So we get on the bus and head for the border. Passing the wild monkeys and ladies balancing baskets, duffel bags and their extended families on their heads. Ok, that might be an exaggeration, but I'm sure these hard working women could do it. We fill out the immigration card on the bus. There's one question that always confounds me on such documents. Occupation. What do I do anyway? And this is when I start to over think things. Who am I? I haven't yet called myself a writer because I've never earned any money for my writing. So after a mini-identity crisis, I settle on mother.
We file out of the bus and into the immigration office to get our visas and our foreignness bumps us to the front of the line. The officer processes our kids first. Which throughout Africa involves a lot of very loud stamping of passports, visas and miscellaneous papers. Then he gets to my passport and immigration form. And he mumbles, laughs, scratches out MOTHER and inserts HOUSEWIFE. Instantaneously I was both demeaned and approved for entry. Housewife? I am not, nor have I ever been married to my house.
Our friends the Greens, are in line immediately following us. Now, Faith is the editor of the Embassy newsletter. Turns out that anything related to journalism in that box gets you another form to fill out. One that says that you will not take pictures or write anything about Zimbabwe. Which she signed in trade for her visa.
But I'm just a housewife.
The last of our cash was used up on the visas. We're headed to the airport, but we want to make one stop. So we ask the driver if we have enough time to stop at the market and still make it to the airport in time. He says we have about 20 minutes to spare. But of course we're broke. And they don't take credit cards in these markets. But what we do have are 6 unwashed bath towels we've used for showering and at the pools for the last 2 weeks. Now I brought our old thread barren towels with us on safari and at this point funky does not even begin to describe their stench. So I bundle all our towels in my arms and we head into the market.
Now I am a terrible bargainer. I like set prices where I can simply decide if I want something for that price or not. But since all I have is towels this makes the process so much easier. And you're like who the hell is gonna want those towels? Except everyone does. In fact, all the vendors are salivating over my towels and trying to get me to trade my towels with them. And they'll do almost anything for them. But I'm looking for one thing. Remember that zebra I didn't get in Zambia? I have less than 20 minutes to find it and more than 40 vendors to bargain with. Can it be done? And as it turns out? I'm the freaking queen of skanky towel husseling. Seriously. Next time when I get a visa form and they ask for occupation I'm going to write SKANKY TOWEL HUSSLER.
Check out what I scored in trade for 6 grungy towels.
Not one, but TWO zebras. And not pictured is a bracelet Ember got and a necklace for Sky and some small trinket for River which I can't recall. (And no, not the carpet.)
And you know what? If I was a writer I couldn't have told you this story at all. So I just got a new appreciation for being a housewife. And I'm startin' to think this is a pretty sweet gig. After all, my house doesn't care how much time I spend in it. It doesn't care if I roller skate through it. Or if I don't clean it. Or appreciate it. And most of all? Most of all I can write anything, anytime, anywhere and I don't have to answer to anyone. So, yup, I guess I kinda like being just a housewife!
