01 November 2003
Every Saturday at 2 p.m., a group of people -- some HIV positive, some not -- gather in a small third-floor room next to the Shoprite on Cairo Road. They're the Post Test Club, a group of people who've volunteered to be tested for HIV and are interested in the disease.
I'd heard about the club from the guys at New Start -- you may remember them as the ones who led me to a non-existent anti-AIDS rally. (I learned today that the rally had, in fact, been pushed back a month at the last minute -- I was at the right gas station.)
So rather than spend my Saturday roaming the local market, I thought I'd drop in on the PTC meeting. I arrived at 2 and found...no one there. (Sensing a pattern with these New Start guys?) But within a few minutes, people started arriving. Emmanuel, the guy running the show, brought in some beach chairs so there were enough seats in the cramped little space. I introduced myself to a few people, including one guy who said he was in charge of today's two-hour meeting.
That guy (I never got his name, so let's call him Tim) stood up and called the meeting to order.
"Thank you all for coming," Tim said. "We are fighting a battle against stigma, and I am happy to see all of you are fighting with us." This is good stuff, I thought, scribbling down notes.
"We had planned to have a presentation on HIV prevention today, but the man who was going to be here had a change of plans. So today, we have a visitor who will be giving today's presentation. This" -- he points to me -- "is Josh, a reporter from the United States. He is an American expert on the disease, and he will talk to us about the differences in how our two countries view HIV and AIDS."
Huh?
It took a moment for his words to register. "An American expert on the disease"? I was making a presentation?
I was seated in a corner of the room (the better to blend into the surroundings, I thought). Slowly, the people between me and the front of the room started getting up, moving their chairs, and clearing a path. I walked to the front, thinking on the way what wisdom I could offer in the field of comparative disease analysis.
I don't even remember how I started out -- probably something about the huge gap between the U.S.' infection rate (less than 1/2 of one percent) and Zambia's (20 percent, give or take). I rambled on for a bit more, then started taking questions.
For the record, I am far from an "American expert on the disease." I know precious little about AIDS in America. AIDS in Zambia, sure, but in America, I'm just a guy who reads newspapers and tries to stay informed.
The questions started rolling in. Do they teach children how to use a condom in America? (Well, in some schools, depending what the school board says.) Is it true that blacks in America get infected more than whites? (Yes, the majority of new infections are now African Americans.) Is it true that the condoms you use in America are more pleasurable than the ones we get in Africa? (Hell if I know.) When Africans visit the United States, do Americans fear them because they think they are infected? (No, not really.) Why don't the rich countries spend more on curing AIDS? (A question for politicians, not for me.) Is there polygamy in America? (I gave a brief history of the Mormon church.)
It ended up being a nice conversation, even if there was perhaps a bit too much giggling at the condom talk. Next thing I know, Tim's saying, "Could we wrap up the questions, please? Josh has been standing there for two hours." I looked at my watch: It was almost 4:30.
The finale of my debut as an AIDS lecturer: Tim asking, "Josh, would you please lead us in a closing prayer?" Those of you who know me will no doubt find that amusing, but I didn't feel it was the time or place to start a theological discussion. For an instant, I considered claiming I was Jewish, but feared the potential followup questions. ("Oh! Reform, conservative, or orthodox?") So I summoned up a few our-heavenly-fathers and our-lord-and-saviors and was done.
28 October 2003
A quick, peeved aside: I was supposed to be doing a few pieces for public radio while on this trip. I spent $500 on recording equipment at an online retailer and had it shipped to my office in Washington, D.C.
It was supposed to get to D.C. a week before I left for Zambia. It didn't. Five days before I left, customer support told me it had been shipped the day before and would arrive the next day (although she couldn't provide a tracking number). It didn't.
I boarded my flight for Heathrow with no equipment, figuring that everything would arrive in D.C. the day after I left. O, the luck!, I thought.
Today, I got an email from that same craptacular online retailer, telling me that my order shipped yesterday, nearly a month late. Gotta love it.
[Ed. note: I've been away from reliable Internet access since Friday, so today I post three entries written over the last few days. Notes from my Kaunda interview coming soon. Also note: lots of new photos posted.--Josh.]
I'd signed up on Friday to go white-water rafting on the Zambezi River Sunday. A Canadian couple I'd met in Lusaka, Geoff and Lonna, were going along with some friends of theirs from Jolly Boys. After Saturday's gorge swinging (and gorge climbing-out-of-ing), I wasn't sure how well I'd hold up for a day on the river, but I was willing to give it a go.
White-water rafting is the original Vic Falls adrenaline rush -- everything else (bungee jumping, the swing, riverboarding, microlight flying) has come in its wake (ha). The 23 rapids downstream from the falls include some of the world's toughest; the 1995 world rafting championships were held here, and there are a handful of Class 5s (the highest passable) to go with a bunch of 4s. (There's also one Class 6, Rapid 9, nicknamed "Commercial Suicide." All the rafting operators walk around that one, although top-notch kayakers can sometimes go through it.) The Zambezi's water level is at its annual low right now, which makes this the absolute best time for huge rapids. (It also makes it the absolute worst time to see the falls, unfortunately.)
There were eight of us in the raft: me, Geoff and Lonna, an Australian couple, an Irishman, a...um...fellow from a Commonwealth nation (sorry, can't remember which one -- nice guy, though), and our river guide, a short, wiry Zambian named Babyface.
There's one thing you should know before proceeding: I'm an awful swimmer. Just awful. I'm not the world's most athletic person under any circumstances, but swimming holds a special venom for me. Those of you who know me may be able to recall instances where you've invited me to go swimming somewhere and, invariably, the fact that I didn't go. I don't like swimming, I don't like beaches. I don't much like water.
That said, the first couple of hours were hella fun. Babyface did a fine job of keeping us oriented and doing the right things, and the rapids were just right: dangerous, perilous, but survivable. We got soaked on every one, but we stayed in the boat.
(Well, I stayed in the boat. Babyface fell out twice in the first five rapids, which didn't do much to inspire confidence.)
I was feeling good, feeling confident. Then came Rapid 8. It's nicknamed "Midnight Diner," Babyface told us, because we had a choice. We could tackle the right side of the rapid, which was only a Class 3, nicknamed "Kentucky Fried Chicken." The middle was a Class 4. The left was a Class 5, nicknamed "Star Trek." It was almost guaranteed to flip the raft and dump us into the river.
Having forgotten my senses back at Rapid 1, I joined the raft's chorus in support of Star Trek.
We survived the first couple surges Star Trek threw at us, but in an instant, the raft's front was pointed skyward and we were flipping end over end. We were all thrown into the water. I, stupidly, held onto my paddle. (Did I not realize they float just fine on their own? Was it a sign of loyalty to the raft's owners?)
I've since seen the video of this spill, and everyone else on the raft pops up out of the water in about one second. For some reason -- I assume it's related to that damned paddle -- it takes me about half an hour to come up. (Okay, it only seemed like half an hour. But it was actually about five or six seconds.) I surfaced, tried to take a breath, and went under again, for another four or so seconds, still holding on to that damned paddle.
One difficulty: Babyface tightened our life jackets before every rapid -- tightened them within an inch of our lives. Taking a full breath was impossible in a jacket that tight, even on a calm stretch of river. Underwater, I barely got a teaspoon of air before going down again and inhaling a few gulps of water.
I finally came back up, vaguely panicked at the prospects of swimming to the raft, now some distance away. I grabbed onto one of the Australians, who was offering her arm, and was starting to feel better about things when I realized we were still in the middle of the rapid -- and that another huge wave was coming. I went under again, for another five seconds or so.
Life really sucked right about then.
In the end, I somehow grabbed onto the raft and got dragged in. I was wiped out. I was having trouble breathing, even after loosening my jacket a bit. I had the worst headache I've had in months, and I had a spacy, glazed look on my eyes. The fun was over.
The rest of the day was an exercise in damage control. I was determined not to flip again. Luckily, I had an ally: Lonna had suffered some sort of ear damage on the Star Trek flip, and she was concerned that another flip would screw up her eardrums. She pleaded with the rest of the raft that we not try to flip; I provided silent support for her efforts.
Luckily, the afternoon rapids are less intense than the morning's. There was only one rapid that provided much flip-risk: Rapid 18, a.k.a. "Oblivion." Three-quarters of all rafts flip there, and it would take luck for us to avoid that fate. Unfortunately, the Australian guy was something of a daredevil and he was always trying to find ways to flip us -- standing up in the middle of a rapid, jumping around the raft when he was supposed to be paddling, etc.
Thankfully, Oblivion proved anticlimactic. We didn't flip. The other four rafts in our group did. Much happiness ensued. Other than Rapid 8, it had been a great day.
Unfortunately, after finishing up at Rapid 23, you have to get out of the gorge. The climb out is about twice as hard as the one to return from the gorge swing. Took almost an hour. Then it was an hour's drive on mud-tracked roads back to the rafting company's lodge. I was beat, beat, beat.
When I got back to the place I was staying, I made a phone call back to Lusaka. It turns out that Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia's founding father, was willing to talk to me -- but only the next evening, before he flew back to the U.S.A. Which meant I had to cut short my trip to Livingstone by a couple days, cancel a bunch of interviews, and take a six-hour bus ride back to Lusaka the next morning.
I have to admit I'd been looking forward to this Livingstone trip as a source of relaxation. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but I don't think "relaxing" would be the first adjective I'd use to describe the weekend.
So I spent today jumping off a cliff.
Before I go into that, may I just point out that Livingstone has a significantly higher bug quotient than Lusaka? Creepy crawlies everywhere. I've got a room at Gecko's Guesthouse, a hostel on the southern edge of the city that targets older and family backpackers -- they market themselves as a quieter alternative to Jolly Boys and Fawlty Towers, the two mega-backpacker places (and Chachacha equivalents) in Livingstone.
Nice place, and there's even a fan in my room (major bonus points there). But bugs all over. Not just bugs -- stupid bugs. Bugs that look like flies (they have wings!) but for some reason appear interested only in walking. Try to squish them and they can't seem to get properly motivated for evasive maneuvers.
I'm lying in bed right now, and every 90 seconds or so, there's another one on me. I take my time to make visual confirmation (yes, that is a bug), evaluate the situation (this bug is a nuisance to me), and create a plan of attack (I do believe I shall crush this bug). I could calculate pi to 100 digits, run a 5K, and issue a press release announcing my intention to end this stupid bug's stupid life, and it still would not have moved. It gets crushed (no resistance) and swept away, only to make way for his stupid little friend 90 seconds away.
They're not even bugs I can have a proper respect for. Stupid bugs.
Anyway: As mentioned a couple days ago, I'm in Livingstone now to write about the adrenaline sports industry that's popped up here in the shadow (in the spray?) of Victoria Falls. The highlight for me was the package offered by Abseil Zambia, which runs the Zambezi Swing. For $95, you spend the whole day knocking yourself out on their four activities:
1. Rappelling down the Batoka Gorge, a vertical drop of around 160 feet.
2. The rap-jump, which is just like rappelling except you're facing down at the ground, sort of running down the cliff.
3. Flying Superman-style across a high wire spanning the gorge (about 400 feet or so)
4. The gorge swing.
Rappelling's fun and all, and the high wire rocked. But the star power here is clearly the gorge swing, one of only two of its kind in the world (the other's in South Africa). The company has strung a high-tension wire across the gorge and suspended some sort of anchor from the wire's center. From that anchor hangs a looooong rope (of the rock-climbing variety, not the bungee variety). You stand on one side of the gorge, attach the rope to your harness, and jump off.
You freefall for about 160 feet (twice as far as the Vic Falls bungee, which is one of the world's tallest). Then the freefall becomes the world's largest tree swing, sending you at about 90 mph across the gorge, back and forth. It's awesome.
As proof, I offer the first video (4.1MB) in zambiastories.com history, of me making my first gorge swing. Luckily for both of us, you won't be able to make out what I'm screaming right after the leap.
It's really a wonderful sensation. The freefall is exhilarating (and noisy, between your screams and the rush of the wind). Then comes the swing, which is completely silent -- your speed slows enough that the wind noise drops away and you're left with a beautiful calm suspended in the middle of the gorge.
I should point out this was only the first of my three swings. For the second, I fell off the platform backwards. The third was the scariest of them all: stepping off the platform backwards, so for the entire freefall, you're staring at the cliff's rock face only about 10 feet away. If I can surmount some technical difficulties (sidenote: anyone know what it means when DV plays back poorly and the words "16 bit" flash on the video screen?), you may someday soon see videos of those other jumps here, too.
Only two things could damper the day's happiness. The first was the fact that each jump meant a lengthy, arduous climb back out of the gorge. The first 15 minutes of that climb were perfectly pleasant; the last 15 were thigh killers, rock scrambling up a roughly 35-degree incline. Making that climb five times (three times after swings and twice after rappelling) made me yearn for the introduction of escalator technology to the bush.
The other downside was figuring out the economics. The place had around 20 customers today, which means about $2,000 in revenues. All the jumps are run by a staff of 22 young Zambian men. I chatted one of them up, and he said Abseil Zambia pays them each $1 a day. $1 a day! Scarily enough, that's actually above the Zambian average income (barely), but it's absolutely pathetic that the company's labor costs were only $22 today. (There is one other employee -- a woman who manages the operation and doesn't seem to do much other than sit around all day. She's also white, and I'm damned sure she makes more than $1 a day.)
Abseil Zambia is a South African-owned company, and a couple of the workers said SAf companies never pay well. I guess they're used to artificially cheap black labor. I hope Abseil figures out some way to better share the profits of their excellent product.
Surprising fact: Duct tape is an unknown concept in Zambia.
I'd have imagined that it'd be ubiquitous. It fits a classic Third World paradigm: many uses packed into one convenient package. What repair can't be made with duct tape? (Other than, of course, a broken heart.)
Yet I spent an hour roaming Lusaka for duct tape and was left wanting. My lame "leather" duffle bag (purchased for $17 at a gas station in Natchitoches, Louisiana -- so you expect quality) was falling apart. One handle had already been ripped off, and I needed to reattach it. Duct tape to the rescue, right?
I went to a convenience store -- they directed me to the street one block behind Cairo Road where all of Lusaka's hardware stores sit. It was Zambian Independence Day, so most stores were closed, but all the hardware stores were Indian-owned and open.
I went door-to-door, from shop to shop. In each one went a conversation like this:
Me: Do you have any duct tape?
Indian Hardware Store Owner: [Silence.]
Me: Duct tape? [pronounced more slowly this time, accompanied by a duct-tape hand gesture of my own invention]
INSO: What is this duck tape?
Me: It's a kind of gray tape, about this wide, on a roll. It's very strong, and is constructed with a fibrous structure that makes it very useful in common household repairs -- even for sealing leaky pipes in the kitchen or bathroom!
INSO: That sounds like an excellent product.
Me: Indeed! Do you have any?
INSO: No.
Just to make sure, I asked several times to see the shop's complete tape supply. No duct tape. In fact, I am here to report to you today that Zambia's tape needs are woefully underserved. Most shops could offer only some weak freezer tape, with only an occasional electrical tape sighting. Perhaps this is the secret to Zambia's economic difficulties! Duct tape for all! One Zambia, firmly fastened together!
One hesitates to think of the social revolution a little Super Glue could bring.
