Sometimes a muzungu is just a muzungu,

but sometimes he is a 'white person'.

A few years ago, I saw a large "For Whites Only" sign atop a bus in Lusaka. Took me a moment to realize it was a soap advisement. However, in the Post Office one day two women were complaining about the service they weren't getting. I wound up defending the PO employee. "Well, this is the reason you don't complain," said one holding her dark arm next to my pale one. They felt they were being discriminated against, and I was getting good service because I was white. There have been no other such incidents in all my months here.

Then last Saturday, Phillip and I were returning the large tent we had borrowed from the Zambian Air Force. When we arrived at the facility, Phillip went in the large guard house complex and was gone for about 10 minutes, he came back out and we sat for another 10 minutes. Finally a female officier emerged and looked us over as she slowly approached. Going to Phillip's side of the vehicle. "You didn't tell me you had a white person with you," she says.

So there I was, not a muzungu, which I prefer, but a white person. She didn't ask if I were Zambian, but was directed to a bench where I could wait for Phillip to return.

I should say the reverse happened at the US Embassy where on my first visit I had gone with Phillip to register. Phillip was directed by a Zambian employee to leave, with a 'get out' tone in his voice.

This Weeks' Interview:
Lazarous Mwale, age 16.

Lazarous became a special friend of mine on my last visit. He seemed to attach himself to me and was always ready to have something read to him. He and I didn't communicate well, he had a limited vocabulary in English and I had none in Nyanja. I often wondered what stories he most liked, until I realized he didn't care what I read, it was just 'the reading' he liked.

He was about 13 then and a 3 year resident of the orphanage. At times I could see he was hurting, staring off, focused on nothing with a forlorn look on his face. Questions as to how he was feeling or if there was anything that would make him feel better, or was there anything he would want to talk about, got no answer. I think Phillip said he had no more success than I. So at those times, I would just sit beside him for whatever time I had.

He would sometimes accompany me on my walks and it was in that way I learned something of his background, such as that he was raised in a village before moving to Lusaka. I've mention before that he would be distressed when the boys (without a village background) would chase the stray cows off our property by throwing rocks at them. He knew that cows were valuable and to be treated with respect.

Lazarous is in the 7th grade, a lanky shy fellow who is apt to look at the ground for a moment when addressed. His hobbies are reading, football and taking walks. One day he would like to be a pilot in the Zambian Air Force. He knows that he will have to first enter the army and then be chosen for training and duty in the Air Force.

His happiest time at Chishawasha was just last Friday at the Official Opening.
His saddest occasion here was when he learned of the death of his aunt (mother's sister). He had lived with her for a time.

What changes have you seen in your time here? The buildings, school, and the gardens are much bigger. The houses and the school are the biggest change.

What do you l like best here? The school.
What things would you change: I would make a new pitch [old one was put out of action by the new electric fence], and build more houses.

Relatives? I have no relatives here but I have an uncle and cousins I can visit in Lusaka. I have an older sister I have not visited in the village.

Friends? I have friends in Lusaka that I know from my visits there, as well as friends from church and here.

What would life be like if you had not come here? I would not have learned all that I have learned here. I may have gotten some school but nothing like this we have. Living with my aunt was not all bad.

What would you wish to find in the next container? Lots of books, lots of school things (supplies), and clothes.

What would you do if you had the money? Build houses for those who have none, for those in need, like we do here.

Any memories to share from your past? I had lived with my mother and father in the village, when my father died, I went to Lusaka to live with my aunt. K remember my parents. I was too young to go to school at that time.
Can you keep in touch with your siblings? My uncle who lives in Eastern Prov. tells me about how they are.

Anything else you'd like to say? I would like to know about you who read this.

A little thing, or is it?
Nshima (cooked maize meal) is served with every supper and sometimes lunch. These is this large white mound on about 1/3 of your plate, somewhat reminiscent of mashed potatoes, although much more resistant. You can easily cut portions with your fork. Zambians often serve a little meat with this and it comes with a small serving of 'soup' (gravy) which is always put on your meat.

It seemed like such a small thing to me, not the least unreasonable, to have my 'soup' served on my nshima just like gravy on mashed potatoes. When being served I have adroitly shifted plate to get the gravy where I wanted it, no luck. Seemed I only trained the server to be more observant. I have forcibly grabbed a young girl's arm who was serving me to direct the 'soup' nshima-ward, but without success, but did manage to cause some annoyance.

Last night when one of the boys was serving, I all but cried in my request for this special consideration. I won! But before the blessing, mother, at the other end of the table, spotted this unfortunate nshima and was directing one of the kids to remove the contaminated serving and give me a fresh one. I was able to thwart this without upseting the table. I can only guess at the level of offense I caused the others at that meal.

Well, the proper way to eat nshima is with your hands, not a fork. If you were picking up your nshima and rolling it into a ball, you would not want it covered with oily gravy. You daintily dip your balled nshima into the 'soup' before eating it. Pristine, white nshima is appetizing but not a serving covered with 'soup'. Some little things are much bigger than you could imagine.

This a more culture conscious Sam, blog pressing out of Africa.