Freedom Found in Zambia

There are places that set you free.

Not by adding more, but by taking things away.

By reminding you how to be still.

How to be present.

How to live without rushing.

For me, Zambia was that place.

I was living in a mud hut with a thatched roof in a village you could only reach by biking 25 miles from the highway.

No running water.

No electricity.

Just the basics: sunlight, people, work, food, and rest.

One afternoon, I sat in front of a pile of freshly-picked peanuts, feeling irritated.

I didn’t want to shell them—it felt inefficient, tedious.

But then I looked around.

No emails. No errands. No TV.

Just birdsong in the trees. The smell of dust and fire. The soft murmur of village life.

And I thought—what else do I have to do?

So I shelled the peanuts.

And in doing so, I remembered how to relax.

Zambia has a kind of energy that gets into your bones.

It doesn’t announce itself.

It just teaches—quietly—what actually matters.

In the evenings, I’d walk through the village singing softly.

Children would gather around me, some walking beside me, others begging me to chase them.

I’d pretend to lunge and they’d scatter, shrieking with laughter,

then come back, asking me to do it again.

There was beauty everywhere.

Not the kind you frame or post.

The kind that settles into your chest and stays.

People asked me about America.

They spoke of it as a promised land—full of money, comfort, freedom.

And yes, there’s truth in that.

But I tried to explain that it comes at a cost.

In America, we’ve traded community for convenience.

Everything is fast. Everything is expensive.

Most people don’t grow their own food.

Many don’t know their neighbors.

Which can be a blessing, in contrast.

In village life, jealousy is real, and community isn’t always idyllic.

JV Zulu

I worked with one farmer who was passionate and innovative.

We planned a dry-season garden together—he put in massive amounts of labor and pulled it off beautifully.

The crops were thriving.

But then a jealous neighbor tore down his fence and let the cattle in.

The crops were destroyed.

He was disheartened, but calm.

“That’s how it goes,” he said.

“You make progress… and it’s taken away.”

And then there was South Luangwa National Park.

One afternoon, my mom and I were playing cards in our tent

when we heard a sound—deep, rhythmic, almost like monks chanting.

We stepped outside and saw them: Ground Hornbills walking along the river,

heads bowing in sync, their low hoots echoing across the landscape.

Ground Hornbill

The birds in Zambia were astonishing—

Purple-crested turacos, crowned cranes, bee-eaters in flashes of neon and gold.

Giraffes moved like dancers in slow motion.

Warthogs dashed with tails held high like flags.

Wild Dogs ran with synchronized intensity.

Leopards melted into the trees.

And the elephants—so massive, so present—they made the Earth feel like it was exhaling.

Of course, not everyone viewed the wildlife with wonder.

To many villagers, elephants meant danger and crop destruction.

Monkeys stole food.

Lions were not symbols—they were real threats.

One night, I heard a lion roar across the river.

It hit me in the solar plexus, raw and guttural.

Even with a guard nearby, it awakened something ancient in me—

a fear that bypasses the brain and lands in your bones.

Zambia reminded me what it feels like to belong to the land, and not just view it as a resource.

That presence lives in the quiet routines—shelling peanuts, walking slowly, working with the Earth.

That freedom comes when you move in rhythm with a place, instead of trying to shape it to your agenda.

And writing this reminds me:

I spent two years with an open heart

in a land that smiles back - quietly, but deeply.

Kaloko Village, Eastern Province, Zambia