Loving life. Living Life. Doing life.

Growing Wiser

laura_jane — Sun, 9 Sep 2012 18:29:00 GMT

I notice it has been two months since I wrote here last. I have been away, 'growing wiser.' How shall I start? It has been a big two months - so much has happened both here in Zambia and whilst overseas. It was wonderful to have mum and dad here to visit us in Zambia. We were with them starting their trip of a lifetime (which they are still on). I started thinking about things how these 'once in a lifetime' events occur in our lives. As we get wiser ( I shall not say older, as that is not always a suitable word), we learn things. Perspectives change, as do priorities. I have noticed that there are some people, who sadly, never 'grow wiser -' their level of wisdom remains low - until such time they have life experiences to enable them to grow in their wisdom. I do think, however, that each of us grow wiser in due timing. The journey of 'wisdom acquisition' grows as we allow ourselves to grow. I have learnt, however, that in order to grow in our wisdom, our minds must be open - we must allow ourselves to grow and to not judge, just because we do things differently.

So, as I say goodbye (with this short post, I will try to post more often from now on).

Books and balloons

laura_jane — Thu, 5 Jul 2012 15:06:00 GMT

"For me, Mama?" His big, brown eyes lit up. With two hands he held the precious jewel. carefully examining it. "Yes, for you" I told him. "Thank you, Mama." He hugged that exercise book the way a father would hug his prodigal son who had just returned home from a decade of absence. This moment was the first time that Ben had ever owned a brand new exercise book in his hand. At the tender age of nine, he has been at school for just two years.

The balloons that had distracted and excited the students for twenty minutes suddenly had lost their appeal and the new books took centre stage. The crisp, new, forty page exercise books and brand new lead pencils now meant that the students could learn to write.

I began to think about the childhood I had and that of students in grade four in Australia. One book for one subject. An entire pencil case of brand new pencils, crayons, felt pens and a whole cohort of other stationery to go along with it. I always had shoes, even if they were cheap, not the latest fashion or the colour I chose. Some of the students here don't own a pair of shoes.

As I said goodbye after another successful English lesson, and 156 exercise books distributed, the day had gone to plan.

I drove twenty kilometres down a road until i came to the tarmac. I turned right and started 100km down the road, avoiding pot holes the best I could....

Shoe Matters

laura_jane — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 12:27:00 GMT

Six Twenty Seven. That is the time I walk through the spinning gate everyday, ready for work. It's really busy at that time of day. Today is no exception. I say a quick prayer that my card will scan and that I will not be the one to hold up the line and stop the flow. I get through with ease and smooth flow. One by one, my work colleagues and I form a single line and cross the road, ready to start our day at work.

Walking in the opposite direction to us are the (mainly) men coming off night shift. Some are talking and laughing, others looking zombie-like, with a blank stare, waiting to get to sleep. Others, oblivious to their surrounds, appear to be listening to music. Each of them is rugged up: A night out on the pit in this weather is enough to call for beanies and thermals!

There are (unwritten) rules that everyone follows. Walk to the left, in single file. If you happen to be stuck behind a person whose stride is shorter, or somehow different to your own, it can cause some trouble. One step out of line and the entire bee-line of people will stop and crash. What's more, there are not only us who are coming to day shift, it will ruin the flow of those coming from night shift too.

I find the rhythm and get into the flow of the line. I am in my groove and the unthinkable happens. My shoelace comes undone. I will be okay. I keep on walking, but it gets worse. I have no space to stop - I simply must keep on going. I estimate I have 30 steps until I can turn off, find a place to stop and fix my shoe issue.

I missed out on the whole shoe lace tying lesson. I don't have a date. But I would say it was winter. I know this because I was wearing my bright red dressing gown (with space rockets on it) and my sister Ella was in her pink dressing gown with a single snowman. Based on the house we lived, I must have been about four or five. Anyway, I was in teh lounge room, walking around, determined to get this bow thing in order. I practiced with the bright blue piece of terry-toweling that acted as the belt for my dressing gown. I recall that I screamed out to my parents that I could tie a bow. I was so proud - I had done it all on my own. I was adamant, from that day forward, that I had mastered the art of lace tying. Nothing more was ever said.

Today it would have come in handy if I had had that lesson. My right shoe has loosened to a point where it is flipping, rubbing against my heel and ankle, causing discomfort and pain. I do a quick estimate - around twenty more steps until I am free. I start ding some sort of stupid limp in a vain effort to keep the shoe from flying off, or worse, me falling flat on my face.

I make it to safety. I take a seat, look down at my shoe. I decide to start from the beginning, where I should have started twenty five years ago - not three weeks shy of my 30th birthday.

One by one, I put the laces through the eyelets, tightening as I go. (So this is what it feels like). I recall my days of working at a shoe whop and how I always instructed children to tie their laces. I the shoelaces in the shoe. Time to tie them. I think about the rhyme "One bunny, two bunny, round the tree... Through the loop and now you see!" I have done it. I feel proud. At twenty nine years of age, for the first time in my life, I realise that I now have mastered the art of tying my steel cap boots.

I get up and march proudly into work, with my head held high.. just like the day i first learnt to tie a bow.

(Diclaimer: this has been the first time in my life I have worn Steel cap boots. I traded Pantyhose, knee length skirts and court shoes for High-Vis Shirts, steel cap boots and hard hats).

In Search of 'the big five.'

laura_jane — Thu, 17 May 2012 14:49:00 GMT

There have been occassions in my life where people have found it absolutely wonderful that I am Australian. The conjour up the courage to come and talk to me, usually saying, "Are yoU Australian? Can you 'G'day mate," in some off-putting try-hard wanna-be Australian Accent. I frown, then realising that I could have a lot of fun, my usual course of action would be to comply. The conversation and meeting would revolve around them either asking me to keep saying things in a broad Australian accent; or asking about animals. Namely if I use my Kangaroo to get around. This is the part that gets interesting. I recall one such encounter when I was in Los Angeles. I told my classmates that I had a number of Kangaroos. The biggest and best, Barry, was my transport. Bazza and I would go everywhere together. Then there was Susan. She helped me bake. Dave-O helped me do my banking and Ben-O was there on Bazza's days off. Myrtle was my watchdog, although she was a Kangaroo. Then I taught them the Australian Christmas carol, Six White Boomers and told them it was based on fact.

I am sure you got a laugh out of that story. I did and I always do. However, the same has occurred since my living in Africa - I don't ride my pet elephant around - she lives in the spare room. Melba and I watch Tv, get manicures and pedicures together and ride our bikes around. Alison the hippo lives down at the dam, that is why I walk there a few times a week to visit her. Jeff the Lion acts as my watchdog and I ride Alfred the giraffe instead of having a car.

The romanticism of African Savannah exists, just not where I live. Though, there is plenty of other amazing wildlife around. Like Bernadette, the three metre-long cobra that came to visit two weeks ago. I have had visitors from the Shingalolo (millipede) Family - Emelda, Juliet and Angelo have visited me. This morning, the entire population of (bull)ants turned up at the front door, just to say 'hi' and have a cuppa. There are others too: John the frog, Caleb the Raven, Andrea, Melissa and Katrina the Squirrels and Graham the spider (who has perished).

To get a real, up close encounter with the African Bush and Wildlife that exists, all you need to do is turn up at my door step, sit back, have a cuppa and look out the window. What you will see will be the true African Wildlife.

Smelling Money

laura_jane — Tue, 1 May 2012 16:35:00 GMT

Money. Such a controversial topic at times. I have a book of over one thousand quotes. eighty seven of those are about money. There are the cliche's about money. There are books, tv shows, movies about money. It is usually how we make life-altering decisions. One thing, though that people don't usually speak about how it smells. I mean how the notes themselves actually smell.

I noticed a few days ago, my handbag smells like Kwacha (Zambian Money). The coinless currency carries with it a smell, an odour. The smell reminds me of butcher's paper, mixed with really really old ink.... and a bit of dirt. I wouldn't call it offensive. I would just call it obvious. When you smell this smell, you know there are kwacha looming. I don't know that bigger wads of money carry with it greater smell. For instance, I had had three K20,000 in my drawer for three days. I opened the drawer, and out came the smell of Kwacha, slapping me fair in the face.

Maybe the smell sticks, because the notes are made of paper, not plastic. Maybe it's because it's old. I don't know why. All I know is what it smells like - a very distinct smell that won't go away.

Lazy days in Africa

laura_jane — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:41:00 GMT

This time of year, sky sits way above the earth. One or two clouds taint the canvas of light blue that carpets the sky above me. The sun sits way up high in the sky. On the land, everything is still green. The muddy roads of the wet season have turned into dust and will attack anyone or anything that comes in its path. The ants have left the kitchen for good but now the snakes have come to visit.

The silence is piercing. The sound of children playing football. The odd cry of a baby. A screeching set of wheels, the birds chirping are the only distant sounds that interrupt this peaceful silence, along with the gentle sound of trees rustling in the breeze.

I am carefree, sitting in the sunshine, with the warm rays on my back and my legs, sipping on a cup of boiling hot tea. I hear a scurry. A squirrel. I smile and watch it for a moment scamper high up into the tree behind me. To my right, I See a group of women, dressed so beautifully and in bold colours,chatting away. Each of them have a small baby on their backs, babies so small with little woolen hats on their heads that make them look so much cuter.

The sound of Bob Marley came blaring out of a boombox somewhere. I walked through the markets, avoiding the mud as best I could. People stared. Some yelled out. Most, however, minded their own business and went about selling and buying. Two men were having a fist fight. Of course, having a mzunggu (white person) at these markets was a rarity. A treat. Something that never happens. This meant I really was the key attraction of the day.

A group of dirty looking children came running, out of nowhere and touched my hand. “How are you?” I asked, “I am fine and you madame?” they asked (this is a typical exchange). I told them I needed footballs. They started laughing, I was trying to balance bananas, oranges and potatoes. One of the girls took my potatoes and carried them on her head and grabbed my free hand and directed me to follow her. I was hot. Sweaty hot. We walked fast, avoiding the mud. The bananas and oranges were heavy and I was parched. I longed for something cold, an ice block. Something to ease the discomfort.

I was not sure where we were heading, but I put my trust in this ten year old girl. We dodged the crowds, walking in the opposite direction to most. Soon, the market was behind us and we were entering the slum settlement that was about a kilometre behind the last stall. We walked in the sweaty hot heat for what felt like hours until we reached a hut. She told me to stay put, went inside and came out about five minutes later with six footballs – made from plastic bags filled with rubbish and string tied around them.On the outside of each, was a Manchester United Sticker. Blessing, (the young girl), explained that her and her brother made these footballs because he was captain of their football team (MAN-U) and that he was responsible for providing the balls. We negotiated a price, and I bought all six balls and promised to come and watch them play the following afternoon.

The ladies move on and I see two men, gardeners, laughing and having a much needed break from the hard outdoor work under the strong African Sun. I know that in a few hours, the neighbourhood boys will be coming to my door to sell pineapples. Big, juicy, Pineapples. I make sure I have my Kwacha ready for them. I know this also means I will soon be heading down to the football field to watch MAN-U take on Chelsea.

Despite the warmth and heat from the sun, I feel a shiver as a cool breeze embraces me and sticks around for a while. I refill my cup of tea to warm my insides up.

I have been up for a while and outside, but the cool breeze makes me want to curl up with a good book under a big warm blanket back in my bed. I contemplate the idea and quickly run my mind through the collection of books I have and decide which one to read. Excited, I pack up outside and prepare to spend a lazy few hours reading…..

Just as I get settled, the washing machine beeps. Begrudgingly, I remove myself from my book and blanket and attend to the chores that have to be done. Before i know it, the day is half over and I have managed to get through less than one chapter of my book. I sigh and start organising myself to go watch the ‘A-league’ finals. Just before I walk out the door, I see the book over on the table and place it nicely back where it belongs.

“Tomorrow” I say, to no one in particular, as I walk out the door, get on my bike and head for the football field.

The thing about travelling

laura_jane — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 15:03:00 GMT

I wake up slowly. I toss and turn and then decide to wake up. I get out of bed and start to head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Then I realise where I am. There is no kitchen here. There is a kettle, tea bags and milk. The entire room is smaller than my kitchen at home. It doesn't matter though. I won't be hanging around in here. I open the curtain and it looks like a magical fairy tale out there. There has been snowfall overnight. I have my cup of tea and take a moment to ponder the events of the evening before... a bit of excitement wells in my stomach, butterflies bringing on a nervous excitement.

We were dressed in our red and black snow suits and headed out in the cool, crisp air on a sleigh pulled by a lone reindeer. Through the forests, the sun setting behind us, we arrived at a small hut. Leaving the reindeer and sleigh outside, we ran through the thick snow into a small wooden hut, to light a fire and hear stories of the way of life for Lappish people. Cooking blackcurrant tea and eating freshly cooked sausages, we while some time away warming up and learned about life in the region.

I thought about our trip so far, so many experiences had, many more to come.

This got me to thinking about our trip.I have met many people over my life who like to 'travel' (open to interpretation) for a number of reasons. Some only go to certain places or regions, others only with particular people. I met this older (yes, again open to interpretation) bloke on my travels one time. We exchanged the usual traveller small talk: names, where from, how long travelling for and secretly deciding if we will befriend them, based on the way that they appear to structure their travel. I told him I was Australian. He then said that the reason that he had never travelled to Australia is because it lacked history. He only wanted to travel to places that 'had history.' I thought this was strange, and I told him, 'we have beaches.' But that was not important to him. Of these many many people I have met, sure, there have been some who choose to experience the outside world different to me. I may not be after the same type of trip they are, but it by no means makes either trip better or worse.

Part of travelling is broadening the mind. That includes being open to the ways others may do things. For example, one person's idea of a great travel experience may be laying on a beach for 6 weeks, while someone else's may be shopping on Rodeo drive, while another may want to snowboard in Japan for six months. Whatever the case, wherever the journey may lead, ensure that your mind is open and you will be bound to have a great time.

The Road to Lusaka

laura_jane — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 17:04:00 GMT

The only word I can use to describe the drive to Lusaka is this: Long. Tht'as it. I could leave it there, but I won't. I will tell you about it. About the goat I had to swerve and miss; about the millions of potholes along the way. About the whole ten hours.

We were prepared and drove out of our driveway at 0607am. It's a nice time of day to be awake. The cool, crisp air, with the sun just poking out through the clouds paints a backdrop for the drive ahead. As we exit the gates and leave behind us our work, our house, the red dirt road, we venture forward, along this great open road. Along this first stretch of road, are villages, scattered along both sides, to the right - to the left I see small mud huts with thatched roofing. For kilometres and kilometres there is nothing on either side. The one constant is the trucks. What feels like millions of them. The thing is, the general speed limits on the roads here is 100km/h. Trucks are allowed to drive at a maximum speed of 80km/h ~ but they usually drive at 60km/h. The general rule is that you overtake them, which is pretty scary if you ask me. Not that you did.

Anyway, after house of dodging goats and trucks, we arrive into Lusaka. I am no stranger to African cities. Although obvious signs of Africa, there are also signs that make it distinctly Zambian too. Despite being extremely tired and worn, and the sun starting to fall, I feel as though I may quite like Lusaka.

Three Tyres - Three Countries

laura_jane — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 22:45:00 GMT

Today, the car got bogged and the back left hand tyre of the car busted open. This is the third time I have had a tyre 'incident' in Africa. The first time was in Uganda. On a hot, humid day on a long stretch of bitumen road. It was on the wide open road between Murchison Falls and Kampala. That day, the sun was hot. We were in the minibus driving and suddenly fish tailed, a few clunking sounds and came to a complete stop with smoke bellowing from behind the car. For a moment, it felt surreal. Everyone paused and then scampered for the exit.

The second time was just outside of the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania. For three amazing days, we left the safari truck behind on solid ground and piled into Jeeps that allowed us to be free and our hair to blow in the breeze. For days, we sought out 'The Big Five.' The fields were littered with wildebeast and zebra on their annual migration north to the Masai Maara in Kenya. With everything from spotted hyenas to the prides of lions - we were nothing less than mesmerised with our encounter over the three days.

On our way out, we were reflecting upon our time in the Serengeti and the hub cap from one of the tyres went flying off, somewhere into the bush land that was home to more than the big five. Of course, that car would not be going anywhere until the hub cap was retreived...

My third (and dare I say final?) car incident occurred today. Coming back from the markets, I decided to stop in the shop to purchase some ingredients for a lazy breakfast tomorrow. However, before I could get too far, I got stuck in the mud and realised that the rear tyre was 'kaput.' This was not a pleasant situation. I got my hands on a jack and some rocks to keep the tyres in place. I was amazed at my immortal strength to get the spare tyre off the back door of the car. After around 20 minutes of deciding what to do, some help came along. Now, I must mention here that I am more than capable of changing a tyre - however not so capable in removing my car single handedly out of the mud in order to change the said tyre. After what felt like hours - or at least enough time for me to turn a nice shade of pink, the car was out of the mud and I was back on the road - and my good intentions for a lazy Sunday breakfast fell by the wayside.

One thing i have noticed throughout these three experiences are how different people react.

First, there are the busy bodies. These are generally the people who will try to be at the front of the repair operation so that they feel important. They will usually be found under whatever shade is available barking out orders at all and sundry, but will be lapping up the attention and embellish the truth to various passers by and to anyone who will listen (including so call friends on social media pages). Generally, they won't want to get their hands dirty.

The next type of people are the chiefs. Suddenly, you are in a situation where everyone knows better than the next person about how to go about the fixing process. Generally, what occurs in these situations, is that more time is spent arguing over who can or should do the most important job.... Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Chiefs are often found photographing the event and trying to get the best shot possible.

Thirdly, there are the whiners and complainers. They are in cahoots with the busy bodies. Whilst the busy bodies tend to enjoy the situation , the whiners just plain whinge. They constantly use words like 'sue' and 'refund' and 'unsafe.' They will generally try to bring people over to their team, as they know they look bad. They usually stand around complaining about how things are better elsewhere. By no means will whiners get anywhere near the action. They will not get their hands, feet, bag, legs, or any other part of their boday tainted by dirt.

Finally, there are doers. They find out what needs to be done, and get the job done. They are often accused of being 'bossy' by the whiners, as they will often be under a vehicle barking orders so that the job gets done quicker. Amongst the doers, there is generally not too much ego involved and they usually make the job get done. Doers generally share a sense of humour and can afterwards laugh about their adventures and have great stories to tell.

In all of this, as frustrating as it may be, I have learnt three very important words: This is Africa. (TIA).

Formula Foundation

laura_jane — Thu, 8 Mar 2012 15:27:00 GMT

We can help make the world a better place for a young child.

Watch this two minute clip... takes 2 mins

laura_jane — Thu, 8 Mar 2012 15:08:00 GMT

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=386276728049851

The Politics of Politeness.

laura_jane — Tue, 6 Mar 2012 01:15:00 GMT

From an early age, I was taught to share and, by default, to wait in line for things. I learnt that there is order and rhyme and reason for everything. Although I learnt this in my early years before I started school, much of this theory was embedded into my and other young kids brains from the first day of grade one. I still have recurring nightmares of the sounds of my various school teachers clapping their hands in (what I believe to be) a universal rhythm to get the attention of the students. The process would involve the teacher clapping until all students became quiet and could show compliance to silence by repeating the clap in unison (without making any noise). Then the teacher would complain that the class was too noisy and they had a headache (yet they chose a career as a primary school teacher…).

I remember threats of ‘playtime’ being taken away as punishment for pushing in and not sharing or waiting my turn. As I got older, the punishment changed. It went from playtime privileges being taken away, to writing one-hundred lines about why the hundred lines had to be written, to after school detentions in high school. As high school finished and my classmates and I were sent into the world as citizens full of wealth about how to share and display decorum, I think that our roles changed. Or maybe we just accepted that displaying decorum meant waiting until we are called before proceeding. (This behaviour seems to be accepted and rarely questioned). Of course, this acceptance would never hamper the ability for anyone to invent some story as to why our excuse for not wanting to wait is better than the next person’s and why we should really not have to wait or should be given queue jumping rights.

Despite this culture of waiting in line and strong disciplinary action being taken if one pushes in, it seems as though the majority of citizens cannot bear the thought of waiting in a line for more than thirty seconds.

All you have to do is look at anyone who gets sent to the help desk at an airport because of their boarding pass being rejected. It is amazing how they will grumble make fools of themselves and they yell and scream and throw their luggage about as they are forced to return to the help desk to find out that the reason for their return has been to secure them a coveted seat in the business class cabin, rather than in economy, as the discount price they paid allowed. Of course, no apology is presented to the ground staff, or any of the other passengers who witnessed their outbreak if stupidity. They then march to the front of the queue and throw their new boarding pass at the ground staff and they proceed down the aerobridge in a hoity-toity fashion, as they are now an upstanding citizen due to their newly (but perhaps not duly) acquired status as a business class passenger.

This entire ‘mambo jumbo’ and ‘politics of pushing in’ that I had so perfectly mastered went out of the door when I moved to Zambia. On one particular day, I went to the bank and waited 45 minutes in the 30-deep queue of people to have my turn at the ATM, only to find out that people were holding places in the line for their friends who were nowhere in sight. I could feel the strong African Sun beating gently on my fair skin, and I was in great need of some water, though my bottle was in the car and I dare not move in fear of losing my place in the line. Finally, at the front of the queue, I was getting ready to have my turn, when three people turned up from nowhere and proceeded to use the machine. No one complained, sighed or even acknowledged this misdemenour. Except for me. Of course four more people turned up after them, as did half a dozen more. None of them had been in the line. At this point, I realised what was wrong.(Other than the fact that I wanted to get money out of the machine, my skin was burning and my mouth was dry). I was being too polite – standing in line and waiting my turn. All those years I spent learning patience and waiting in line for my turn suddenly seemed like a distant memory. When the next person came along, I decided it was time. When no one was using the machine, I barged, like a bull on a mission, to that machine to gain some coveted time with the wall. It worked. It felt good and no one complained or said a word. Life went on as usual.

In that experience, I had succeeded in unlearning everything I had drilled into me about waiting my turn. If all of my teachers could see me now, I am sure they would cringe and vigorously be clapping their hands in every eight-beat rhythm they know, trying to get my attention and being aghast that I was ignoring both their clapping and the laws and politics of queue jumping that they had once so nicely taught me.

The Girl in the Orange Socks.... and other stuff

laura_jane — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 19:03:00 GMT

The sun was struggling to rise, instead, the sky opened and rain didn't just fall, it was coming down in sheets. Like lasagne sheets in a pasta machine. The rain just fell, and fell, and fell. It didn't stop. Until later. Much later. It was like turning off a tap, no dripping. Cleanly switched off. No sooner had the 'tap' been turned off, the clouds parted, and the sun shone down strongly upon the earth, poking its face through a gap, as if it were a cute little kid giving an innocent wave. I forgave the sun for two reasons. Firstly, I enjoy all that the sun brings - light, warmth, vivid colours, the contrast of day and night. Secondly, how anyone could not be delighted at seeing a cute little kid is really not a possibility. Like some other species, humans seem to come out of their hiding places when the sun comes out to play.

When the sun came out to play, it was my turn to play. I ventured to my car (thankful for a four wheel drive in these conditions) and drove down to the township, along dirt roads that had become mud piles and pot holed, thanks to the earlier rain, to visit a friend and her sister. We had a lunch of nashima, boiled lambs' liver, sweet potato leaves, red beans and beef. It was great, filling and just what I needed. We gathered into the car and headed out, into the 'real world,' leaving behind the everything inside the gate. Out we drove, turned left and started on long, open road.... the road that seems to lead, well everywhere. Including to the mushroom sellers who were more than delighted to receive our business.

As the day went on, errands were run, people were dropped off and it ended up being just the two of us. Into the supermarket we went. Shopping on a weekday is great. Shelves are full and there is more than standing room only.

Young children always find it amusing to see mzunggus around here - they stare, giggle, wave and genuinely express their (unoffensive) delight in seeing you. Including the girl in the orange socks. She was one of those cute little girls that you just want to squeeze because of her cuteness. She was about three years old. She had big brown eyes, flawless skin, and a smile that extended the width of her chubby little cheeks. On her legs were a fluffy pair of bright orange socks. And White patent Mary-Jane High heels. They looked quite new and shiny (and clashed horridly with her orange socks), and she probably was so excited about having them that she wanted to wear them and not take them off. As I walked up and down the aisles of the supermarket, I kept on seeing the girl in the orange socks. Her smile and her socks. The power went out and the shop went pitch black - all I could hear was the 'clip, clop, clip , clop' of those little white Mary-Jane's she was wearing. As the power (and the lights) returned, I made my way out of the store, i took a moment to pause, a moment to smile and silently thank the girl in the orange socks for making me smile today.

Globalisation and the African Sun.

laura_jane — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 01:41:00 GMT

As i sit in the warm African sun, My mind is racing, my thoughts are crowding my mind. I think about the people who have commented that My life is now worlds apart from theirs and how do I survive? this got me thinking, our worlds are not that far removed. Firstly, I have the world wide web. I log on to a Japanese computer and open my Chinese Brand fridge, to get my Italian branded-milk so I can have a cup of English tea in my mug made in china, to sit on a chair made in Zambia. I look over to Our Japanese imported vehicle and I hear the sounds from the football field, from the Saturday afternoon soccer match, where I can be sure that each and every player is, in their mind, Someone in the A league. Chelsea versus Man-U are at play today. I get a text message on my Finnish Nokia Phone( I could go on, but I am sure that at this stage, you get the point). Although, in the material, our lives seem fairly similar, our societal norms and values, along with our culture separate us.

Globalisation. Ah yes. It's either a wonderful thing, or not. It comes down to capitalism and how it impacts our lives. There are theories on both sides of the spectrum. Today, at this moment in time, for my selfish thinking, it is great, so I can sit here on the internet and see what's happening beyond what my eyes can see. On the flip side, ask a worker in Apac, Uganda what they think about this. These Organic Cotton farmers, I am sure, do not have an overwhelming desire to grow organic cotton in order to clothe babies in wealthy Western countries, rather I would say that Ugandan organic cotton farmers grow organic cotton to feed and clothe their own babies. (If they don't die from cerebral Malaria first). In order for this cotton that is being produced to be deemed as ‘organic,’ no pesticides can be used anywhere in the process of the cotton growing. Cotton is grown in water; water attracts mosquitoes; Of course, so that you and I can feel warm and fuzzy and buy our organic cotton, Mama Pamela, Mama Sofia, Mama Regina and Daddy Jacob cannot use mosquito repellent on their skin. This is turn is adding to the problem of malaria, in a nation with ill-equipped medical facilities. One of the millennium Development Goals (MDGs) is to reduce instances of Malaria – a goal set by the United Nations, signed by its member states, some of whom are obviously encouraging the western ideals that is ‘sexy’ and should make us feel good. In a world where people argue for equality (in all its forms – marriage for gays, equal opportunity employment and salaries for women, paid maternity leave and so on), I wonder if that equal opportunity extends to the farmers and their right to make a fair wage, and work in conditions that do not put their lives at risk? I guess that in theory this chemical free farming is a splendid idea for us in the west, but in reality, baby Omara is dying so that Baby Max can wear organic.

Essentially , many people argue against capitalism. This reminds me of a text I read at uni and influenced my thinking somewhat Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered. Written in the 1970s by E.F. Schumacher and oh So relevant for me today.

Just this week in Australia, I notice that the ‘big 4 banks’ have raised interest rates. I know that there are many unhappy Australians. I also know that wise choices need to be made by consumers in order to get a ‘fair deal.’ Like keep our money in Community Banks, wear clothing that was made under fair conditions, purchase diamonds that were not made by children. Being aware of the capitalistic choices that this world throws at us and remembering the words of Sir Isaac Newton “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Like E waste. When our government tell us to take our computers and old mobile phones (Iphone 1 that is sooooo out-dated) to a recycle bin, we do, because recycling is good. Have you ever wondered where that waste ends up? In Tanzania, China, Ghana on a rubbish pile that is burned and the smoke gets into people’s lungs and adding to health care burdens.

The Key to consumerism is being educated in our choices and to not get sucked into the message spread by big business and big corporations. No matter what great marketing slogan they come up with, their best interests are never the consumer, but always themselves.

Heavy…. But just what’s on my mind today…… Now I am going to prepare dinner – bought fresh pineapple today and it smells Great!

Till next time,

Miss Laura

Photos: Social exchanges

laura_jane — Mon, 6 Feb 2012 15:50:00 GMT

People, people, people

It's all about people

laura_jane — Mon, 6 Feb 2012 15:32:00 GMT

Our lives are filled with social situations and exchanges of communication with other people. Whether it be a quick exchange at a petrol station, or a long lasting friendship that lasts years - it's all about people. There are those that are said to be 'more social' than other people. The thing about people is this: their presence in your life will either be positive or negative. Your Presence in people's lives will either be negative or positive. It's up to us to decide how we choose to hand our social situations.

In Africa, most people rely on the informal economy to make their living - meaning that they may not have a form of employment that is registered - but they are creative (some would say scammers) and always finding ways to support their living. Like the kids who I buy pineapples from who come around door to door. Or the youths selling deep fried, fatty doughnuts on the side of the road (a wonderful treat when the stomach is grumbling), or the young children playing socccer on my afternoon walks - we always high five one another and do a thumbs up. This seems to be followed by giggles and someone stroking my arm and poking me in some manner.... although not selling goods to me, always put a smile on my face every time we exchange a communication.

There is one relationship I must not omit to mention. The one I have with my husband. Yes, my marriage is new and I am learning every single day about marriage. However, beyond what societal norms are, or what people's expectations are and as sure as Kilimanjaro rises over the Serengeti, my love for my husband is strong at the setting of the sun each day, I thank God that I have such a wonderful man in my life and that my series of exchanges with people led me to James - to the most wonderful man in the world.

Jimmy Hewitt-Grylls

laura_jane — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 16:26:00 GMT

Despite all that Zambia has to offer, working inside all day long can produce major cabin fever. The colours, sights, sounds, and smells get lost and forgotten and a chair, desk and computer can be taken and placed anywhere in the world, effectively producing the same results. The unique thing about Africa, however, is the consistent power outages - a sure way to remember that one is in Africa. Perhaps the time of now power can be used for creating greater team cohesion and generally building upon the human relationships side of things that often get left by the wayside when the task at hand seems like the most important thing of all.

Step outside of the office, and one would be greeted with a straight, long red-dirt road, bush land with a myriad of textures and shades of green, and canopies so high, they almost touch the brilliant blue sky that sits high above us. It's a place that black mambas (snakes), spiders, squirrels, shinglolos and a ton of bird life call home, but it makes for pleasant surrounds in our day to day lives. - Which is why Sunday afternoon took us to the Lumwana Open. Nadal, Hewitt and Djokovic all made an appearance in a Round-Robin tournament that lasted hours. The Audience (i.e. - me) had a real treat - watching Hewitt come back and seeing Nadal being slammed by Djokovic. It really was a treat.

After the tennis, all tired and worn out, we walked along that long, red dirt road to get home. However, Hewitt (Voller), having just had his endorphins come out decided that Bear Grylls needed to film an episode right here in Zambia, so Jimmy Grylls decided to step in for Bear. This meant starting a fire without a match using just the Bear hunting knife and another little tool. However, Grylls first went for a venture to find wood and Kindling to use for his fire. The end result - a very proud Husband who had hos favourite dinner of spaghetti bolognaise all for his mammoth effort during the day.

Photos: Hewitt & Grylls strike back

laura_jane — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 15:52:00 GMT

Jimmy Hewitt Aka Jimmy Grylls

Photos: General

laura_jane — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 01:29:00 GMT

The women of Africa.

laura_jane — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:40:00 GMT

After my first week here, i think I have settled in. the jet lag is long gone and I feel like I am home.

In some ways, the week has been uneventful, in other ways not so.

The obvious disparities that exist both inside and out the gate are a reminder of the stark reality that a nation like this faces. Such disparities were made more apparent today when I drove into Solwezi, around 80km from here - to the grocery store. Along the way, I was once again greeted with the colours and sights of Africa. The road is long, and tedious, but the stories are not. I see two young girls playing on the side of the road - best friends I would imagine, playing, blissfully unaware of their surrounds. Further up the road, villages with reddish-brown huts in stark contrast to the long green grass that surrounds them, with people laughing, laughing, dancing. However, not every story is a happy one. Two men are obviously irate, angry, mad about something and are fighting each other fist to fist as though their lives depended upon it. And do you know what? their lives probably did (do) depend on it. I see a Mama, with a baby on her back, one on her side, potatoes on her head and her three young children with buckets of water on their heads. Walking this loooong stretch of road that goes on and on and on. This gets me thinking about the parallel universe I come from. I switch on my computer and check my social media - where I keep in touch with people, thousands and thousands of miles away and I find out what is happening in their worlds - perhaps out of sheer curiosity rather than care. I see stories of sadness 'posted,' wanting to get symapthetic responses. I see happy stories, with tales of new babies, wedded bliss and holidays, waiting in eager anticipation to see how many people will 'comment' on what they have written. Whilst we are each entitled to live our lives as per our societies, I wonder who creates societal norms? Us. the people in them. We make things of utmost importance in our lives, that perhaps don't need to be.

When I watch how hard the women of Africa work (and please, I am not disrespecting any of my western friends, family, colleagues or otherwise), I am amazed by their strength to keep on going. Day in, day out. Manual labour. Women who have to rely on themselves. Not on a car. Not on a bus. Not on a government that will provide. Nothing but their own hands, their own legs. As I get further along the road, I see a group of young women, walking, having fun, each with baby on her back, 6 Litre jerry can of water on her side and a big sack of something heavy on her head. I take a moment to thank these women for keeping this greater African society going. Having had the honour to meet some of these women, and sit in their houses, I am humbled by the way that they treat me. They have swept and cleared a place on their mats. Boiled water and let it cool so I could drink it and cooked me up their best recipes. These women may not have the biggest houses, the most money in the bank, (in fact, most rely upon their savings circles and co-ops to look after their finances) and many are illiterate. Those who did go to school, sat on a stone under an acacia tree, while counting ants, pebbles and writing in the dirt. this doesn't matter. That makes my Mater's degree from one of the finest universities in the country look like nothing. What does it count when among friends? After all, we were there to discuss life and we had all been to that school - the school of life. Some studied harder than others. Each and every woman I have met in this continent, in each house I have dined in, each and every time, I realise, these women are strong. They are the back bone. They run the show. The continent, the counties, the villages. They are, after all, the women of Africa.