Independence Day?

---

So…for once I haven’t written for a while, not because I couldn’t think of anything to write, but because I’ve been too busy! Hard to believe isn’t it, that a volunteer job could capitalize so much of my time? Well…not all of it was work. Yesterday I spent all day cooking Thanksgiving dinner. And then I spent all evening awkwardly playing hostess while too tired to actually realize what was going on around me. You know how after thanksgiving you’re supposed to have stuffing and mashed potatoes for breakfast the next day? Well…there weren’t any leftovers, too many people came. So I’m sitting here on Sunday morning drinking ginger tea and eating a twix bar (they’re better here) for breakfast because I’m done with cooking for a couple days. Anyhoo, I’ve been busy.

Last weekend was a holiday, for you people in the states it was 4th of July, and for Zambia it was….well…no one seemed to know what the holiday actually was, all anyone knew is that they didn’t have to go to work on Monday and Tuesday! That seemed like celebration enough in of itself. So instead of going to any holiday parties I went to a baby shower on the 4th. The person who invited me to the baby shower was a male coworker, which initially struck me as strange because in the States we don’t usually invite men to baby showers. I assumed the culture was different here though, so I didn’t think too much of it.

On arrival at the party (marked with a large sign on the gate with ‘Esther’s Baby Shower’ handwritten on it) a woman was checking a list for names, there was a large group outside the gate and loud music coming from within. Our name was not on the list apparently but the father of the baby appeared (strangely, I’d met him before) and we were ushered in. Promptly as I walked through the gate three women grabbed my arm and lead me to the women’s side of the party. My coworker was gone, as my gut instinct had told me men were obviously not allowed at the baby shower. I found myself joining roughly a hundred women seated on plastic lawn chairs all facing the house (the porch was obviously intended as a stage). I was, as expected, the only white person to be found. The three women who had found me at the gate seated me in a chair towards the back of the crowd and sat down next to me. Not a minute later another woman had run up and grabbed my hand and was leading me into the house. She turned out to be the host of the party (the mother of the baby) and despite having never seen me before in her life was not going to let a white woman sit out with the common folks, I was placed on a couch in a tiny room where all the close family were assembled.

An old woman appeared carrying a baby girl dressed in a giant pink fluffy dress. The baby was placed in my lap and a photographer pushed his way into the room capturing this moment from every angle. I was photographed holding the baby with the mother, with the grandmother, three or four aunts, and two great aunts and was then left with the baby. The baby seemed dreadfully out of place at this large, rather raucous party. From the room where we sat we could see women taking turns dancing on the porch and the crowd of women cheering them on. The music was too loud to speak over and everyone was drinking copiously. The mother, still doting on me, asked me what I’d like to drink. I asked for wine and a brand new box (about the equivalent of two and a half bottles) of red wine was produced. She poured me a glass and left the box nestled next to my feet; either I was the only person drinking wine (which seemed unlikely considering the crowd) or I was expected to drink the whole box myself.

After a couple glasses of cheap red wine I was easily convinced by one of the old ladies (still not sure if she was a grandmother or great aunt) to go out on the porch and try my hand at dancing with her. As soon as I exited the house and began to dance a yell of “Muzungu! Muzungu!” began in the crowd of women. One or two women jumped up and began to dance with me. From behind other people were yelling, “Dance with me, muzungu!” I was slightly unnerved but kept dancing until a woman jumped up and started shoving money down my blouse (I was very conservatively dressed, mind you it was cold). I decided it was time to go inside and sit for a bit. Someone later told me, “That means you’re a very good dancer and they want you to keep dancing”. At the time I couldn’t quite find the words to describe what it means in the West, so I just left it. By the time I left I was very drunk and had been photographed with nearly every single person at the party as well as videotaped dancing with every individual. I actually suspect that someone told the man with the video camera to just follow me around and film everything I did that evening. I hope never to see that video.

---