Sausage torture

Today we met with group 10. The girls were originally selling sausages. They then entered into micro-finance and then decided on the strangely unique combination of sausages and micro-finance. I wondered to myself…so if they have a slow payer do they threaten to “stone” the culprit with sausages? Or do those who prove to be bad borrowers get stuffed like a sausage? Or perhaps sausages get stuffed down the throats of those who default on their loans.

As I reflected on the various methods of using sausage for the purpose of torture, I started to realize that I really did not feel very well. Foolishly (and cockily) just this morning I was bragging to Mr. Rain about how I was the only one in the group, other than he, who had not gotten sick since my arrival in Zambia. Well we know what happens when we make proud proclamations like that, because before I knew what was happening and lost somewhere in the middle of a sausage torture ritual, I started to sweat and flush over with heat and my head started to pound. Was it the sausages? Was I making myself ill with too much of my sick sausage torture fantasy? No. This was something else. I dropped my head into my hands and for the first time on the entire trip started to feel ill.

I promptly excused myself from the training session and Lazarus drove me to the guest house where I popped 600 mg of Ibuprofen, plopped down on the bed, propped a pillow over my head and dropped into a deep sleep. When I woke up my head was still hurting but my temperature had subsided. I got up and out of the bed and stumbled to the door. When I opened it I realized for the first time how beautiful the area we were staying in was.

We were smack dab on the Zambezi River and surrounded by large trees covered in white lily-like flowers. Every once in a while one of these flowers would slowly drop from the trees and come spinning down like a small white helicopter whose body turned instead of its blades. And it would silently plop down on the ground where several of its relatives had also dropped down polka-dotting the well manicured dirt paths beneath the trees. It felt very peaceful here and I must say I felt my mood lift and my head suddenly stop pounding at the site of all of this natural beauty.

I walked down to the river bank and gazed at the ebb and flow of ripples along the top of the water. It was soothing and with that, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I walked back up to the restaurant and gazed over the menu. Nothing. Literally nothing inspired me. Chicken and T-bone. Ugggh. So I called Mr. Rain and asked him to drive me into town. There we found 2 restaurants. One was very dimly lit and the only outside tables were complimented with characterless, white, plastic chairs, most of them already occupied by customers.

So we drove on to the second restaurant. And it was a beauty! It had three big outdoor wooden gazebos with nice wooden chairs to match. It was perfect and I told Mr. Rain to leave me there and I’d join him later. “Hello. How are you? May I see a menu please?” I asked. They had no menu, but I will give you one guess as to what they were serving - and you will guess right, of that I am sure. Chicken and T-bone. Ugggh. So I ordered chicken and chips (fries) and sat down outside in the shade of the gazebo.

45 minutes later I walked over to the woman who had taken my order and asked where she reckoned my food was. “We have no power” she said flatly. Ugggh. Had she thought of mentioning this when I first placed the order? Had she even considered that it might be relevant to the fact that my food being heated and cooked thoroughly was completely dependent on the electricity which powered the electric cooker? I guess she hadn’t. But she did say that the fries would be ready momentarily so I gladly accepted her offer to eat just the chips and a Coke. The Coke came and was ice cold and I was glad and gulped a third of the bottle down. Then the “fries” came.

The irony in calling them “fries” (the American term for the British “chips”) was that they were literally saturated with barely warmed oil. They were the color of a freshly peeled potato without even a hint of color indicating the oil had actually begun to cook the potato. And when my starvation peaked to such a level that I was willing to take a bite of this raw, oil-soaked, colorless potato, the crunch was not that of something fried in oil, but that of a potato picked fresh from the garden and dipped into Castor oil. It was the sad and impotent crunch one experiences when he takes a bite out of an old, mealy apple. I can tell you I left that place in a huff.

I asked Mr. Rain to swing by a small store in the center of town where they sold everything from flip flops to roach powder and from electric keyboards to soap. I bought two bags of chips (crisps) that looked like they had been put into a time capsule in 1870 and buried in someone’s backyard in hopes that a hungry, whiny, white man would someday find them and quench his hunger pangs on this ancient delicacy. One was called “Salted Beef” and tasted of musty, salty shoe leather. The other was called “Tomato Potato” and tasted like a piece of moistened cardboard dipped in very sweet tomato ketchup. I dreamed of lasagne or a big pizza with salami piquant covering it and a big glass of bold IItalian red to go with it. But, alas, my dreams went unanswered and so, there I sat, sadly chewing on shoe leather and moist cardboard. Right about now, sausage torture sounds like heaven!