Back to Nairobi & flying to Zambia: Days 9 & 10

Last night we camped for the last time – this time in a fenced campsite complete with a bar.  No need for headlamps and scanning, here.  We sat in a circle around the fire eating dinner, and our guide asked us our most and least favourite parts of the trip.  I find such exercises silly, for how can I sum up the worlds of feeling expressed in these past blog entries into a simple sentence or two?

Maasai

There were hard parts, yes – traveling with 20 other people who are necessarily more social than I am is always a challenge.  I prefer to stare out the window, immerse myself in the experience, not chatter to others about it.  But I have years of practice tuning out the world when needed, so I managed.  The bumpy roads were hard; the dust; the constant putting up and taking down of tents; the cramped lockers at the back of the truck that barely fit our belongings and were not designed for 22 people to access simultaneously; the toilets that didn't flush and didn't have toilet paper or soap (at best) or were merely holes in the ground; the constant clamoring of locals for you to buy things, give them money; the fear of being eaten by lions; the long drives.
But I do not really remember those things.  I remember the giraffes eating leaves off the top of trees; the moonlit zebras; the plains that stretched on forever.  I remember the smiling, waving children at the sides of the road; the dots of red-robed Maasai with their cows in the fields; the skillful carving of the hands of an artist perfect a soapstone statue.

As we drive back to Nairobi today, my mind swims with the sights and sounds of the Serengeti, and everything else becomes irrelevant.

Our truck at a gas station as we exit Tanzania

The next morning, our alarms are set for 3:50am, but after the week we've had of waking up in the dark pre-dawn hours, we barely have any difficulty.  Our bags were re-packed the night before, and we quickly got ready, had a cup of instant coffee, and headed to the hotel lobby to order an Uber to the Nairobi airport.
Yes, you read that right.  Uber is in Africa!  We confirmed with some locals that it was safe, and were soon speeding off to the airpot in record time with a very kind driver in a very clean car.  The half hour ride only cost us the equivalent of about $10, too, which was also a bonus.

The airport is steeped in security.  We had to exit the vehicle before entering, get scanned, re-enter the vehicle, get driven to our terminal, then be re-scanned again (bags and everything, this time) before even getting to the baggage drop-off and check-in.

And then we were on our way to Livingstone, Zambia.

Only a 3 hour flight away from Nairobi, Livingstone is where we will be staying for the next 4 days.  It is on the border with Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, which is why we'd come.

To see the tallest waterfall in the world.

After we settled into our hostel (Jollyboys Backpackers), we decided to join the weekly soccer game that the hostel hosts with the local orphanage.  A free shuttle took a small group of us there.  It was our first taste of Zambia.

We soon veered off the tourist roads and entered small neighbourhoods of makeshift markets on the sides of the hot, dusty roads.  It was 37 degrees Celcius in Livingstone today, and it wasn't going to get any cooler.

Men sawed planks of wood, surrounded by piles of them as well as couches and bed frames in all different stages of completion.  There were rickety built shacks along one of the roads we drove on, with comfortable looking leather couches arranged under them, presumably for sale.  Women sat with small piles of fruit for sale, chatting with each other in brightly coloured clothes until a customer happened to wander by for an orange.  Children walked around on their own, bereft of helicopter parents (and doing just fine for it).  Hand-painted signs with neat letters simply announced the names of the shops we passed; there was very little advertising here.  Groups of young and old men sat on plastic chairs under the shade of the few trees, just sitting, not talking.

We soon arrived at Lubasi orphanage and met with one of the “mothers” who works there.  The six of us sat in one of the offices while she told us about the facility.  They take in children who they've found begging on the streets, or who are otherwise brought to them by social services for one reason or another.  Some have extended family members who eventually come and take them; others live their until they have the ability to sustain themselves.  They rely entirely on donations to keep operating, and while they are able to provide homes for just over 60 children, they're currently running at half capacity due to lack of funds.  The children go to school, and are also taught other skills as “backup” in case they don't do well in their studies – for example, they are taught how to make crafts out of recycle materials, or how to work in the garden.

We're then taken to meet the children, who are sitting outside, talking and playing.  The girls are doing each other's hair.  We all stare at each other shyly.  Finally some of the children come over, shaking our hands and asking our names; introducing themselves.  A few of us sit down with them on some benches.  One of our group asks their ages.  The younger ones answer excitedly; some of the teeangers mumble an answer.  I'm sure they go through the same sort of thing every Sunday; non-African tourists come to stare at them and ask them their names and ages.

The younger ones soon take charge.  “Come, come,” one says, laughing, as he takes my hand over to the playground.  We all follow; the group of other children and teens slowly trickle their way over, as well.  The “mother” tells the one who want to play soccer to go and get dressed for it.

As we walk, we see a little toddler boy scramble up and over a concrete wall just over his height, and scramble away on his own into the mango trees.  J and I smile at each other – his monkey-climbing ability reminds us of one of her little nephews.  Some things are universal.

Over in the playground, a young girl struggles to get on a swing.  This is familiar.  J goes over and asks if she wants a push.  The girl smiles and nods.  J pushes her from behind, while I watch the small smile on the girl's face grow and grow into a grin.  “Higher?” asks J.  “Yes!” she says.  And up she goes.

The soccer game starts soon after that.  The children assemble themselves into teams.  I go over to the girl who seems to be the goalie, wondering what team I'm on.  “Girls against boys,” she says.  Ah.  Of course.
The field is made of soft brown dirt and the occasional small rock, surrounded by dry grasses.  The sun beats down hot on our acclimatized bodies.  Who plays soccer in 37 degree weather?!  Nevertheless, J and I run around, trying to simultaneously play soccer and not run into any of the children (who are much better players than I am).  Our goalie, a tall lanky boy about 9 years old, does a great job of blocking any scoring attempts.  The children shout at each other in their language as we play.  The score reaches 2-2 before J and I have to leave the field and drink from our water bottles (the water in them is already hot) while having a rest in the shade.

One of the other tourists that came with us is sitting under this tree with one of the teenage girls, showing her how to play games on her cell phone.  The ice breaker is working, and the two of them are quite engaged in their talk about the games.

I look up in the tree – a teenage boy has been sitting high above us for a while.  He laughs at something someone on the ground says.  I see a mesh hammock of sorts up there, filled with some items - “what do you have up there?” I ask.  “Books!” he says.

A reading hammock in a tree is something I suddenly want very much.

The soccer game goes on.  Someone does something against the rules, and some shouting ensues.  A young boy is playfully chased off the field.  The sun is relentless.  J and I join the game again for ten more minutes, but our bodies simply can't handle the heat.  Off the field we go again and back to the shade of the tree.  We're enjoying watching the children interact, even though we can't understand what they're saying most of the time.

A girl of about 10 wanders by with an armful of mangoes.  An older girl demands the ripest one; the younger one clutches it to her and exclaims “this yellow one is for my heart!”  The older girl yells at her, mixing between English and her native language, chasing her around the yard.  The fight seems to be complex, emotional, and about more than just a mango, but we can't quite follow it.  At one point she threatens to throw a large rock at her and beat her with a stick.  The younger one, now eating her precious mango, darts away and seeks refuge with a different older girl, who tries to cool down the angry one.

Our attention then shifts to some of the other older children who are now on the swings, playing music out of an old Blackberry.  They discuss which song to play next.  The two teenage boys start to dance, while the girls giggle at them.  The mango-clutching girl then comes over and starts to “twerk” before an older one points out to her that the “white people” are watching her; she shyly stops and buries her head in her friend while everyone laughs.

Another girl comes over to talk to us – wants to know what languages we can speak.  I teach her how to say hello and how are you in Portuguese; she teaches us how to greet in all the five languages she knows (mostly African ones, as well as Polish) and is amused at our attempts to pronounce them.


The sun is finally starting to give a little as it gets closer to dinner; it's time for us to head back to the hostel.  We say goodbye to all the children and the oldest girl escorts us down the road to where we catch the taxis.

There are no photos today.  It just didn't feel right, somehow.  They're just kids, living their lives, playing their games.  A photo wouldn't capture that, anyway.  Hope the words get across to all you readers a little taste of our first day in Zambia.