Camp Life: Day One

Children sprinted alongside our bus today, huge smiles, feet moving so fast you could barely see them, waving their arms like mad and shouting the Zambian word for white man: "Muzungu! Muzungu!" (mah-zoon-goo)

Their excitement was contagious and I waved my hand through the open window of our blue bus, as if I were some celebrity and there was a reason they should cheer for me. I couldn't stop smiling looking at their sweet faces.

This morning we went on a 2.5 hour tour of Lusaka, the capitol of Zambia. The streets are busy and from the road you see two things, mostly: slums, or walls of the middle class, that hide their small houses built from cinder block behind them. Our tour guide said you start to learn how to tell if someone is wealthy by looking at how nice their gate is, and if they have a guard at the gate, they must be really up there. The slums, well, you see things like trash bags hung up to become makeshift walls surrounding a deep hole in the ground: the bathroom for numerous houses to share.

There are too many cultural differences to count. People don't walk on sidewalks here, they just balance on the edge of the road as cars honk at them. Dozens, hundreds of people, walk alongside the highway. Cars drive on the wrong side of the road. People balance stacks of hay on their back as they ride their bike. My brother enjoyed reading the signs for "Penis Cream" aloud for all on our bus to hear, as my mother shook her head in embarrassment. There is a dust in the air that layers itself on your skin before you even notice. Later, I will wipe my face and neck with a make-up remover wipe and it will turn dark brown.

Crime is low here, and poverty high. I asked Gentry why it didn't seem more violent. "Zambia is a peaceful country," he explained. "They don't have a history of tribal warfare. They are known for being very friendly."

Though they have grocery stores and shopping malls like our American cities, this morning bus tour brings new definition to the word poor - a word the locals toss around that does not seem to have the same negative connotation as it does in the US. It's just said in a way that's matter of fact: "poor."

They told us from our comfy seat on the bus that the kids we'd have in our groups this week would come from these communities. I was nervous and thrilled to hear their stories, give them hugs, see their faces.

Around lunchtime, our buses pulled up the hill at the Family Legacy center, and there they were: 1,100 children, of various heights and ages, all with dark skin and matted, dirty hair, bright smiles lighting up their faces. They were jumping and giving shouts of joy to meet their "muzungu." I held my breath a second, wondering which of the 113 lines of 10 children would be "mine" for the week. Wondering if I could handle hearing their heartbreak. Wondering how'd I'd have the energy to last five days with them.

Here I am, Lord. Give me your heart. Show me your children and love them through me.

I stepped off the bus behind my mom. Their cheers and chanting of songs was deafening. It felt like the start of a NCAA national championship game, there was so much excitement and anticipation rushing through so many people.

It's day one. Kick-off time.
Here. we. go.