Solwezi was kindly dubbed recently by the Peace Corps Zambia
security officers as the “El Dorado” of Zambia due to its boom town atmosphere;
uncontrolled growth rates mixed with a complete lack of urban planning that
lead to a dust-ridden conglomeration of Zambian tribes and immigrants from
Congo and other sub-saharan nations squatting in shantytowns hoping to make it
rich from the recent mining boom.
The savory assortment of people apparently lends itself to higher crime
rates, as well as increased congestion and pollution.
That said, there’s a little oasis in the center of it all .
. . a place where everyone knows your name. A place Scott and I travel over 400 km to from our quaint
forested village to access WiFi, an amazing book/video/DVD collection, and a taste
of modernity with the sometimes-working hot shower and oven. It’s a place where you hear accents
from the Midwest to the Deep South to small towns on the East Coast and
everywhere in between, and it’s perfectly okay to talk fast American English
without feeling culturally insensitive.
It’s perfectly okay to sport flip flops and jeans by day and costumes of
gangsta rappers or fairy princesses (depending on the occasion) at night. It’s at this very special place where
you can have a 3-course community dinner one evening and potato chips and
garden vegetables the next. Ideas
grow, bonds form, people ponder the future and the meaning of life more than
almost anywhere in Real America, except possibly a college dorm room. Board
games spiral into bets on whether the group will watch re-runs of “Sex in the City” (no TV stations here) or
stay in and dance to 80’s music in the lower house while gracefully playing
some rendition of ping-pong that involves dozens of red plastic cups. Walking dogs involves braving the dusty
roads of El Dorado with wide-eyed locals move all the way to the other side of the road to
let you pass and throwing sticks at the stray mutts while fending off marriage
propositions. Singing bad karaoke
to “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and actually dancing with somebody who you
just met five months ago but now doesn’t mind if you belt it out in their ear
and then crash on their lap.
Living in a land of backpack cubbies and personal belongings cubbies and
individual food cubbies and bunk beds gracefully strewn with mosquito
nets. Expletives, complaints, and
compliments are thrown around with equal force like multiple flavors of candy
at parades. Late-night crunches to
finish the latest Peace Corps quarterly electronic report just in time for the
power to go out rendering the wireless router ineffective just before hitting
the “send” button, but that’s okay because this is Africa and there’s always
tomorrow. Slip ‘n slide on the
back lawn on a hot day and bonfires on a chilly evening. Saying goodbye twice a years to people moving on with the next stages in their lives. Finding treasure like a solar shower,
water filter, sweet chitenge pants, or a bottle of shampoo that the last group
of volunteers didn’t have room to bring home. Spending endless hours staring at walls decorated with
hand-painted murals, quotes about the meaning of life and incriminating photos. Did I mention dancing? Opening up and sharing secrets of the
past, fears for the future, and tears for the present day’s frustrations. Cooking Mac ‘n cheese, fajitas, pumpkin
bread and brownies where people actually can appreciate that you just paid twice
as much for processed cheese or chocolate than you ever would in America. Congolese beers and South African
Ciders, gin and tonics with a lime removed from the outside tree with a large
bamboo pole—how many tries did that take?
Hot tea with on cold June mornings and iced tea on the back porch while
learning that your nearest neighbor just spent the last 6 hours in the back of
a broken cantor truck on the side of the road. But now it’s no problem because you’re both at the oasis and
all you can do is laugh about and curse Zambia at the same time. Meetings about village events and how
to mobilize youth and wow . . . maybe I can get my women’s club to sell
chitenge purses just like my awesome Peace Corps neighbors. How we can change the world one person
at a time by supporting libraries, education, health care and farming on a good
day and learning together that maybe the biggest part of the world that needs
to be changed is our own expectations and perceptions. Less-heady conversations about farts
and sex and the inevitable GI illnesses and what kind of Iphone just came out in America anyway? Will we even be able to use one of
those things when we go back?
Yes, in the same oasis I’ve laughed until I’ve literally
peed my pants and cried on a person’s shoulder who was a complete stranger just
months prior. I’ve tripped over
people’s stuff thrown around the floor, lost many of my own personal items in
“the abyss” and handwashed more dishes than I ever thought possible. I’ve talked to, cooked with, clashed
with, shared clothes with and cuddled with the 30+ people who also use this
house and can’t hesitate for more than even a second to now call my
friends. Yeah, call it a frat or a
cult, and definitely leaps and bounds from the life a 30-something married professional
woman was living just 2 short years ago, but the oasis of El Dorado is a place
I’m happy to call my home . . . at least a few days a month. And When I go back to Real America,
along with the village life and travel stories, I’ll carry home memories of the
Oasis of El Dorado that will live forever in the Peace Corps friends I’ve made
here.
