Vic Falls, with its galleries, gardens and restaurants, was the cosmopolitan tourist capital of Zimbabwe. Greenery and cafès that were left well behind when we crossed the bridge to Livingstone. It's an average African town with dusty potholed roads, brightly painted but mostly crumbling buildings and bustling street stalls, littered with everything from taps and washers to chickens and tomatoes. It also featured Gospel music blaring from every direction. Enough to make even the hardest Bible-Rock fan happy. We're not sure if that was even a genre before, but it's definitely an artform in Zambia.
A noteable feature on a Saturday afternoon, it became an overwhelming monstrosity come Sunday morning. From first light, at any one corner it was possible to hear at least 4 churches in various states of rowdy worship. Screaming shaking hysteria was the loudest, the deep shouting of some pastor declaring that the end is near (he guarantees it!) coming a close second. Other more musical combinations included 'rock band with choral backup', 'choral choir with rock band accompaniment', 'child choir', 'lady choir', 'complete rock band', 'Godly pop' and 'Holy hip-hop'. Gospel at all volumes for all tastes. We left Livingstone with a striking tune about 'Cheeses' in our heads. It stayed with us the whole journey along Great East Road. We got most of the way across the country, still singing 'cheeses'.
Memorable events from some big days in Landy include a walk through Luangwa village, where we made many friends but also managed to scare babies and children (the baby because he wasn't expecting strange white faces to peer at him and jiggle his toes, the children because they expected a whack instead of a hi-five), the appearance of some wildlife when a Greater Galago visited at the campfire one night, the novelty of showering with a sandy bellied snake making his way across the cubicle, running alongside the Kafue River followed by an ice cold swim, purchasing some African Apples streetside and making old ladies laugh when we learnt to greet them in Chichewa.
We stopped in at Katete to camp and see the community project, arriving just in time to sit in on the monthly management meeting. There we met an entire team of inspiring locals and heard their plans for the future of 'Tikondane'; what they wanted to achieve and how they'd go about it. Apart from a permaculture garden that supplies the restaurant, there's farming projects, carpentry school, a lodge, infants, primary and adult education, computer classes, AIDS counselling, health promotion AND a souvenir shop selling products made in the sewing class. Everything from the soap and blankets to the peanut butter and pigeon coops is produced here by some 85 employees working with their hands. A happening place!
Before we even set up we were out of the meeting and off to the nearby hospital with Elke, the woman who started the project 25 years ago and now funds it largely with her widow's pension. Walking the dusty track towards the hospital we were greeted by countless locals - many of whom chatted with Elke along the way. It was our first visit to public facilities on the continent. One of the biggest and best hospitals around, it was still a moving experience. We met a 19 year old nervously awaiting the arrival of her first baby, sitting under trees out the back of the hospital with dozens of other expecting mums. There was much laughing and hugging as the women joked with Elke. Inside, things were far more grim. Buried under piles of thick blankets, ill with sickle-cell anaemia, we met Moses. Apparently its an incredibly painful illness and he'd been crying for drugs. One of dozens lined up in cumbersome beds along a huge ward; the ancient facilities and uniformed nurses in white caps made it look a bit like images from wartime brought to life. Another numbing affirmation of how obscenely lucky we are. The decision to stay was easy.
Landy was serviced and given a few weeks off and we moved into a room with an office and a kitchen.
Our lifestyle approached near-domesticity as we settled into a routine. Each morning kicked off with breakky and a chat before we parted ways and got stuck into our projects; Guy painstakingly illustrating a book on Tikondane's '19 steps out of poverty for the subsistence farmer' while girl dedicated days with the early childhood teachers. Afternoons were spent on projects too. Or somewhere between village wanderings, learning the language or a small chunk of the 19 steps from the 'Tiko crew' gardening. At 1830 we'd usually meet in the restaurant for fresh picked and fresh plucked pigeon, or rabbit or whatever else had come in from the garden that day. Nshima, relish and green veggies the other staples. The use of 24 hour time came easier after a week or so AND we mastered the greetings (though the responses still give us grief!).
A huge bike path along the road outside has seen a bustling new business emerge. Guys with elaborately decorated bikes cruise the strip as taxis, cushions and footpegs mounted at the rear. We travelled to the shops on the back of ancient bikes each day, perched behind a rider, weaving between the pedestrians, more bikes and livestock. Apart from us, everything from huge sacks of grain to guttering, wheelbarrows or animals can be attached to a bike rack. One time we weaved around a man with a live goat and a pig ably attached as he cycled them home. Another time guy and girl provided endless laughs when we paid our fare then took the riders saddle - relegating the owners to the backseat and racing each other home.
When Martine and Andrew showed up, followed closely behind by another Dutch family, things became quite sociable. We all swapped stories and went on adventures together; weekend breakfasts and many hours in the restaurant were well spent with beers and gossip. One evening the three ladies among us were treated to an experience like no other. In fact, for the first time in Tiko's 25 year history, westerners were invited to a real Chinamwali; The initiation of a young girl to womanhood. It's a strictly women - only event, so we left the boys at the bar, dressed in our traditional chitenges and set off late one evening to another village.
The night was cold and the moon was full. We huddled by a tiny coal stove outside the families' house, waiting hours for word on when the ceremony might commence. When the time did come we were escorted to the spot, arriving at a wall of high grass fences. A large yard in the middle of the village contained what seemed like hundreds of women. Clapping patterns announced the arrival of first-time visitors at the gate; A matching return from the inside a signal that our entry was permitted. Bright clothing or bare skinned, young, old and in-between. Everybody inside had been through this ceremony themselves, turning out to celebrate the initiation of a new woman into their ranks.
When a girl reaches puberty, her mother chooses an older, trustworthy lady to teach her daughter about the birds, the bees and all things ladylike. For at least two weeks the teacher and learner stay away from all others. Holed up in a house as the lessons begin. When it's finished a fortnight or more later, there is the ceremony. The singing of proud Chewa women accompanied by drums is an experience to behold. Gathered in a circle and moving to the music, most women gave it their all. It was mesmerizing. But soon, it stopped. They called to the girl, who was about to become a woman. From not too far distant, more singing began. A procession could be heard making its way across the village, until 5 young women danced into the yard. One wore paint. The middle of the yard became a stage and the girls moved about it in ways most could only dream of. Then they stopped too. All was quiet and the circle was empty. In the centre was the girl. Kneeling head down, alone and draped in cloth.
For some time there was silence. The girl was unmoving. When more calling began, the matriarch arrived amidst much fanfare at the gate. She too entered and danced, whilst the girl could have been stone. At the end, mother took the veil off daughter, leaving her alone in the circle once more. Barebreasted, painted and proud. Revealed, she rose and began many complicated moves through many more songs. Until sunrise she would be on show - either alone or as various combinations of friends and family accompanied her through more dances and rituals. At other times she would resume her position as stone whilst women performed before her. We left long after midnight but well before dawn. Letting the women complete their ancient custom uninterrupted. Incredibly emotional and even more privileged to have borne witness at all. Over the following days and weeks there were many many special experiences. Individual moments worthy of pages. Whether it was chatting to boys with slingshots and pockets full of birds, learning to make peanut butter or constructing mud stoves. The lessons were endless. We met headmen and chiefs, their advisors and their kids. Strolled through villages, rode in oxcarts and witnessed rehearsals for the Chewa's biggest ceremony. Ate dinner in homes, shopped in markets and ran on tracks with stunning sunsets. Chewed sugar cane and drank maize beer, talked about religion and relationships, baked with the sun and spent countless hours socializing. We spoke with people who finished school in grade 5 not being able to read or write and also to meteorologists with degrees. Met the oldest 'walking librarian' in the village at 94 years of age, to the tiniest newborn to come from the hospital. A guy who's made vegetarian food for more than 500 travelers and another who was happy to have his first white friend.
It's very rare that travelers and tourists have the chance to truly feel a part of the communities they visit. In Katete, we felt like more than just passers-by. After a few short weeks we left behind a few little skerriks of work, a huge bunch of friends and a community that will likely give us inspiration for years.
If you're interested, you can visit the community website: www.tikondane.org Up next: We make it to Malawi