holding on to seeing the cup as half full and the present challenges. So here I go...

It’s not easy to be here by myself. Although I am affiliated with an NGO, they are not in charge of my legal status or overlooking the progress of my study. As such, I am an 'independent unit', having to swim through the raging seas of American and Zambian immigration and scholastic administration alone. Sometimes, I hit a rock. And sometimes I keep hitting it.

I will be honest with you and tell you that when people back home ask me about my trip, I will not talk about Zambia, or at least Lusaka, with the wild optimism characteristic of lots of globally engaged young student souls. My experience so far has been rough in terms of trying to solve issues that urgently need solving, and it is making me aware of many downsides in the local work ethic. But hey, I've been learning that in Slovakia for the past 22 years. So I guess it's just the surprise that I found a similar system here.

I am halfway done with my study on rural-urban migration, but I am still missing the UNC Internal Research Board’s approval that would enable me to legally conduct my research. I am hence violating the IRB’s regulations (which makes this a quite bold public confession that I hope will not be read by anyone from the actual Board). The reason for this is that I cannot receive a simple, half-a-page recommendation from a Zambian faculty member which would validate to UNC that my study is ethically okay in Zambian standards (i.e. not offensive or disturbing to the local population). I have tried it through various channels where I was sometimes asked to pay exorbitant sums to have my approval reviewed, or referred to this or that other faculty member who is usually too busy to reply to his missed calls, let alone write and sign a letter. But to sympathize with him, they've been having a crazy schedule publishing semester exam results.

Another, and perhaps the most annoying issue I am dealing with, is the impasse at the immigration. I paid 4 mostly useless visits to the downtown regional office in hopes of having my business visa extended until August. The first time I went there was a month ago, shortly before my visa expired. From then on I’ve been trying to put my documents together, get the payment ready ($300 for an NGO temporary employment permit makes it almost $400 when I consider the first visa fee I paid before traveling to Z) and wait and wait and wait for them to pick up my application and actually work on it. I waste time, money and energy calling the office, traveling downtown and missing work again and again, but especially dealing with the officers’ attitude. At first I thought it was only one worker but after having the privilege of cruising through different offices I concluded that the whole department must have an issue with dealing with people politely. Asking questions and demanding an explanation are obviously not welcomed, judging from their arrogant replies and indifferent looks. It raises my pulse each time I think of the Pensions House (where the immigration dept is found). 

With faith and prayers, I am going to the Immigration again tomorrow to finally pick up my employment permit. Hopefully, I will also receive the study recommendation from a Dean at the University of Zambia later in the day. I would be very happy to have all of this done before I leave for Mpika on Sunday where I will be staying for a week. But even if not, I know that these things are teaching me a life lesson, and that although ‘all discipline seems painful at the moment’, one day I will be able to say that in the realms of bureaucracy I have grown since this summer.

So wish me good luck tomorrow :)

Found your other pair of TOMS!

I always wondered where that free pair of TOMS shoes goes once you purchase the quite pricy pair in the US. Well, I guess I found it :)

I've been seeing many kids walking around Lusaka to school in TOMS. I sneakily snapped this picture at a hairdresser's shop in the Ngombe slum where I noticed the shoes on these twin girls (there are tons of twins in Zambia by the way). In the current dusty conditions (or muddy in the rainy season), and especially walking and playing in the often trashed streets of Ngombe, having a pair of shoes is essential to avoid cuts and contracting foot parasites.

I surfed around a little bit to find out how the kicks get to their owners, and I found some interesting info on TOMS Zambia website. Thousands of TOMS shoes are distributed every year to children in both rural and urban communities in Zambia via partnership with World Vision.

I have met many people here who were forced to walk to school barefooted, especially those growing up in the village. My friend Paul Walia, who currently runs a school for orphaned children in Kabanana, used to walk 30 kilometers to and from school every day for 9 years with no footwear. Initiatives such as TOMS help kids get education and avoid foot injuries on a daily basis. Amazing how a pair of shoes bought in the States can go that far. It surely makes your step in TOMS much lighter.

Hi, I have sent you airtime. Stay blessed.

I figured out that one of the ways Zambian guys sometimes try to gain your favor is by sending you airtime. That means getting prepaid calling minutes and sending them to you through their phone. You can also buy them in a form of a slip of paper in the street. There are Airtel, MTN and Zamtel agents everywhere, even on the traffic circles (more locally correct is roundabouts), trying to sell you slips with 1000, 5000, 10 000 or more thousand kwatcha for your phone. But the method of sending a small "token of goodwill" is a popular technique among guys trying to earn the ladies' favor.

I met a guy at our office, Godfrey, who works at the municipal water management office in the same building.  I think he figured that I was alone and so he came to make small talk with the stranger he saw coming to Cobaco every day. We talked, and I let him know quite clearly that I am "taken" and that I didn't come to Zambia to find a husband. In my naive kindness I gave him my number anyway, just so we can stay friends. However obvious it may seem to the reader, back then I didn't understand that giving an older man (he was in his 30s) your phone number means expressing your interest in more than just a friendship. Maybe it works that way everywhere. But oh well, I just like making friends too much.

Long story short, Godfrey ended up sending me airtime two or three times. It was interesting since Zambian girls around me would get airtime sent to them from their boyfriends or very good friends (airtime is expensive as everything for Kabananans), not from men they talked to once and only for five minutes. These airtime gifts were also accompanied by sending texts and calling me late at night (I refused to pick up), and by trying to make long conversations on phone about things I didn't really want to chat about. I sent him a respectful yet sobering text asking him to kindly stop "courting" me, and that's where the story ended. A similar story happened the first week of my stay with a certain Mr Kakana, who stopped by the road offering to give me a lift (yet again, in my ignorant willingness to "be friends" I gave him my phone number). That time wasn't accompanied by sending me airtime, but the late night calls (which I didn't answer either) happened nevertheless.

Simply, I found out that giving out my phone number just to anyone is not the smartest choice. Unless I want free airtime and creepy calls at night.

Crossing over

I’ve officially crossed over into the second half of my stay in Zambia with 5 weeks left in front of me. I’ve been having an amazing time here. I learn a new thing or two every day by observation, interaction and reflection.

The past week has been a little slower since I’ve been waiting for my boss to help me with some immigration papers (I have to extend my business visa), but I managed to go to work at least on Monday. On the way back from work, we snapped these pictures with Gerald and Harrison. I’ve already posted a picture of a bridge that I cross through every morning. This “bridge” is another way of getting to and from Kabanana. It’s actually a water pipe and we’re officially prohibited from crossing there, but I wanted to get a taste of how the locals cut their way short.

Don’t tell anyone!

Hmm...

I eventually made it through- and will surely do it again!

Miss Be

I have been a bit silent lately for the absence of a cheap internet caffe, but I decided to post at least one snapshot for the refreshment.

Below is one of the best friends I made so far in Lusaka. Her name is Be (short for Bertha) and she's turning 6 shortly. She came to live with us together with her grandmother (Munty's aunt) for a few months to learn English. In her home town of Mongu she only speaks Lozi, and she's super passionate to pick up on English so that she has it easier at school once she's enrolled. It's challenging but fun to try to communicate in English while she responds in Lozi. I think I'm discovering the underestimated value of body language, particularly smiling. Can you resist not answering her?

Cooking a Slovak paprikáš in a Zambian kitchen

With me recovered from the pseudo-malarial illness, we ventured to Rhoda’s house to finally tackle the challenge of preparing a true Slovak dish for my co-workers. Some Hungarians might argue with me abour the ownership of the original recipe but let’s put cross-border culinary fights aside and say that whatever the country of origin, paprikáš is one of Slovakia’s favorite dishes.

I wasn’t sure about the recipe since I didn’t get to internet to look it up online but I had to improvise and cook/taste by memory. The dish itself is quite simple but adding the right amount of spice (especially paprika) is the main point.

You can find the actual recipe here.

I prayed through the process that my cooking intuition guides me to a successful result. A few times, I got a fright tasting the sauce and thinking it was too salty, but then I remembered that the limits for saltiness here are very different from those back home (in fact, even the sweetness threshold is quite high). I had three great helpers in the kitchen-Rhoda, Elizabeth and Grace- all of which did a great job, especially preparing the halušky, or Slovak dumplings. Although the dough is quite simple to make (egg, flour, water and salt), estimating the right consistency and forming the little dumplings can be a challenge. We mastered it well, and had enough of them for everyone to taste.

Rhoda making halušky with excellent precision 

Paprikáš!

We had some curious and hungry participants roaming around.

Final result- stomachs being filled

I omitted cooking cream since it is impossible to get in our local Spar or in the Kabanana market (I assume Zambians don’t cook with it as often as the dairy-obsessed Slovaks do). Talking about the market, it was the fourth one that I’ve been to in Lusaka. The other ones were Chipata, the huge Soweto (inspired by the Johannesburg’s namesake) and Ngombe. From all of them, Kabanana market was special for the names people called me by (apart from the obvious muzungu). The two I noticed were Diana and Maria. I assume that the former may be coming from Princess Diana.For Maria…my guesses would be that I look like a character from one of the ever-watched Brazilian or Philippinotelenovelas. Another interesting thing was to hear the flour and spice sellers who I bought ingredients from say: ‘No keep change?’ I said ‘No, no keep change’ which obviously disappointed them, and I went on to explain that I need change money just like they do. I don’t think they were convinced.

I can pronounce that the final result was delicious, and tasting almost exactly like the paprikáš that my grandma prepares. 

PS: A big lesson that I learned through this improvised yet tasty experience was that I shouldn’t be afraid of the cooking. As the saying goes, where there is a will, there is a way -- especially for dishes that none else in the kitchen knows apart from me and there is no general expectation other than not getting a running stomach afterward. And, as my grandma likes to say, in the worst case the dogs will eat it. Now I am ready to experiment with another Slovak culinary wonder.