“Town?” I say as I hoist my self into the front cab of the bus.

Smile and nod from the driver, and we’re on our way. Not to town.

 

I sit and watch the town pass – the woman with her set of logs stacked precariously on her head, the ice creamery where I’ve been stopping in every few days, splurging on the ‘Dollar per TUB’ deal, the running kids, families in their best attire off to Church, interspersed by some local youths who are making their ways home from their not-so-religious nights – Ndola town strolling and meandering peacefully through the morning.

 

“Town?” I ask again as the bus juts itself off onto a dirt road… one I know isn’t heading for town.

Smile and nod from the driver, and we continue our pace. Not to town.

 

The bus pulls into Chifubu. A shantytown that I’m just becoming familiar with, and only with my keenest landmark observances (I think I remember that fence… that cell phone credit stall looks familiar… I can’t think of where else I may be…).

 

And since we’re here, I might as well tell you about Chifubu. A township developed around the local brewery (which since collapsed), the area has its fair share of social and economic issues. I’ve been here a number of times, getting to know a SpanAfrica Grassroots Partner, Maurigrace Schools. Started by Maurice (where half the name comes from), this elementary school, tailoring school, chicken and rabbit rearing school, and child and women’s rights and advocacy school all find themselves tucked into a pocket of a plot of land, providing the needed holistic, academic, and vocational education services needed in the community.

 

I’ve only been able to make my way out here a few times (which is why I’m still not super familiar with the area), but have fallen in love with the dreams and efforts put forth by Maurice and his small team of teachers.  Sitting with Maurice to hear his long stories and explanations about everything in the community, right down to the stories and pictures of the children being supported by the organization – painted much of the picture of Zambia I’ve been longing to see: that of the people.

 

Being here for so short a time (5 weeks makes you realize how much better it would be to stay for 5 years, should I have chance to rebook my flights, and swop around my education), I’ve been able to meet a lot of our Grassroots Partners here, and have had a great time laughing and cooking with Kenneth and his family, but I haven’t been afforded the time to get my hands into some projects of my own ( a lot of my work being about the preparation for future volunteers to come). But Maurice made sure that I got a 5 minute dance performance from some students, and got proper introductions to some of the cute faces I’ve only been able to greet in assembly.

 

-       but I’m getting off track. I’m not in Chifubu today to visit Maurice. I’m supposed to be heading to town to buy ingredients for some afternoon cake baking back at home.

“Town. I’m trying to go to town” I say again to the driver, stifling a smile.

 

He nods understandingly. “The bus will turn around in a bit” he mentions, “Why aren’t you in Church?”

And error is found not in my direction making, but in my religious truancy. Guilty as charged.

 

“Why aren’t you in Church?” I ask him – since, by sitting here in the bus beside me, he also is a skipper.

 

“7^th Day Adventist”, he explains as he pulls his cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. “Do you drink?” he asks, not really waiting for my answer, “Because you should buy for us.”

 

The bus turns around, and any of my worry for not making it to town and winding up having to hitchhike my way back from anywhere blows out the window into the sunny blue day.

 

“But 7^th Day Adventist…” I start with a smile. “Are you a Christian?” he asks, and it’s my turn for a chagrin smile without words.  “Religion without the rules” I muse. “What’s the point?” And we share a knowing (or perhaps very uncertain, but connected and contented) smile, as the bus plotted down the same path from which we had come – so many very past minutes ago. 

 

Albert – his name was Albert, and before long, the two of us were listening to my Bollywood Aaj Ki Raat tunes, iPod dangling between the two of us while the bus continued to fill up and pat down the dusty roads. Albert and his bus to anywhere, and as wonderful an adventure as a Sunday morning could ever be chalked up to be.