Liquid Gold

Thwack, smack, whack goes the axe through the night sky and into the hollow tree. Woodchips rain down on us with each swing of the axe. Eriterial stands on the platform above us and swings the axe with expert control and precision. The platform he is standing on continuously wobbles despite three of us holding it. Excitement, anticipation, adventure and adrenaline flow through me with each thump of metal tearing into wood. In the dim light I can see similar excitement in Elizabeth’s eyes. Slowly the buzzing sound grows louder and louder until I feel the first of the bees land on my bare arm and I jump. Elizabeth, beekeeper and enthusiast, tells me to just be calm and relax, the bees will not sting me unless I pose a threat and they can apparently sense my fear and will sting me as a result. So I breathe, try to relax and Eriterial continues chopping.

Next comes the smoke, Eriterial picks up a bunch of burning hay and stuffs it into the hole he has hacked in the tree. I am now standing back behind the dying embers of the fire about 2 meters from the tree. The embers glow red and make a curious shape, something like the shape of a three-legged starfish. Somewhere on the ground I can hear the distressed buzz of bees disoriented by the smoke and the disturbance of their slumber. I watch in awe as Eriterial reaches into the hole in the tree and starts to pull out great big lumps of honeycomb. He has stripped to his trousers to avoid bees getting trapped between his clothes and his body. No such thing as a beekeepers outfit here. His work-sculpted body is silhouetted against the star studded night sky and yet again I feel the utterly compelling reality that I am in Africa and this experience will never happen again. I watch as time after time, he tilts into the tree, his left leg going in the opposite direction to counterbalance his body. His right arm dissolves into the tree all the way up past the elbow and then emerges with even more honeycomb. This gets dropped in the waiting bucket that Elizabeth is holding. After depositing the honeycomb in the bucket he gives a masterly flick of his arm to clear it of little lumps of honeycomb and presumably, bees. This goes on and on for the best part of twenty minutes until eventually I hear “gwamana”, meaning finished and we all exit stage left to leave the bees recover from our night time raid.

Back near the cooking fire we examined the haul. Both Elizabeth and I are worried for Eriterial but apparently he has escaped with just one sting and seems totally unphased. Men are clearly made of tougher stuff here because there’s no way in Hell I would have been able to do that! The bucket is three quarters full and in the dim light we can see glistening honey, white larvae, sealed up cells containing more larvae and of course a few bewildered bees. We cannot see the queen which is good news as it means she is most likely still in the tree and may decide to stick around meaning more honey in a couple more months. Eriterial, Elizabeth and Gian start to sort through the honeycomb as I ‘supervise’. They carefully examine each piece of honeycomb and talk excitedly about each piece. Gently, they brush off the bees and return them to the bucket while putting the honeycomb in another basin. The bucket will be returned to the base of the tree so that the bees can return to the slightly tattered hive either immediately or in the morning. By the time the job is complete the basin is practically full to the brim. Elizabeth and I look astounded while everyone else seems to just take it in their stride and are just pleased to have the honey without anyone getting badly stung.

Your honey thief in the middle of nowhere

Life in the Bush

Sadly, just now I don't really have anything witty to say and as life is going pretty well compared to the last couple of months, I don't even have anything to complain about. So instead here are some video's of what my little bit of African bush is like... Some have been plagurised from one of the priests blogs which you can find here. I'm not sure without some references how useful these will be but hopefully they will at least give you an idea of where I now live.

Enjoy you lucky people with broadband ...

The opening picture is of Radio Chikuni. The cheetah is very friendly :)





A walk around Chikuni


Your broadband-less reporter in the bush

A Change of Scene

“SHUTTTIT!” I holler at the noisy pack of boys whose voices have been steadily rising as I explain something to a small group of three. Echoes of “shhhh” and “quiet” reverberate around the classroom until eventually there is a sort of silence. Ah days of school, how I used to hate them, with a passion! Now though things are a little different and I am the one trying to imbue knowledge into these kids brains.

As of a few weeks ago I have started teaching at the boys secondary school, one of the most prestigious schools in Zambia. I am teaching extracurricular mathematics to twenty grade 8 boys. These kids are struggling with maths and it’s my mission to de-stigmatise and de-mystify some of the ingrained perplexity they have. Maths is a regular pain-point here and many people are unable to do even basic mathematics which is a shame because basic maths, in my humble opinion, is rather easy and dare I say even fun because it means solving problems in logical ways (spot the computer geek). So I am trying to make the classes as fun as possible while still maintaining a modicum of control.

I’ve discovered though that when kids are afraid, they absorb very little. I have one little fellow who practically shivers with fear when I approach and ask if he understands. His voice is lower than a mouse’s squeak and when he says an inaudible no, you can see he is expecting retribution for not understanding. My heart goes out to the poor kid. That someone along the way has managed to instilled such fear into him is a real pity because there will also be many more like him in the years to come. I am doing my best to reassure him that it’s ok if you don’t understand but he needs to let me help and not be so afraid. I sense an uphill struggle but at least the class size means that I can give kids like him more individual help and the boy next to him usually leans in to listen and then when I leave helps his friend to better understand.

It turns out that teaching is good fun and quite rewarding. The boys are happy to be given an opportunity to improve their grades and seem on the whole to work hard, at least during class. I have tried to make the atmosphere as relaxed as possible so that the maths doesn’t seem so scary. I am going for the knowledgeable (but cool) older brother approach rather than the formal teacher approach. Amusingly, this relaxed atmosphere did result in two boys falling asleep the other day, which perhaps points to a need to not make it too relaxed. Memories of an infamous ex-colleague falling asleep at his desk resulting in his head smacking the keyboard came flooding back. I am also revelling in the change of scene as it gives me a wider ranging experience here. I only hope that I am making a difference to the weaker kids. Their exam results at the end of term will be the best indicator of that I think.

Your teacher in the middle of nowhere

The Brutality of Reality

“What are these white bits that keep appearing on my arm?” I pondered from time to time when I happened to look down at my exposed arms. I was already weary of the little flies that seemed intent on biting my apparently tasty skin. These tiny little white-ish lumps were inanimate though. They appeared sporadically and even when I brushed them off, more appeared. Where were they coming from? The answer came shortly after I took over from my friend holding up the sack of meat. First I felt the tiny shards of bone hitting my arm, then my face and then landing in my hair. I also occasionally felt little bits of cow accompany the spray of bone. This horizontal shower of bone and meat was accompanied by the constant shrill sound of the band saw cutting through the 120kg of cow carcass.

I find myself standing in the back of a butcher, helping the butcher cut up the carcass of the cow that just yesterday had a heartbeat. Thankfully I wasn’t around for the murder but I suspect it was pretty grime. The cow belongs to a friend who has bought it to supply meat to a group of visitors who will shortly arrive in Chikuni. There are four legs and the ribcage to be cut up. We start with the legs; firstly the hooves gets cut off and then the butcher starts cutting from the top of the leg so that we get the fillet first. The sensation of being hit by bits of cow, thrown off by the speeding blade of the band saw, as you might imagine is unpleasant to say the least. In fact my skin crawls each time I feel a new bit land. I look down to find bits clinging to my tshirt and run my hand through my hair to remove fresh debris. The only thing I can really do is laugh at the absurdity of the experience. Once again I am reminded that my time here in Zambia is a once in a lifetime experience and that my life here is just so unbelievably and utterly different from everything I have lived through before.

At one point the power goes out. We are plunged into semi darkness and the band saw grinds to a halt. I look at my friend and we smile, Murphys Law! All we can do is wait and hope that it comes back quickly. There is still a full leg and the main body to process not to mention the in-progress leg. After five minutes the power comes back and we get back to business. Twenty minutes later though, the blade of the band saw snaps loudly and clangs against the inside of the machines body. Everyone except the butcher jumps and scatters at the sound. He turns the machine off and opens up the machine. The inside of the walls are pasted with the same tiny bits of flesh that have been bombarding me. The only difference is that the layer of meat is about one and a half centimetres thick; I shudder and wonder how often the machine is cleaned. The butcher goes to get another blade and we wait to resume the fun.

Many thoughts go through my head as the work progresses. I remember being a child and happily watching the family butcher, Mr. Bresnan, chopping meat in the back half of his shop while my mum or dad bought the weekly supply of meat. I remember his shiny band saw and the handsaws and knives. I remember watching the skilled staff slice through the meat as if it was a knife through butter. There is none of that here though. There is no notion of choice cuts and neither knife nor handsaw made an appearance for the two hour stint I spent in the butchers. The only thing that seemed to get done properly was the T-bone. I never knew that it came from the top of the ribcage and the ‘T’ is essentially part of the spine. I also thought about the day in school when Billy Murphy chopped his finger of using a band saw in woodwork and the raucous that ensured there after. I also thought about an ex-lovers beloved cows and how they face the same fate as the poor retch in front of me.

As a confirmed carnivore I am well aware of the fate of many an innocent animal for the gratification of my taste buds but I am always amazed at how well my mind can abstract away the process of turning docile, soft eyed, grass eating cows into delicious, bloody streak for my eating pleasure. This is the brutal reality of eating meat and I can live with that, just about. I will spare you the more gruesome details of the days events but in many ways, the butcher was the least gruesome experience of the day. The shower at the end of the day was not just necessary to stay clean, it was necessary to stay sane and feel like I no longer had bits of cow all over me. Now I just hope I get to taste some of the spoils of the days labour.

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere