African Fabrics and the Zambia

Upon finding out this interior designer was moving to Africa, so many American friends and family immediately exclaimed, “Oh!  The fabrics!  You will find so many amazing fabrics!”

I am still looking.

Africa is notorious for its colorful eye-popping textile designs, often called chitenge.  The problem is, they are not in my country.  It has been a fascinating topic of conversation for me as I have slowly come to realize that a number of factors are at play here.

1.  Our country, a post-colonial British country, has a population with a Westernized fashion sense. This has placed African fashions in the backseat.  Advertisements, media, and images of beauty reflect the Western world over other design styles.  And the richer a person is the more Westernized they typically dress here, so thus the demand bends away from the traditional.

2. The American foreign aid we see and feel most often in this country comes in the form of giant containers of clothing.  Most have slight defects.  And many, I assume are surplus, as oodles and oodles are from big suppliers like Gap, Polo, American Eagle, etc. These have made Western styles more accessible to lower income populations in our country, further encouraging a move away from the traditional dress.

3. Our country used to have a fabulous cotton industry, but no longer.  Mills have closed down or moved to other countries within the last 10 years for a number of political and agricultural reasons related to local issues.  In addition, it has been difficult for them to compete with lower-priced Asian items.

4. As in so many other countries, the textiles from China are the most affordable and therefore most prevalently found in fabric stores.  China has a clear influence on our country, mostly in the form of financial and import relationships.  A man just stopped my husband in the market this weekend after hearing his American accent.  He wanted to barter for anything American-made we might have, “because everything else is low quality Chinese stuff,” he said.  I’m not making a political argument for or against Chinese textiles, but rather just stating that the goods here are dominantly Chinese, as are the most affordable textiles.  Indeed most textile mills in the world are now located on the Asian continent.

Most of the African-styled fabrics that do make their way to us have been brought across the border from Mozambique, South Africa, or Kenya, in small expensive amounts.   These pieces are usually thin cotton blends.  Therefore, upholstering in a thick African fabric is almost impossible unless one approaches a local maker to (expensively) custom-weave a piece of fabric.

The “small expensive amounts” mentioned above that are usually thin cotton blends can be seen most often on purses and bags, or on a special piece of clothing worn by women in our country.  My housekeeper laughed as she talked about these pieces of clothing recently, “They are called Zambias, but most are from Mozambique!”

 

Zambias are a piece of clothing that aren't technically clothing at all. A Zambia is a piece of African fabric, unsewn and typically 2 meters in length.  It is then tied around the body in a number of ways, though most often as a skirt.  It is always tied over clothing, not used as a solitary piece.  “A Zambia,” I am told by a Shona friend, “is good for adding Africa to a person. But secretly, we also use them often to hide stains or worn areas that mark our clothing underneath.”



I recently had to meet with a woman in a small village outside of our city.  Minutes before leaving my house I realized that I had never even considered whether a gift was necessary. I hurriedly approached my housekeeper. “A Zambia is traditional,” she said.  “But how fat is this woman?!”

No idea.  I sighed as I cut my four-meter African table cloth in half while my housekeeper watched and nodded.  “You have to,” she had said.

Yes. I did.  My hostess was delighted.  And now I have a Zambia, too!

The Sausage Tree

 

Obsession is a nice word to use when referring to our tot's fascination with seeds.  Since moving to Africa our little guy can think of hoarding nothing else.  African flora is full of seed pods, in all shapes and sizes: crescents, beebees, marbles, quarters, needles, the list never ends.  Meet Jonas' ultimate treat during our recent trip to Chirundu: a giant sausage tree, growing right in front of our cabin.

 

The sausage tree is quintessential Africa. Nick-named for its giant, sausage-shaped seed pods, the sausage tree is also known as the cucumber tree, and more properly, the Kigelia Tree.

The tree is covered by dark bell-shaped, maroon flowers, and is unique because the tree is evergreen where rainfall occurs throughout the year and deciduous in places experiencing long dry seasons (such as in Chirundu).  The tree is native to Africa, and is found only in a few other parts of the world due to import.

 

The “fruit” of the sausage tree is referred to as a “woody berry.” Our little guy and I cut one open after what seemed like eternal hacking with a cleaver.  Inside was a hard, solid, fibrous pulp holding small seeds.  Do not stand or park under a sausage tree. There is nothing dainty about these things. These sausage pods are so solid that I’m pretty sure many a coma has been induced by these puppies.  The thick crashing
sound of these falling in blowing wind was enough to wake us all at night.

 

Animals eating the woody berry disperse and plant these seeds during defecation.  The sausages are known to be valuable in African herbal medicine, and are prized for their use in skin care products, as well as for treatment of snakebites, rheumatism, syphilis, arthritis, tornadoes (yes, I typed that correctly), and evil spirits.

The fresh fruit is poisonous to humans but can be consumed after drying or roasting, or fermenting into an alcoholic beverage similar to beer.  The timber of the sausage tree is also good for a number of uses, including the carving of African canoes called makoros.

Jonas could not leave Chirundu without some souvenirs.  Another awesome seed pod for the collection!

African Bumper Sticker

Tiring Lilly Out

Yesterday as I sat waiting in a bustling African village, wishing I had my camera, I watched as two little 3 or 4 year olds played together in the dirt.  They were each driving a mismatched shoe through the dirt as though it was a toy car.  It made me smile and reminded me of Lilly, our gardener’s son. 

We have given Lilly toys.  We have given Lilly balls.  We have given Lilly stuffed animals.  But none of them will do. Lilly loves one toy above all.  It rolls.  It lies.  It hides in forts. It travels everywhere. It fits around waists and twirling arms. It cuddles. To be sure, it's the number one toy found in the hands of little Shona and Ndebele all over our country:  a tire. 

Our African Gardens- Winter Wonders

Whew.  Almost done with winter.  As we feel the nudge of spring finally upon us, we are taking one last look at winter.  Because we will travel abroad to warmer climates all throughout Africa's next winter, this may be the only one we see for a very long while.  Yes please.

Here are some of the great botanicals that have kept us company this winter:
https://picasaweb.google.com/cherijohnsondesign/JuneAndJulyFlora?authkey=Gv1sRgCLe4lqz-6LuBoAE

You Know You've Lived In Our Africa...

When we lived in New York City, tourists were identifiable by a number of never-failing qualities.  They wore tennis shoes, jeans, and baggy coats.  They walked slower than everyone else and clogged the sidewalk four across.  And they were always looking up to gawk at buildings.  Here the tourists are the people who stop to look at monkeys.

We are officially not tourists any more. Now that we've been here a year, here are some ways you know you've lived in our Africa for a year...

-When you don't look twice at large spiders, geckos, or skinks on your walls.

-When "now now" "just now" "izzit" "wazzit" and "doezzit" and "eesh" become part of your vocabulary.

-When you've dewormed your child... more than once.

-When you eat avocados more for breakfast than at any other meal.

-When traffic stops no longer bother you, even if they include an AK-47 wielding soldier.

-When you carry an untouchable $20 in the glove box for bribes at said traffic stops.

-When it is not sacrilege to dump the leftover guacamole in the trash.

-When you have bought a license to own a television and a separate one to own a car radio.

-When you know what words like chongololo, tsessebe, arvie, pram, braii, and avo mean.

-When you know that words like "geyser" and "robot" don't really mean "geyser" or "robot".

-When you can calmly step out of the way of a hippo or elephant who has decided to graze during your riverside braii.

-When you know five ways to eat sadza/mealiepap.

-When you no longer cringe when somebody jams a screwdriver or pair of scissors into an outlet in order to plug something in.

Oral Rehydration Therapy

I once ate a scratch n' sniff sticker the size of my hand that was supposed to smell like birthday cake.  I once licked purple bird poop to win a sweatshirt.  And I once drank an entire glass of ketchup mixed with grape juice. My youthful days of illogical dares still confound me.

But this was worse.  As someone told me a few days ago, "It's like drinking a cup of your tears."  I would say it's pretty much like combining a cup of sweat with a cup of yellow gatorade.

Apparently my life is a game of Oregon Trail these days.  I have just had my third bout of stomach flu-dysentery-food poisoning-cholera in two months time.  I am sorry to be talking about it here.  But it has not been pretty.  And this kind of sickness is much more common in the tropics than more temperate climates. As a friend so eloquently told me recently, "It's the luck of the draw.  If the fly that lands on your food has just come from a pile of dog crap, you'll never know until you're face down in the toilet."

My latest attempt to recuperate has led me to Oral Rehydration Therapy, a common treatment for dysentery in rural areas of Africa.   It is basically the 3rd World version of Pedialyte.  And though it tastes like sweaty back, believe it or not, this well studied treatment actually even has its own wikipedia page.  Developed throughout the 1800s and 1900s, Oral Rehydration Therapy has saved millions of lives throughout the continent.

ORT, as it is known, is a ratio-ed solution of salt, water, and sugar. 750 mL of water is mixed with 6 level teaspoons of sugar and 1/2 teaspoon of salt.  The solution is then drunk (gagged down) with the promise of feeling entirely better by the next day... or two.  This solution is made of easily accessible items, though one can also purchase ORS (Oral Rehydration Salts) packets to carry as first aid.  The use of this solution has become so standard in our country, that I am told the printed directions are given to new parents as part of birth certificate paperwork.

Let's hope it works.  I am ready to get off the Oregon Trail at any time.

Cause to Pause: The Reality of Africa

Here we are.  One year in Africa today.  It's cause to pause and reflect on what we've learned in our now-not-so-new continent.  And one thing has been on my mind lately.

--But before I start spilling my latest thoughts, I must add a disclaimer... because every time I write anything (I hope to be) introspective on this blog, I have a few friends who immediately contact me and say, "Are you okay?  You sound sad.  Are you thinking of returning early?"  The answer is always a firm no.  Wrestling with challenges and big ideas is not at all the same as unhappiness.  We're loving this continent, all we're learning, and our continued new experiences!  Okay, let's move on to the one thing--

The shock of moving to Africa is not in experiencing how people different than myself live, the strangeness of new flora and fauna, or the awe of a new landscape.  The shock of Africa is continually the shift in reality.  As I explore the complex landscapes of African life I am confronted over and over by the relevance of things I have previously learned or paid attention to.  And the lack of relevance.

I have crossed paths with hundreds of people that will never know what it is like to travel thirty miles beyond home.  That will never understand how time-consuming Facebook can be.  That will never know what “Googling” something means, what a Kleenex is, or what chocolate tastes like. I have seen street vendors tie bricks to their baby's legs lest they crawl into the street. I have seen bricks used as produce to play store, and a public metal bench used as a chew to soothe a teething child.  I have seen a child turn a paint chip into a toy named Henry.

Until the minute we left our city home for the wilds of Chirundu, Zim, a few weeks ago, I was paying attention to things like an anticipated royal baby, a book on happiness, and my email inbox.  But as with every trip outside The Bubble, Chirundu once again reminded me of how irrelevant things I have put energy into can be at times.  It has become my struggle. And perhaps, to an extent, my fear.   

An excellent blog post I read recently, entitled What Happens When You Live Abroad, perfectly describes the tragedy of the ex-patriot.  “As you settle into your new life and country, as time passes and becomes less a question of how long you’ve been here and more one of how long you’ve been gone, you realize that life back home has gone on without you…. People have grown up, they’ve moved, they’ve married, they’ve become completely different people—and so have you…. So you look at your life, and the two countries that hold it, and realize that you are now two distinct people.  As much as your countries represent and fulfill different parts of you and what you enjoy about life, as much as you have formed unbreakable bonds with people you love in both places, as much as you feel truly at home  in either one, so you are divided in two…. You cannot be in two places at once, and from now on, you will always lay awake on certain nights and think of all the things you’re missing out on back ‘home.’"

My compliments to the writer, Chelsea Fagan, as this perfectly put into words my constant feeling of being pulled between my previous wonderful world of television, media, and more abstract expressions of art and philosophy with a more realistic “reality” of raw survival based only on that which I can see directly in front of me.  Putting words to these challenges is helpful, as I mourn my inability to live two lives at once. Or five. Or ten.

My fear is missing out.  Feeling left behind.  Recognizing I haven’t kept up with the things “real” Americans should know through their media barrage. Until I left the US, at least an hour + of each of my days were spent reading a book, listening to music, watching television or a movie, taking in advertisements, reading articles, searching online, etc.  In laymen's terms, spending part of my day in someone else's interpretation of reality or their imagined story-based hypotheticals.  And I loved it.  I felt connected.  Inspired. Energized. Knowledgeable.  Appreciative of others' stories and art. 

As I move away from the digital, pop-culture, imaginary world that daily flavored my past days, my surrounding reality grows.  The pieces of my life centered around re-learning how to live, how to operate, shop, drive, and speak in a new place, how to carry out every day activities like a child, have become the larger part of my daily diadem as time continues on my second continent.  These things are for better and for worse.  But they seem to have stretched me. More knowledgeable.  More aware.  Deeper into reality. Fundamentally altered.

Yet suddenly I've become uncertain of how to someday re-enter the culture from which we’ve temporarily stepped away.  As I experience new things in the realities of African life, as reality itself grows bigger and my American media world gets smaller, questions simmer. Are pieces of my previous life suddenly irrelevant?  Do they hold less meaning? More meaning?  What will happen when I don't understand the jokes being told on Late Night?  Or what a news anchor is talking about when they refer to something that happened last year?  Or who is being shown on the red carpet? What will happen when I return and don't recognize a single song on the radio? Thank God for my tiny time on facebook, or I wouldn't  know important things like the latest on Angelina Jolie's breasts.  What would happen if I returned to the US and didn't know about Angelina's breasts?  Can you imagine?!

I will never be able to play trivial pursuit again.

My literacy of American culture has surely already been changed and will continue to be the longer I am here. How will I combine suddenly feeling like two people, never quite at home in either place?

The only thing I can do is to remind myself.  Over and over. 

Two people can hold more than one. 


Related posts:
If Ever You Need Perspective
Becoming American
Geography