America or Bust

Don't let the smile fool you:  this is a dirty, rotten child.

"You have to change those diapers every day.  When those directions on the side of the Pampers box say, 'Holds 6-12 pounds' they're not kidding!"  --Jeff Foxworthy

If at all possible, don't travel overseas with young children.  I have done it, and I'm still recovering.  

Oliver and I departed for America at midnight, which meant that he'd passed out well before we'd even reached the security checkpoint, so I got to lug his 40-pound corpse and all of our carry-ons.  As I removed his shoes to place in the scanner, one of the Zambian staff shook her head and scolded me, "You should have brought a chitenge for that child."  In other words, I should have brought a large piece of fabric so I could have strapped my child to my back instead of carrying him in my arms.   

 No, I should have left this child at home, because little did I know that it was only going to get worse. 

The day before our flight, Oliver went to the doctor, because he had pharyingitis and a sinus infection.  The doctor loaded him up with antibiotics and steroids, so we wouldn't have any breathing issues on the flight.  Unfortunately those drugs wreaked havoc on his intestines. 

I won't be too graphic, but let's just say that within an hour after takeoff, there was an explosion in Oliver's seat.  Such was the damage that I notified the flight attendant. "Um, you may want to burn this blanket...this pillow...and uh, this whole seat."  
  
I threw away his other outfit, and put on his CANADA t-shirt.  We were a walking disaster, and America sure didn’t need us for ambassadors.

After two 10-hour flights and a 5-hour layover in Amsterdam, we arrived in our homeland.  A couple days later, still struggling with jet lag, I gave a speech for my father's Rotary club. 

"Just make it short and FUNNY," was the official request. 

"No problemo.  There are plenty of funny things about Zambia," I told myself.  What I should have done was decline... AND left Oliver at home. 
 
The venue was dinner at a golf club.  

While enjoying our meal, Oliver creamed his shorts.  As I escorted him to the ladies' room I scolded myself for not bringing a diaper bag.  For crying out loud, I’ve had at least one child in diapers for nine years! When will I learn? (My money is on NEVER at this point.)
 
Fortunately the ladies room had a courtesy basket filled with feminine supplies.  With MacGyver-like efficiency I affixed three Maxi pads into Oliver’s shorts and headed back to dinner like it was no big deal. 
 
I mean, what was the chance that he’d have another blow-out before my speech was finished?
 

Wait for it…

Yeah, there was a 100% chance, and this time it was a full disaster. 
 
I thought about fashioning a toilet paper toga for Oliver, but Grandma rescued me us.  She rushed him home, and I stepped on stage for my stand-up comedy debut. 

 “I live in Zambia,” I said.  "It’s the size of Texas.  There are 13.5 million people and 40,000 hippos."   I gave a few facts before I attempted my first joke.  

 "And, this may be hard to believe, but there are a whole bunch of black people there," I said and waited for laughter.

Crickets.  That is, until someone asked, "Well, what did you expect?"

I was sure that my audience had a sense of humor, so I tried again. 

"Actually there are a few people who are white.  They have a skin condition called albinism which is a medical disorder where they lack pigment in their skin," I explained.
 

Which person has albinism?

I was poking fun at my own melatonin deficiencies, but my audience only felt pity for the other woman.  People actually said, "Aww." 

But why stop at two failed jokes when you could have yet another opportunity to be misunderstood?  I pressed on ahead. 

"Speaking of people with no color, Zambia has a white Vice-President.  This is pretty incredible considering Zambia was a nation that was colonized by the British."   

"Yeah," my dad told me later, "I suspect that your audience thought you were saying that Zambia is great, BECAUSE there is a white person in government."  (Which, for the record, was NOT my point.) 

At this point in my speech I knew that I wouldn't cut it as a comedian, so I put up a photo of that same child who had made my life so difficult during the past few days.
 

I call them "Thing 1" and "Thing 2"

This is Oliver with his best friend in the world, Daniel.

"Why am I in Zambia?" I asked my audience.  "Here is why: Daniel's mom died in childbirth.  The woman who adopted him has herself lost two children to preventable diseases. This is a kid who has so much potential.  I want to see Zambia become a country where Oliver's best friend has access to excellent education and awesome medical care.  Thank you very much, and good night." 

That's how I ended it, and boy, was I happy to see Eric, Isaac and Alexandra when they flew in a few days later.  I was sure that my speech and sickness was behind me. 

Little did I know that the stomach flu and strep throat were coming down the pike.

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

"And far be it from me to ever let my common sense get in the way of my stupidity. I say we press on.” ― Sherrilyn Kenyon, Infinity

"How are you going to tell this story without making me look bad?" Eric asked as we drove away from Zambian immigration.  He knew that this blog post was imminent and begged for mercy.

I thought for a moment and graciously responded, "The truth is, Eric, all of us do dumb things. In fact, I think each person is allowed 1000 Stupid Points a year."

"Ok...," he said.

"Remember when, today, you made fun of me, because I couldn't pump the sunblock out of the bottle, so I unscrewed the lid and wiped the straw over my arm?"  I asked.

"Yeah, that was something else.  All you had to do was turn the head in the direction of the arrow that was printed on the top of the head and...voilà! It's like a magic pump!" Eric grinned.

"Yeah," I said.  "That was worth 1 Stupid Point.  Me?  I like to use my points one or two at a time."

He nodded.

"You?  You like to blow them all at once. Don't get me wrong.  I'm ever-so-grateful, because I needed some  blogging material."

"Oh.  Good point."

So without further ado...this blog post is dedicated to my handsome and very intelligent husband:

*****************************************************************************

Oliver and Aunt Lisa in the Safari Truck

Eric's sister Lisa is visiting Zambia.  To punish ourselves celebrate, we piled into the car and headed down to Victoria Falls.  Oliver didn't appreciate Victoria's cold deluge, and I didn't appreciate slipping-on-my-bum on Knife's Edge bridge while holding my screaming toddler.  Come on Zambia...let's de-slime the bridges, so people don't have to break a hip while viewing one of the Natural Wonders of the World.  

Happy family at the top of Victoria Falls

But I digress...

The following day we crossed the border to Botswana and safaried by boat and car.  

Sorry...but another digression...

Message for safari knuckleheads:  NOBODY cares what you've seen on previous safaris.  I don't care if you've seen a 5-legged giraffe doing the Macarena...don't bother mentioning it on a my safari. 

A common one-upmanship conversation goes like this:

Person A:  It was SSSSSSSOOOOOOOO amazing.  We saw a lion!
Person B:  Really?  That's great.  I remember when we saw a whole lion family wrestling with each other.  I'll never forget how cute the newborn cubs were.
Person C:  Lions are nice, but the most spectacular thing I've ever seen was a leopard  making a kill while giving birth.  

Don't get me wrong: lion cubs are adorable.

The worst time to hear this conversation is on a safari when all the animals are hiding, except the troop of baboons, which--let's be honest--are the sewer rats of the safari world.

That day our safari was rather uneventful, with two exceptions:

1) The dung beetles.  They are fascinating little creatures.

I think we ran over this little lady with our truck.

2) The horny elephant.  And by "horny" I don't mean a rhino.  I'm talking about the, "Mommy, why does that elephant have 5 legs?" horny.  

The 5-legged elephant

After the safari, the Showells breezed through Botswana immigration and headed to Zambian immigration.  This particular border crossing is mayhem wrapped in chaos with a side of nonsense. There are semi-trucks and street vendors, armed guards and money changers.   If you are not used to it, it is sensory overload.  Add in three kids and you can understand why Eric didn't want to wait in the line with everybody else.

So he grabbed someone to help expedite the process.  The kids and I went to our car and waited.

And waited.  And waited.  Then our "expeditor" came out and asked if I had accidentally grabbed Lisa's passport, because it was missing.  I checked my bags.  Nope.  Not with us.

A few minutes later Lisa came out to the car.  She was shaking with anger.  "They've lost my passport," she said and tears spilled down her cheeks.  

By this time, I'd become BFFs with the money changers.  I told Lisa not to worry, but she was having none of it.  She was convinced that she'd never get out of Zambia.  Even the money changers told her to calm down.  "Don't worry, Madam.  Don't worry..."

"How can they lose my passport?  This is ridiculous!" she yelled back at them.

"I don't know.  Just have a little faith.  They'll find your passport," I said.  The Zambian men outside my car nodded.  They wanted her to calm down just as much as I did.

"In fact," I added, "I'm going to pray to Jesus that we find this passport."  I said a quick prayer, and the Zambians emphatically their "Amens!"

Lisa muttered, "Eric better not have my passport in his pocket..."

Less than a minute later Eric was back at the car.  

"Did they find it?"  I asked.

"Yes, but here's the problem..."he started.

"Where was my passport?" Lisa interrupted.  

"In my back pocket.  And the guy from immigration is really really angry and wants us to apologize," he said.

Then the LIVID immigration official appeared at my window.  Eric hadn't yelled or behaved inappropriately, but the tense situation made the immigration official lose face and people had assumed that he'd done something crooked, when, in fact, he had just been doing his job.  

Eric apologized.  Lisa apologized.  I apologized.  

And with that and a huge smile, the man let us go on our merry way.

That's how Eric spent his Stupid Points and how Lisa earned her African wings.  Funny thing is, she won't put her passport down and keeps talking about "not missing her flight."

Ah, Africa.  You never disappoint me.  

 

Licensed to Drive

My first traffic ticket in my life!

"It was harder to get my driver's license than to get pregnant and give birth."--Julie Bowen

I got a traffic ticket a few months back, because I got caught breaking the law.*

It started with a harebrained idea to avoid a police checkpoint, because I knew they'd ask for my driver's license.   I do have a legal USA driver's license, but Zambian law states (somewhere) that you must get a Zambian license within three months.  Considering it had been nearly 1 1/2 years and I still didn't have one, I'd  be fined (and rightly so).  Granted...I could have lied.  I could have told the officer that I'd only been in Zambia for 2 months and HE WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN.

But I didn't lie, because it is wrong to lie, and my children and my PARENTS were with me.  That's when I made a U-turn before the roadblock and avoided the whole situation completely.

Come to find out, that's illegal and WAY worse than lacking a Zambian driver's license.  The officer in the unmarked police car scolded me and fined me $100 for "dangerous driving".

Just then my friend Megan drove by us.  I flagged her down, because she's bragged about getting pulled over twenty-something times and never paying a fine.  I asked her to work some of her magic.

She tried all of the tricks in the book:  explaining that we were going to an orphanage (which was true), pleading in the local language, and telling them that we'd pay our fine at the police station later.  The officer smiled and said, "I'm sorry, I'll have to impound your car until you pay the fine."

Then came the ever-so-subtle question:  How much are you willing to pay?

This is the cue to slip the officer $10.  Which, to be completely honest, I'd have been delighted to do.

"I'm sorry, we are Christians.  We don't pay bribes," Megan apologized.  And that's when my ticket went from $10 back to $100.

"Ok, then give me $50," he said and issued us the official receipt.

Megan chipped in $10, we paid the fine and got the heck out of there. 

This nonsense encouraged me to buck up and get my license.  The dilemma was my provisional license was expired, so I needed special authorization for my temporary license.  Seems straightforward, but there is no straightforward in Zambia. 

This is the actual prayer I prayed as we walked into one of the obscure branches of the Department of Licensing:

"God, please give us a female officer who is in a good mood today and will forgive us for our trespasses and issue us a driver's license for no penalty." 

He answered my prayer to a T and Eric and I went home with our temporary driver's licences. A few weeks later I got my final license (which was at a 4th DOL location in Lusaka.  Sheesh...talk about the mother of all scavenger hunts to get something done. Just saying...)

I now carry my Zambian license like a badge of honor. You can imagine my disappointment when I'd passed through several police checkpoints over the following weeks, and not a single officer asked to see it.

One day I'd had enough, so I begged an officer to please, please, please ask to see my license, because I was dying to show it to someone.  She smiled and obliged. 

She then thanked me and let me go on my merry way.





*One day I'll write about the 3 times I've been mistakenly pulled over for "speeding".