081: Albert the Turkey

​“Just let me do it this year,” Chelsi had responded to Hannah and Sami’s email about preparing for Thanksgiving 2016.  “I just need you to make sure that the turkey arrives on Monday, alive and well.  DO NOT let them put it under the bus!”  What Chelsi had realized was that she just needed to make her instructions simple and clear. She was taking it upon herself to organize the meat course for this year, and rightly so, she thought, remembering last year’s ‘meat leader’ Paul, who had taken on the position out of some poorly placed sense of manly duty.  

“The entire time we were cutting up the pig last year he kept complaining that he was about to vomit.” Chelsi tried to explain to anyone who would listen.  

“So then what else do you need?” Hannah and Sami had responded after accepting her bid for the position.  

“Charcoal… Just charcoal. I’ll talk to Neal about what else he needs for the pig.” Slightly against her better judgement, Chelsi had delegated the task of cooking the pig to her nearest neighbor Neal.  She had been swayed by his genuine passion for the project and her confidence in her ability manage and rectify his inevitable failure. 

“He wants to put the pig in a pit, doesn’t he?” 

“Yeah…”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? Do you think it’ll work?”

“He’s very confident it’ll work, I think there’s about a fifty-fifty chance.  But this year I can guarantee that the turkey will be good and next year Neal will likely be the one leading the meat, so it’s better that he gets all of his wackiest ideas out of him now.”

When the day before Thanksgiving came, all preparations commenced.  A proverbial grave was dug, a funeral pyre lit inside and when the sun began to sink low on the horizon the pig, wrapped lovingly in banana leaves and chicken wire was buried in the pit. At that time, Chelsi could have sworn that she had seen a matching graving spring up just beside, all of your hopes and dreams, the headstone had read.  But Chelsi had walked away with confidence in her own project; dressing the turkey, Thanksgiving’s real star, she thought to herself. 

With some patience and agility the bird, who had been free to roam the expansive yard of the provincial office it’s last few days of life, was caught.  Though a larger crowd than Chelsi had expected showed up to watch the bird bleed out, it died well with little commotion. “Which is what you want,” she had instructed her friend and assistant Oliver.  “Next we’ll dip it in the water I’ve been heating on the brazier and we’ll feather it.”

The cleaning and cutting went smoothly, and nine plump piece of meat where dropped into brine and stored in the fridge till the next morning.  
“What time to you think we should unbury the pig?” Neal asked Chelsi Thanksgiving morning around the breakfast table.

Chelsi shrugged, “What’s your confidence level like that it’s finished?”

Neal paused for a moment in quiet reflection, “97%. I am 97% sure that in like an hour it will be perfectly done.”

“Alright then, I’ll meat you out there with a shovel.” Chelsi laughed, “get it? I’ll MEAT you out there?”

Chelsi passed the next hour rinsing, drying and rubbing her bird with barbeque spices and setting the fire on the brazier.  And when the time came she meandered out to the front yard.  

Neal and Oliver where on their hands and knees brushing aside the dirt over the pig.  “It doesn’t really feel warm…” Neal said with a strong strain of concern in his voice.  When the pig was finally uncovered and hoisted out the outlook was not promising.

“This, this little spot here is the only part that cooked.” Neal said, deflated but with rising inflections of worrying and haste in his voice.  

“So what do you want to do now?” Chelsi ask, feeling genuinely sorry that the scheme hadn’t been successful.  

“I don’t know… I don’t know, do you think it’s still safe to eat?”

Chelsi looked it over; it smells, but not unlike any piece of meat, the color’s fine, the flesh still has integrity. “I think its fine.  I got the grill going. Why don’t we just put it up there, cover it and see what happens.”

When Chelsi looked up, she could see Neal’s face covered in full blown panic.  A thousand reasons of doubt exploded from his mouth.  

“Since there is not much more we can do,” Chelsi tried to retain all of her cool, calm and collectedness, “let’s put on the grill and see what happens.”

With the effort Chelsi, Neal and Oliver managed to situate the pig on the grill and Chelsi was able to return her focus to the turkey.

For the last time, she removed the piece from the refrigerator, rinsed them then patted them dry.  She placed a grate over her fire and laid out the pieces as far from the fire as she could.  She checked her watch, about 4 hours till dinner, perfect.   

With the remaining time Chelsi bathed and dressed, and periodically turned her pieces on the fire.  She enjoyed the parade of fanciful dishes passing by; green bean casserole, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, freshly baked diner rolls, pies, cakes, cookies. Everything one would expect for a Thanksgiving feast.  

“And how’s the pig coming?” Chelsi asked Neal as the dinner hour approached. 

“I think it’s going to be okay.  It looks good, it smells fine.” And Chelsi couldn’t help but notice that the color in Neal’s face was looking better as well.  “Oliver and I are going to take it off the grill and remove all of the edible pieces.”

“Great, I think the turkey is done too.  I’m going to grab someone to help me pull it apart and plate it.”

After removing it from the brazier and setting it to rest, the meat pulled away perfectly from the bones of the bird. 

“Oh my goodness,” Chelsi’s friend Allison cried, “this has to be one of the best turkey’s I’ve ever tasted.”

“Thank you!” Chelsi said blushing.  
When the dinner table was complete, all the volunteers gathered around and shared what they were thankful for.  For Chelsi, it was finding family so far away from home.  

077: Halloween

Chelsi carefully lifted the fire covered lid from the cast iron pan.  The scent of warm apples and cinnamon wafted by her nose.  It was her favorite holiday of the year, Halloween.  And while back in the States she would have decorated her house with colorful leaves and carved pumpkins, in Zambia it wasn’t yet pumpkin season and the only color of leaves to be found were green. Yet, as luck would have it, apples were available year round.  And what better way to get a festive use out of them, than to make a cake! Chelsi thought, gentle replacing the lid.

Heat from the brazier warmed the house, cooled by a recent rain.  She retook her seat in the stiff backed chair by the table.  Just enough light streamed through the window for her to see the picture she had been working on, and she hummed along to the Prairie Home Companion Halloween special steaming out of her phone as she drew:

Whenever you see the hearse go by; And think to yourself that you’re gonna die
Be merry my friends, be merry
They’ll put you in a big white shirt; And cover you over with tons of dirt
Be merry my friends, be merry
They’ll put you in a long shaped box; And cover you over with tons of rocks
Be merry my friends, be merry…

In addition to missing all the trapping of fall in the Northern Hemisphere, it was harder for Chelsi to conjure the festive fun the holiday usually brings along.  She couldn’t explain an American’s suspended disbelief in ghost, ghouls and goblins to her friends in the village because for them witches and spirits were really apart of daily life.  Every chameleon she found stoned on the side of the road was the persecution of a witch.  And just the other day Laura was telling me about a story she read in the newspaper, about a family found dead on the side of the highway through the Copperbelt.  ‘The going theory on their cause of death,’ Laura said, ‘is that they were witches.  They had shrunken themselves down to mount their flying bottle cap, which the father lost control of on their way to Lusaka.’ ‘In other words,’ Chelsi commented to clarify, ‘Death by flying bottle cap crash?’ ‘Yes…’  This year Chelsi would be satisfied with celebrating by herself.

As the sun sank past the horizon, Chelsi rose and collected to new white candles from their yellow storage basket, and two clean candle holders.  She affixed them together in the usual fashion, setting on the table and the other on the back window sill.  The aroma of apple cake now filled the house, a certain sign that it must be finished.  Carefully again, she removed the charcoal covered lid of the cast iron pan.  After depressing her forefinger into the cake it sprang back.  Chelsi smiled, and removed the pan from the brazier to a towel on the counter.  Cake safe, she deposited the coal from the lid into the brazier. Slipping through the propped open door, she brought out the remanence of her fire on to the front porch.  She over turned the brazier in one corner and piled the coal neatly on the cement.  Using a paint scraper, Chelsi removed the hardened ashes from the collection tray.  Back inside she refilled the brazier with fresh charcoal.  Just a sliver of the red sun could be seen on the horizon now, when she gazed through her back window.  She struck a match, lighting first the candle the table, then the one on the window sill before dropping it on to the brazier.

The house darkened quickly, though the candles burned down.  Chelsi watched as the little match raced towards its end.  When through the door came a sharp wind that sent Chelsi staggering back. The candles flickered wildly and the fire jumped, from the match to the charcoal.

035: Living as an example

“Mwabuuka!” one of the men out of a group shouted at Chelsi as they pasted by her house on the road. 
“Nabuuka!”
“Give me New Years!” she now could hardly see them as they disappeared behind some dense vegetation.
“Give me New Years!” Why not? She thought. If they had the audacity to ask her for things, why shouldn’t she expect they would be given in return?
Chelsi could hear them laughing at her response, but that was it.  She decided she was not going to letting constant asking for things bother her.  And to help cool her mood, she decided that in this coming year she would focus on the projects that made her happy.  She would not be chasing people down to get them to come to programs, she wouldn’t organize lessons through a third person, or agree to teach about topics that she found impractical for the village.
‘But you must teach us how to make cake,’ one of the women in her village had insisted when she first moved to the village.  And at first Chelsi had been excited to share knowledge about whatever was desired. Then she thought about it: So they’re going to use their limited income to buy a 30kw bag of flour, 22kw bag of sugar, a 40kw block of butter, eggs, milk and vanilla. Then run a 66% chance of burning the thing by trying to cook it over a fire. Mmmm, no. She would still consider doing a demonstration, but after months of pleading to get help roofing her chinzanza so they could build a proper oven to bake in, the chances of that demo ever happening were looking bleak. 
She was going to work in her garden, keep her pigeons, improve her house.  If people became interested in learning about the things she was already working on great. And if not well… After all, there is no one in the village that wouldn’t benefit from having a kitchen garden. 
Living as an example, that is one of the purpose of Peace Corps volunteers.  Living demonstrations of food security and conscious healthy habits.  Plus people naturally start copy the actions volunteers. Before Chelsi had Daisy there were two dogs in the village; now nearly everyone had one. 
On this New Year’s Eve, Chelsi reflected on her first eight months, and all the time and energy she spent cycling around, trying to visit two, three farmers, families, schools, in a day.   And thus far not much change. If gardening lessons were working she won’t have people asking her for food. If sensitization about malaria prevention was working, people won’t be constantly telling her they were sick with malaria.  So instead she was determined that over the next year she would save that energy and focus it on living as an example.  Maybe if instead of just telling people they should make gardens and how to do it, if they saw the success of mine they would be more interested in learning to build their own. Or instead of telling them how they should use and care for their mosquito nets if they saw me washing mine on a regular schedule they would be more likely to care for theirs.  

034: A walk to Christmas

She really didn’t have any choice.  Peace Corps has a strict policy on always wearing a helmet when riding a bike and Chelsi didn’t have hers; she had forgotten it at the Prov house when she moved back to the village.  So, for the past three weeks she hadn’t left her compound at all but now, she had made plans for the Christmas holiday with Ginny and Valerie to meet at the Wamami Lodge, just past Mitukutuku. 
“I know you won’t mind walking,” she said scratching the top of Daisy’s head.  Her puppy wiggled her tail. Daisy knew Chelsi was going somewhere because she had spent all morning packing a bag, and dah gone it if she was going to be left behind. 
It was a little before noon when Chelsi locked the door behind them, she figured it would take at least two hours to walk. They would be making the journey during the hottest part of the day but she did not want to risk getting in after dark.  She picked up her bag, slung it on her back and buckled on Daisy’s harness.  She didn’t really need a leash, but sometimes she behaved better when wearing her harness.  They waited at the road just at the end of Chelsi’s driveway.  Her host father was making his way up the path from his house.  He was dressed in his church cloths; dress pants, sport coat, button down.
“Where are you going?” like a barked order. But Chelsi resisted her usual response to that question: ‘that way,’ her polite way of saying ‘none of your business.’
“I’m going to town, to spend Christmas with other volunteers.”
“Ohhh…” the same slight sigh he made while slowly tilting his head back and glancing over his shoulder, when Chelsi answered one of his questions.  Sometimes she thought he just didn’t understand her, but most of the time she couldn’t tell, and just kept talking.
“I’ll be back the 26th. I’m taking the dog with me but the cat is staying, so you should see him wandering about.”
“Where is your bike?”
“It’s in the house.”
“You’re walking? Ahhhh, but walking is dangerous. Someone could chasing you. You are safer on your bike.”
“The people who would chase me, would probably also have bikes. I have been chased while on my bike. Plus I don’t have my helmet so I feel safer walking.” Just telling it like it is.
“Ahhh, but it’s not safe.”
“Okay, well I’m walking anyway.  My friends on the road will help me out if someone chasing me, plus I have the dog.”
He paused, before sticking out his arm and gesturing his hand in the up and down manner hitchhikers do when trying to get a lift. “If a motorcar come, stick out your hand. Get in the car…”
But Chelsi cut him off a bit, “I know, I know.” Because getting in a car with a complete stranger is so much safer than walking on the road with people familiar with me. But just as she was turning to go he started a get.”
“Ahhh, you will get Christmas for me while you are in town,” Zambians’ way of asking for Christmas presents, but she could tell this wasn’t a question. “Salt and bread.”
“Probably not, but don’t feel left out. I’m not giving Christmas to anyone.” All week people have been asking ‘give me Christmas, a cup’ or ‘give me Christmas, sugar’: mmmm, no.
“Okay,” she heard say as she turned her back.
“Tukamonaanga pa 26th.”
–
They past the road divot that she marked as the boundary of her village.  It had been surprising like quiet. Even the family that she was hoping to stop and chat, the compound was empty.  They must all me at church. Her host family had had lots of people around the compound for the last week and to Chelsi it sounded like they were reading scripture and holding mass.  But as soon as she thought she would be alone on her walk a Bamaama and her young son turned on to the road and started in Chelsi’s direction.
“Mwabuuka,” Chelsi greeted them.
“Twabuuka mwane,” Bamaama responded.  She was carrying something soft looking, wrapped in a chitenge and tied to her back, and nothing else.
“Wwa a pi?”
Like most of Chelsi’s local language converesations, she could asked questions but rarely understood the details of the answer.  But she gathered that this woman was headed to the house of a family member.
“Twaya ku town, ne tukamona bipaana”
“Anaweba?”
“Ne, Amiwa ne ka kakabwa kyami, Ka Daisy.” Chelsi pointed to her puppy, who was just ahead with her nose in the bush.
“Kakabwa kyenu?” the woman’s face was broad with a smile. Chelsi knew ka kakabwa was the linguistic equivalent of scooping up her dog like a baby and nuzzling her neck.  Most Zambians just say kabwa.
“Eee mwane.”
They walked on, mostly in silence, but this is why Chelsi liked walking. On my bike I would just ride by. There would be no casual conversation about her programs, her dog and life in Zambia. This is why she wasn’t afraid of being ‘chased.’ If you don’t run, you can’t be chased, and how she made friends with the people on the road.   Definitely better than riding the bike.

030: Thanksgiving

It was truly a mark of the passage of time; the arrival of Thanksgiving. Chelsi could hardly believe it. About three weeks previously an email had sent around to start organizing who would help cook what, but the thought that the day would ever arrive was far off. Part of it, for Chelsi, was the hope that it would be enough time for her situation to change.  But alas, she was still making her home in the Prov house.
Out of the list of things to do in preparation for Thanksgiving dinner, Chelsi had volunteered to cut the meat.  Two other men had already signed up for this duty but she was pretty confident she would be able to subdue them in to taking her direction.  After all she had a reputation to uphold as the Master Meat Carver of Northwest Provence.  The only thing that left her a little unsure was the animal on the menu.
“This is my first time breaking down a pig,” Chelsi confessed. She was staring into the fridge on the front porch at a lumpy white plastic sack.
Big Paul loomed behind her. “Last year we cooked the animals whole. And Sam was in charge of most of the cooking.”
“I heard about last year. He put meat in and on every cooking surface, including the brick fire oven and wouldn’t let anyone open the doors to add anything for hours.”
“Yeah, we didn’t eat till 9pm. And everyone else was stomping around angry.”
“Can you carry it over to the table? I figure we cut it up out here cause I know meat make some people uncomfortable.” She stepped aside so Big Paul could get into the fridge and prepared the rest of her tools.
Her boning knife, which she had taken to carrying with her everywhere. An assortment of bowls and pans for placing different parts: meat pieces, fat and skin, discard. Finally she removed her watch, bracelets and rings.  “Last year’s strategy is definitely not an option since we’re only going to have power till about 9:30. Which will only leave the propane oven down stairs and Ephriam took apart the brick oven.  But if we break down the pig and the turkeys first we can put them on the grill and we won’t need to use any oven or stove space.”
“Okay,” Big Paul said with some effort as he hoisted up and open the bag to get the pig on the table.  “But I wanna try and deep fry the turkeys.”
“Definitely not! You know how many people die every year trying to deep fry their birds! It’s like the fire departments busiest day of the year.” Mostly Chelsi receive graphic mental snapshots of what her arms would be like after 400F oil was spilt over them, trying to wrestle a turkey in and out of the pot.  That’s why I don’t like deep frying anything.
“That’s not true.”
“People who don’t know what they’re doing go out to their garage with a 25lb, half frozen bird. Plop it in a pot filled with too much, too hot of oil.  The oil spits, spatters, catches fire and their garage burns down with them inside. I’m going to start by taking the head off.” Big Paul was standing at the butt end of the pig. “Do you have a knife? You can start taking some of the skin and fat off the back end there.  I figure, we leave half on half off, one side might taste better but if we mix together… plus it’ll help move the cooking process along.”
Big Paul looked down at Chelsi, with her knife in hand, moving the pig’s ears out of the way with the other.  “Is that knife big enough?”
Chelsi looked back up at him. His curly brown hair stuck out in all directions around his head.  Glasses like those Chelsi had in third grade where perched on his nose.  In lieu of a knife he had a glass of cane spirts and juice in his hand. “If you know how to cut through joint properly the size of the knife doesn’t matter so long as it’s sharp.”
They got to work on their separate ends.  As the distinctive fattiness of the pig began to be removed Chelsi noticed that it really looked a lot like a rabbit.  A giant, slightly redder rabbit.  This won’t be so hard after all, she thought.
“Okay, we have enough pork fat here, that if you really want we can try deep frying one of the turkeys.  But we’re just going to do pieces. Two at a time.  None of this stuff with the whole bird.” Something about breaking down animals calmed her down and now that she saw the pig as just a giant rabbit she began to loosen up a bit.
–
As predicted the power went out at about 9:30am as it did every Thursday, thanks to country wide power shortages and load shedding.  But every one worked together and was on top of their game.  By 5pm the table was spread with buns, Asian salad, tomato pie, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, stuffing, corn mac, pork, turkey, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, all the fixings for a true American thanksgiving. The older volunteers espoused a Peace Corps Thanksgiving that really was about more than just the food. After all, the mushrooms were just a little too tangy, the potatoes were creamed with sour milk and the pecans never made it up from the embassy commissary, ‘but it’s the one day a year where all the volunteers in Northwest can come together and cook, and eat and be a family.’ Dick had said this to Chelsi with such passion just a week before when she found out there were volunteers who wanted to rebuff with the other volunteers and spend it on their own. I guess every family has a few, Chelsi thought. 
She was thankful for her Peace Corps family, and was more than happy to be spending the day with them. And she said so.  Just before eating every one anonymously wrote what they were thankful for on a strip of paper and put it in a hat.  After, they all circled up and drew strips and read them aloud. Zambia didn’t feel so far from home after all.

009: 4ths of July

In moments of quiet reflection Chelsi liked to think back on her life exactly one year ago from that day; where she was, who she was with, what she was doing, what were her struggles, what were her hopes.  On any given day you could ask her these questions and she could more than likely produce a quick and accurate answer. But ask for a time stretching back more than a year and the details will begin to become fuzzy.  Unless you were to ask her about the fourth day of the seventh month of the year.  The unique style of celebration for this day in conjunction with its time of the year made it stand out from the rest.  Going back four, five, six years she could detail this day of her life and thus uses it to mark her progression through life.
“It’s something like Wamama Lodge.” Chelsi told her friend Sara on the phone. “I heard some of the other volunteers at the Prov house talking about how they were coming down for the 4th of July.  Maybe eight or nine of them.” She was sure she had heard this because they then explained to her that it was the Lodge on the dusty gravel road which she lived.  As the actual day of celebration approached though she began to have her doubts.  She figured semi-organized events would have more chatter around them and she would have heard from at least one or two other volunteers about their plans to come down. But then again these were Peace Corps Volunteers “Stuff happens as it happens” kind of people.  So when she mount her bike that morning to go up to the Lodge, about an hour bike ride with Daisy running beside her, she was not sure what to expect, but assured that Sara was on her way.
2014: Washington D.C.
Chelsi spent most of the day partying on the house boat her friend Ryan had rented for the summer.  They were interns in Mark Rey’s Demmer Scholar program, developing a finer appreciation for natural resource policy.  The day had started out a little rough, Chelsi had busted her bike, sandwiching the back tire, trying to carry her friend Alex on the rack on their way down to the marina. Biking through an abandoned, industrial looking part of town they had hit an old piece of rail and tumbled into a small pond next to the rails.  The day was made better though when she discovered the venison steak she was carrying in her bag had been spare the pond slug but she would now have to carry her bicycle to the office building on the SE side of town were her friend Janet worked. Janet’s boss had given her an after-hours pass so she and some of her lucky friends could watch the fireworks on the National Mall comfortably away from the crowded masses.
Chelsi had told Sara it would be at least a thirty minute walk from the tarmac where her hitch would drop her off, so when she rolled up to the Lodge and peeked into the dining room she was not surprised to see that she had not yet arrived.  She was however surprised to see the dining room completely empty, except for the bar tender.  It was just after noon.  If other volunteers were coming they would likely be her by now.  So she called up Sara to see how far along she was.  “I’ve been walking for a while now.”
“Why don’t Daisy and I come and meet you up the road, so you don’t have to walk alone.”
“You don’t have to but…” and the service cut out. 
Chelsi looked down at her puppy. “I know we don’t have to but it would be nice.” Daisy sighed and sat down. “Come on, she can’t be too far away.” The two started back up the driveway, and sure enough after another five minutes of biking Sara came into view. 
2013: Hatfield Marine Science Center, Newport, Oregon
A few days before Rogue Brewery, one of Hatfield’s three neighbors on that side of the bay, had had a “garage sale” of sorts, where Chelsi and a few of the other interns had been able to pick up cases of Dead Guy Ale way below retail price.  They settled themselves in the sand of the volley ball court just in front of the intern housing because even at the height of summer the beach was cooled by wind coming off the icy ocean water.  Tucked between the trees around the bay they could enjoy the more summer like 68F weather.  They would wait out the day there until the sunset.  Every year there were fireworks over Yaquina Bay and Shelby had ask the leader of her research lab about extra special seating for the interns this year.  So, just as the sun was beginning to set, blankets in hand they made their way down to the docks.  Farther out on to the bay than any other viewer, nestled in with a dozen of her closest friends, just beside the behemoths which were the NOAA ocean going research vessels, Chelsi watched the fireworks.
With their Castles in hand Sara and Chelsi settled on the steps on the chinzanza looking out over Mitukutuku Lake.  A couple of wooden docks stretched out over the lake with signs declaring that no lifeguard was on duty. A small motorboat, that for 10 Kwatcha per person would take you on a ride around the lake, bobbed at the water’s edge.  A few Mascovy ducks flew over and on to the water as Daisy ran into the mixed flock of birds. “This is a pretty nice spot.”
“Yeah, haven’t spent too much time here yet, but it is a pretty nice luxury. Thanks for coming out here, I swear I thought the turnout would be better.” Chelsi scanned the grounds around them seeing no one except a young Zambian couple and their toddler. 
“It’s alright buddy.  Too many people is a mess anyway.  Do you think it’s alright it I smoke in here?”
“We’re outside essentially, and I don’t think anyone cares.” Chelsi’s phone began to ring.  She looked at the screen. AMERICAN MOTHER it read, Daisy barked alerting her that the Zambian couple and their toddler were coming closer. “Hello!” Chelsi said into the receiver.
2012: Okemos, Michigan
Chelsi lay on her stomach on the twin bed in her room of the apartment.  She knew there had to be fireworks somewhere, but with no one to ask and no one to go with it seemed like the tradition would fall flat on its face this year.  She scrolled through Craigslist ads looking at listings for rabbits, a past time that would become ever more popular with her as the years go by.  Earlier in the day she had taken a walk down to the park and sat by the creek. She thought about how nice it would have been to have a rabbit to play in the grass with. Human company would have been nice too, she thought when she remember that Craigslist offered those listings too.  Just cause I curious, she heard the stories and would never seriously looking for really friends on Craigslist.  She backed her search up to the Lansing Area homepage.  Connections; Plutonic, she looked down the listings and right there, just third from the top Just want to see some fireworks posted a hour and a half ago.  She opened the listing.  ‘I’m not a creep and I’m not looking for sex. I’m a student at MSU and just want someone to go to watch the fireworks with.  I live just east of East Lansing.  Give me a call.’ Chelsi looked at his phone number, she looked at her phone. 
“I just love dogs, and you have such a nice one.” Said the Zambian man using his beer to gesture towards Daisy.  Daisy was encircling the toddler, undoubtly sniffing for any bits of food. When her search came up empty she made a run for it back towards the flock of birds. 
“I treat her like my child, that’s what I tell the villagers, nobe mwana yami.  So she acts like one.”
“So you guys are all the way from America, wow, wow! And you live in the village. I can’t imagine, village life is tough.”
“It’s really not so bad.”
“I couldn’t do it.” Earlier in their acquaintance the Zambian couple had mentioned growing up in Livingston, one of Zambia’s largest cities and now living in Solwezi, with a car and electricity and, based on their conversations about wildlife shows on Nat Geo, satellite TV, they were part of a class that is referred to as ‘ambant.’ Chelsi guessed the word to be a blend of affluent and urban. These were well educated people from cities with money and often did not speak any language but English, rare in a country of 72 languages.
Chelsi looked back up at Sara, staring at her phone, smoking a cigarette.  “If we’re going to eat today we should order food soon because it’ll probably take while.”
“Okay, let’s go look what they have.” They collected up their empties and started towards the dining room. They passed the Zambian man making his way back towards the chinzanza, his arms full of Castles. 
Chelsi ordered fish and chips, Sara chicken and nshima, their way back towards the chinzanza the Zambian man offered out Castle to each of them, bottle tops still firmly in place. “Thanks man!” Sara said pulling out her lighter to take off the top.
“Ah! You must teach my wife to do that.  We have seen it before but don’t know how!” She passed the lighter to Chelsi.
“Sure man. We’re here to teach!”
2011: Long Lake, New York
“Oh my god! Do you smell that?” Chelsi’s friend Suzanne exclaimed sniffing the air.  They and a few others in the crew were standing atop a huge boulder in the center of the river not far from the bridge.  They were all part of a trail crew working in the Adirondack State Park for the summer and fall.  One of the locals that was part of the crew had taken them all too apart of the Hudson River where they could jump from the boulders into the river.  The beautiful weather had brought a lot of people out on to the river. On the next boulder over, one much larger than theirs was a group of twenty-something guys wearing nothing but swimming trunks sitting in lawn chairs with their feet up on a cooler smoking.  They dared Suzanne to swim over and talk to them, but the only place they swam was back to the river banks to climb back up the boulders and into the car. Driving back towards Little Tubber Lake where the fireworks were to be held they stopped at Steward’s, the ubiquitous gas station/convenience store/ice cream shop, for Mountain Brew Beer Ice and ice cream. They would sit on some rocky out cropping on the lakes edge to watch the display over the water.
Chelsi tore up what was left of her fish and fed it to her dog bit by bit and when the Zambian couple, sited at the table with them began to stack their plates Chelsi shameless reached over, pluck up their steak bones, wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in her purse.  “If you don’t want them…” she said mostly to herself.  Sara was up at the bar ordering two more drinks for the road.  It was starting to get late, at 14 hours and they had decided to walk back to Chelsi’s house.  The rooms at the Lodge were nice, clean sheet, electricity, running water, private bathrooms.  So nice that Sara did not want to pay the 150KW per night.  “It’s going to be at least an hour and half walk back to the house.”
“It’s cool, I like walking” Sara said reassuringly. 
“Because you’ll also have to walk back to the tarmac in the morning.  There’s been a lot of traffic on my road today, but no guarantee that anyone will pick you up.”
“Don’t worry! I got Harry Potter books on my iPod. The walk will be good.” And so the decision was made.  They were gathering their things Chelsi remembered, turning to the Zambian couple she said,
“My mother ku Meleka wants me to send her a picture.  Would you mind taking one for us?” The four over them walk out on to one of the docks, Daisy trotting a long, the toddler tailing her.
After a dozen pictures with three different phones Chelsi and Sara said good bye to their new friends and started up the driveway and towards Kamijiji.
2010: Park Ridge, Illinois
Chelsi, her brother, her boyfriend and old friend from high school picked their way across the football field of the High School.  Even with an hour left of sunlight the field was crowded with people on their blankets.  Many had their feet up on coolers or were tending small grills with burgers and hot dogs. But their small group found a spot on a ridge encircling the nearby soccer field.  They passed the remain our chatting about their first year away at college, chatting about their schedules for the next semester, chatting about what the future had in store. 

Chelsi and Sara at Wamami Lodge on July 4th 2015