Chapter 34
Zambia, and the Time of Hunger
This was not my first visit to Zambia, or even my second, so nothing much should have surprised me. Although my visits to Africa had come later in life, I was mesmerized by the people and the land, especially here near Monze, Zambia, where I would visit Mike and his wife, Cindy.
After a night sleeping at a friend’s home in the capital of Lusaka, I had arrived by bus in this small but bustling town of Monze. I was tired. The mosquito netting I had used the night before was old and didn’t fit well on the rock-hard mattress and bed. I had somehow arrived at my friend’s house without any bottled water and so to be on the safe side, I hadn’t had a drink until I was able to buy the precious liquid at a little market that morning. But what astonished me most occurred when I had first arrived at the bus station in Lusaka.
I didn’t know what to expect. I knew it would take about four hours to travel to Monze, but in countries such as Zambia, that could mean two hundred miles on newly paved roads (usually by Chinese construction companies) but most likely, only forty or so miles on beat-up, cracked, and rough gravel and asphalt! But I would be on the main highway through the country, so maybe I would be fortunate and my kidneys would be saved from the normal jostling and bouncing experienced in Africa.
The station was bustling, lively with activity. The colors of the women’s outfits were stunning and added beauty to the otherwise drab and dirty bus station. Men were running around barefoot, carrying bags of flour and wheat, loading buses and trucks. Inside, the bus station was filthy. Outside, it was a quagmire of mud, refuse, and waste, stirred together as if in a pot of stew because of the night’s rain.
Buses were pulling in and out, many resembling those from an old TV show such as Mayberry RFD. Many were outdated with bald tires, while broken windows adorned others and the “runners,” or those men who were responsible for selling the tickets and getting everyone on board, were hustling here and there, all holding the ubiquitous clipboards listing the passengers’ names.
I said I wanted a passage to Monze, “An express bus straight through, please,” knowing that with that request I would probably at least get a better bus than if I didn’t say anything at all. I wanted a bus that wouldn’t make continuous stops for passengers and animals and whatever else every few miles. The man with the clipboard didn’t seem to understand much of my English but took my money and issued me a ticket. It had a time printed on it indicating I would be leaving soon. I still wasn’t sure which bus was mine, so I meandered over to where they were ready to pull out. I saw no others who looked out of place like me, and for sure I was the only white person at that station, but I was treated pleasantly with smiles and nods from all those who passed by me.
Only a few minutes had passed when it happened. Like a green goddess rising from the sea, a large, clean, beautiful, lime-green bus with all its windows intact and gleaming in the morning sunlight pulled into the station. Let this be the one, I prayed!
When the doors opened, I marched up as if I knew exactly what I was doing, stepped in, and found a seat that matched the number on my ticket. I liked this. Even if it wasn’t going to Monze, I was going to ride this bus and go wherever it went, because this was the nicest object I had encountered since my arrival in Zambia!
The conductor came by and took my ticket. Yes, it was the right bus! The ride was comfortable. A steward passed by after our departure with an English language newspaper and a cold Coke he had taken from a plastic cooler behind the last seat. I felt as if we were all traveling on the nicest airline in Africa. What a wonderful trip through the countryside of central Zambia, bathed in comfort, in air conditioning, and with all the attention I could want. But that all ended a few hours later as the door to the bus hissed shut and I was standing in Monze.
Where’s Mike? I wondered. He should have been here by now. People were staring at this muzingo, as I later learned meant white man. I was standing in front of a dirty market in a dirty parking area alongside the road. I was still dressed well, which made me stand out even more among these loitering men, who looked as if they had only one pair of old pants and they were wearing them.
One man glared at me with tired, bloodshot eyes and a wrinkled face that indicated the hard life he had led. Skin hung from his arms, shrunken skin and bones. Then his stare moved to my left. My suitcase was even more out of place. Where cardboard boxes and sacks of flour and cement were piled, my American Tourister travel case just didn’t fit in. This wasn’t one of the tourist towns near the park reserves and grand safaris. I was in real Africa.
A honk awoke me from my thoughts and a Toyota Land Cruiser, dirty with mud splattered on its sides and even on the windshield, pulled up beside me. “Sorry we’re late, but we’ve been picking up supplies,” a smiling and sweating Mike said. “Hop in. You might have to move some of the bags and oil, but we’ve got room. Just throw your suitcase on the roof.” The iron rack on the roof was already partially filled with supplies, but we found room. I then squeezed into the backseat beside more supplies while various tools and truck parts littered the floor board near my feet.
Mike and his wife were teachers in a Bible college in Jembo, about an hour and a half from Monze and the only decently paved road in Zambia. The highway I had traveled by bus runs down the spine of the country from Lusaka to Livingstone. Then from this main transportation artery radiates a web of minor roads, trails, and paths to the smaller towns and villages in the bush.
Along with Jani, a well-educated Zambian and the director of the school, we spent another hour picking up cooking oil, some sort of ground meal for what is called n’shema, a tasteless, nutrition-less mush that’s loved and eaten at almost every meal. Then we stopped at a bakery and picked up fresh rolls and a container of butter, which I would later learn was really a luxury.
As in most small African towns, everyone had a job and station. We ordered the sacks of corn meal at a counter on the dirty street. A young woman, evidently with education, wearing a blue school uniform took our request. Next, the owner, usually an overweight man, would come and look at it and examine our money to verify its value. A few orders would be barked and a smaller man or two would begin scurrying around finding the 50-pound sacks of product. Sometimes without shirts, sweat glistening on their bodies and usually without shoes, these men would struggle to load the sacks on top of the Land Cruiser. Lastly, another order would be shouted and from a shop next door someone would appear with tarp and twine to tie everything down tight.
While this was all happening, Jani was acting as the dock boss, telling the porters where and how to load the heavy sacks of grain, where to tie them down, and generally making sure everything was performed correctly. This happened again and again, and I was amazed that even in this little town in the African interior, commerce functioned. There were things to buy, people to do the work, and financial gain to be made. Finally, the last of the supplies was loaded. We were full and busting out from the inside while the luggage rack on top was stacked high with hundreds of pounds of food and supplies.
“This will be such a wonderful surprise for the students,” Mike said with a twinkle in his eye. “And the rolls, such delicacies at this time of year, this time of hunger. Wait till we spread butter on them. I can see them now!” His excitement was contagious, and I began looking forward to arriving in Jembo and reuniting with friends whom I hadn’t seen for more than a year.
I knew this part of Zambia was poor. I had been here before and together with Mike and a local pastor we were working on a project to help those inflicted with HIV/AIDS. But although the situation was very bad, it seemed that at least there was food for those living in the bush villages. There was fruit from trees and the corn that was grown provided the basis for the n’shema. So I asked Mike what he meant by “time of hunger”.
By this time we had turned off the asphalt highway, on to what began as a dirt road but rapidly deteriorated into a path of two tracks with grass growing in the middle. Between shifting and gripping the wheel as it tried to wrest control from its driver on each hole or rock we hit, Mike began to share. His words were met with grunts of affirmation from Jani as he added commentary and further explanation. Little by little, I began to understand.
“The students as well as the men and women of the village work hard,” Mike explained. “Each owns a small plot of land. Land means everything here, and is passed on from father to son. That’s one of the issues they have to deal with, because with each generation, the land is divided among the many boys and each plot gets smaller, with not nearly enough arable land to feed each large and growing family. To make matters worse, when a family loses a father to AIDS, which is prevalent, the wives have no right to the land as only men have these rights. And a landless woman has no alternative except to beg or live with a relative.”
Because of the condition of the trail, we had slowed to a crawl. The tall grasses were sweeping the sides of the Land Cruiser clean and we could hear the grass and weeds between the two tire ruts buffeting the bottom of the vehicle. Mike had long ago put the transmission into four-wheel drive, and the grind of the low ratio gears was taking its toll on our conversation. We seemed to alternate between puddles of water and mud to rocks that bounced not only the cargo but ourselves against the doors and then back again against each other. A few jeeps and trucks followed this route, but when the main transportation is by foot, a graded and leveled roadway is of little necessity.
He continued, saying, “Most of the families have food during much of the year, though even with fruit trees and their plots of tillable land, there is malnutrition and one definitely won’t see anyone struggling with obesity. But generally, few experience true hunger until this time of year. About six weeks before harvest, the stores they have saved and been using all year are running out. This is a cashless society. There is no money to buy food and they have nothing to trade, if food was even available. So they accept that this is the time of hunger, and just eat less and less, trying to make it to harvest, all the time praying that fire or disease won’t destroy their crops. We’re in that phase now, the time of hunger.”
I was struggling with this news. The injustice of it hurt. I wasn’t sure what my response should be. On we drove toward the little village of Jembo, the top-heavy Toyota leaning and reeling on each rough stretch of rocks or deeply cut ruts on the left, then on the right. The engine in low gear continued its high pitched whine of protest. No signs directed us at the forks in the trail, but Mike and Jani knew which way we needed to turn. There wasn’t much to see except the round, mud and thatched roof huts that were visible when the tall grass opened up.
From time to time a villager walking down the trail with a hoe on his shoulder would appear. But as soon as he saw us, he would jump out of the way to be swallowed up by the tall grass and brush. Children wearing only torn and ratty pairs of shorts would be shooed by their mothers out of the path of this oncoming mechanical monster! Only a basin filled with food or another container could be seen, perched upon a lady’s head, above the growth of the savannah. Children’s eyes squinted through the foliage, gazing at us as we passed. We were eager to get to our destination.
“Hold on to your hats boys!” shouted Mike. We had just driven into a deep puddle or more like a small pond filled with water! It was no problem for the heavy duty, diesel-powered Land Cruiser to plough through, but on the other side where water and clay had turned the ground into crater-like indentions we were buffeted back and forth like a sailboat in a storm. We held on, whooping like a cowboy on a bronco! This wasn’t driving; this was a Disneyland ride!
The sun was setting as we passed through the village and into the school grounds. Children were playing outside, kicking something along the ground. Inside the Bible school building, the adult students sat all together worshipping, singing, and dancing to the joys of music, oblivious to what we had brought. But word soon spread. And later, as each received their portion of corn meal, there were solemn nods of thanks.
They realized what this meant, but were also proud as they should have been. They hadn’t asked for a handout. They were doing all that was possible to keep their wives and children from the pain of an empty stomach. The reality in which they lived was just a cruel truth, so there was acceptance and gratitude but also an understanding that they could live on their own. Outside help was appreciated, but they had a long history of survival amidst adversity. We understood each other.
Later, however, it was all smiles and fun when rolls and butter were passed around. This was different, a treat, a gift! We talked in broken English about their studies, their plans for the future, how their kids were behaving or not behaving. The conversation was no different from how I would talk with my neighbors on the cul-de-sac where I lived in Michigan. But when the sun finished its arc across the sky and darkness reigned, I was reminded of where I was. There were no lights here in the Zambian bush. And it was quiet. No radios or TVs blared. The stars were brilliant, hovering above us, putting on a spectacular show.
As I sat with some of these new acquaintances, I was humbled. I couldn’t say they were my friends at this point; that would be a presumptuous thought by a smug American. But sitting with these Africans whom I had come to admire, there was a bond. Yes, I was clothed in nice jeans, socks, shoes, and a comfortable shirt, while the men sitting next to me on the roughhewn wooden stools wore broken sandals, had sores covering their legs, and a miss-match of torn shirts on their backs. But there was still a unity of understanding.
Here, under the canopy of stars in Africa, we, too, had the same struggles and problems, the same issues with our wives and our children. They were working hard to make a living the same as me. But there was one difference.
They understood what it means to endure. I had never gone through a “time of hunger.”
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