View of the Lake in Nkata Bay
The Gang on Christmas Day
Christmas Eve in Nkata Bay
A Traditional Macoro
Fishing Boats on Lake Malawi
Morning Fishing in Senga Bay
Monitor Island in Lake Malawi
Me on Monitor Island
World's Biggest Snail (You Can't Tell, but it was HUGE)
Jeffie B Negotiating for My Birthday Turtle
Vic Falls
View From the Top
The Boiling Point
Jolly Boys Backpackers
Typical Trucking (It Means No Worries...)
Cruising the Zambezi
This is me and my fearless team braving the white waters of the Zambezi River:
And this is me, seven minutes later, fearing for my life, splashing frantically and watching the last 28 years pass before my eyes:
I’d like to say that I got back into the boat after falling overboard and swallowing what felt like gallons of water. I’d like to tell you that I faced my fears, that I tackled the next ten rapids, and that in the end, I had a glorious time of it.
That in fact, I did it twice.
But that would be a lie.
So instead, I’ll tell you the truth.
I’ll tell you that I was already a bit apprehensive about testing my limits when we signed up for white water rafting our second day in Zambia. I’d been living in the desert for a year, a hundred miles from the nearest body of water. And prior to that I’d lived in New York City, where the closest thing to rapids was a bumpy morning subway ride.
It only makes sense that I’d have my reservations.
The Zambezi isn’t a lazy winding river, but instead a Level 5 nightmare. For a novice like me to take to the challenge was a bit like an amateur attempting to climb Everest. I was already nervous when we piled into our bus, and sitting next to Jeffie B, who grew up in Utah and has friends who are guides on some of America’s most notorious rivers, wasn’t much help. He had endless anecdotes about drownings, failed rescues and of course, death. (He didn't hesitate to share them all.)
Needless to say, it did little to calm my fears.
So when I was thrown from our raft (or, according to Amanda, when I jumped from it), these tales of terror immediately rushed to mind. I surfaced quickly, but my first breath was mostly water, which left me still gasping for air. I tried to remember the directions for a kayak rescue from our early-morning debriefing, but instead drew a blank, as waves pushed me close to jagged rocks and washed over my head.
I was certain I would die. (After all, isn't that how all Jeffie B’s stories ended?)
One of the safety kayakers made it to my side in what was probably less than 15 seconds (though I swear it felt more like a lifetime). He must have seen the fear in my eyes, because the first thing he said was, "If you scream I'll let you go."
For the record, I did not find that very reassuring.
But once I got my bearings and took a breath that was mostly air, he looked at me again and got serious. “Why weren’t you swimming for your boat?!” he asked.
The truth was, I just didn’t want to. I’d given this white water rafting thing a shot—despite my better judgment. And after just seven minutes, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to spend the next three hours wondering if I was going to die every time we approached a new rapid. Clearing the Boiling Point and falling overboard was enough excitement for one day.
A point that was proved when I saw these pictures from later in the ride: 
Sure I turned back. And maybe I gave up. But at least I tried (and will probably try again--just not on Level 5 rapids). That’s more than I can say for our driver, who offered me a beer, then called me a chicken, and in the same breath, admitted he was born and raised in Livingstone, worked for the rafting company, yet had never once been on the river.
When I was growing up, having a birthday near Christmas meant celebrating with friends weeks in advance. Then, on my Big Day, we'd pile into the family minivan for an 8-hour road trip Upstate. My parents listened to Canadian talk radio while my brother did everything in his power to annoy me once the batteries in our Walkmans died.
Being surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents was nice. (And, it usually resulted in multiple parties—which as we all know, means multiple cakes.) But I guess I assumed that once I grew up, and once my parents relocated to Upstate themselves, those birthdays spent in the backseat of a crowded vehicle would be a thing of the past.
Then I moved to Africa.
Sure my friends knew I’d be turning 28 while we were on our big holiday adventure. (I’d reminded them at least a hundred times.) And of course I’d made a special request to not be in transit on my special day. But as we all know, buses in Africa—more specifically, buses in Malawi—can be extremely unpredictable in terms of arrivals, departures and estimated travel times.
So we waited, backpacks piled high, for six hours in a bus station with no toilets, no walls and no distractions. We were bound for Mzuzu, but in the end, settled for a packed-to-the-gills mini bus with baskets of rancid fish, no ventilation and a driver named Cabbage.
He only took us half way, charged us 300 kwacha more than any other passenger and may have left us in the middle of the sketchiest town I’ve ever seen. But that just meant I got to ring in my 28th year here:
Since my first birthday celebration could have passed for a scene from Saw II (and because I have the world’s greatest friends), they more than made up for it with a real cake (complete with trick candles) once we made it home to Namibia.
New Era magazine recently interviewed a couple of PCVs (including two honorary members of the CATJAR--Juice and Jeffie B) for this story about life in Peace Corps, in Namibia, and in Nam 27.
Riding a donkey, secondary projects and little victories? Sounds about right. (Although that part about Juice being white and Filipino? Not so much.)
It's hard being an American living overseas--especially today--when our first black president is being sworn into office. It's a moment I'd love share with friends, family, colleagues, and most of all, my country.
Luckily, I don't have to go very far (even in this far away land) to find people who are celebrating, too. 
A Bus in Zamibia
A Chitenge in Tanzania
A Park in Zanzibar
You may have noticed that I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from writing here on my blog. That’s because, for the past month, I’ve been on holiday with other PCVs, traveling though Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania. We were busy sorting out transport, flagging down buses and searching for accommodations. (Plus, Internet was pretty hard to come by.)
So for the next week, you can expect to find pictures, stories and retrospectives on my adventures—starting of course, with my final days in Khorixas and Christmas with the kids at Sunrise Center.
My friend Nicole was nice enough to send all the materials for making homemade ornaments—from spools of ribbon and string, to stacks of old Christmas cards, scissors, glitter and colorful pens. It arrived (along with a Pillsbury cake mix from my mom) just in time for the holidays. Both made our Christmas party at the orphanage more memorable.
The kids were excited to decorate and personalize their tiny tree. (And they loved the glitter!) Plus, it reminded me a lot of holidays growing up—which is kind of nice, especially so far away from home.
The ornaments turned out great, but I don't think the kids had ever eaten cake so soft. The little ones looked shocked when the pieces they grabbed crumbled in their tiny hands. Happy, one of the smallest, solved this problem by using his chocolate-frosted hands to shovel stray crumbs from the cement floor directly into his mouth. (Gross? Maybe to some. But I say it's resourceful.)
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