Harvest Time in Zam

The rain has passed and the nights are becoming increasingly cooler. I’ve even broken out my wool sweater a couple times. Early on damp, misty mornings brown leaves crunch under foot as I carefully choose my steps, running along the hard-packed dirt roads and footpaths embedded with rocks that snake behind the compounds that line my running route. It’s harvest time in Zambia, and except for some of the places where late heavy rains spoiled the maize on the stalks, it is shaping up to be a good one. The maize has been taken in and has, in places, already been replanted. Rolled hay bales stand watch over flat, straw-hued fields like giant pastries guarding a cookie sheet. The sun more or less rises and sets at six. Believe it or not, it’s looking and feeling a bit like autumn at home, very Indian Summerish.

On our travels we pass many roadside fruit and vegetable stands, where Zambian women compete vigorously to replace their produce with a few kwacha. They have perfected the art of arranging the healthy stuff into little fruit and veggie cairns that constitute what you get for the going price. The cabbage, okra, carrots, sweet potatoes, groundnuts (peanuts), watermelons, pumpkin leaves, and many varieties of pumpkins and squash they sell, they usually don’t grow, though it is likely that they toil at subsistence farming.

(WARNING: Digression. I have become quite a fan of okra, which tastes great boiled, then mixed with diced tomatoes and onions. It’s got great texture—but what is that goo that oozes from it, and where does it come from?!)

You could say that these are “middlewomen,” buying from local farmers and reselling. I’m told that one of the former Zambian presidents, a Mr. Chiluba, encouraged Zambians to adopt this buy and (re)sell approach to free enterprise. It was purported to be the path out of poverty for Zambians. Things seem not to have materialized as envisioned. Without no economies of scale, and no value added, Zambians compete against each other with undifferentiated commodities. Service (transport/delivery time) isn’t even a potential point of differentiation for these women since the only transportation that have is by foot. Thus they either collude on price or end up cutting each other’s throats. This almost surely locks one inside the house of poverty.

Just as the Egyptian pyramids remind me of God’s faithfulness in delivering the Israelites from their oppresors, the small pyramids of fresh produce and man-sized mounds of it remind me of God’s faithfulness in providing for us. Is it a matter of conscious trust in God’s providential promise or an assumption we take for granted, that harvests will be abundant, and that we’ll be able to enjoy them. In Genesis 8 God promised Noah,
As long as the earth endures,
seedtime and harvest,
cold and heat,
summer and winter,
day and night will never cease.

May it be out of trust in God’s goodness that we look forward to plentiful harvests, with thanksgiving in our hearts. Amen.

Dirty Jobs: Zambia

On a break from teaching in Mongu, in Zam’s Western Province, I decided to stretch my legs by trudging through the heavy, resistant sand outside the Lilelelo congregation’s church building. Although Mongu is about 120 miles west of Angola and its Kalahari Desert sands, I could easily have been convinced that I was smack dab in the middle of that desert, or on the beach at the Jersey shore. The previous week, a good hour’s drive south of Mongu, in Senanga, I’d snapped some youngsters who were looking my way. When I saw the pic - which I could've taken virtually anywhere in Senanga with the same result - I asked myself, "Does this not look like they're lounging on a beach?"

At Lilelelo though, as we were teaching I’d become aware of a grating, whirring sound buzzing from beyond the church—like an electric circular saw. As I passed by the opening in the church’s flimsy, straw-colored reed fence, I saw some folks hunched over a waist-high rectangular box. My curiosity aroused, I walked over to investigate.

A young woman and what might have been her daughter smoothed their fingers back and forth over the box, filled with maize. Soon I could see gaps in the maize that revealed shiny gray metal. Beneath the maize, the aluminum box bottom was dotted unsystematically with hundreds of holes that looked like they’d been randomly punched out with a Philip’s head screwdriver. Pebbles, twigs, and too-small maize kernels dropped down onto the camel-colored sand.

After sifting the maize, they poured what remained into a tightly woven white plastic sack and handed it over to the miller. He emptied the sack into his milling machine until the hopper was full, then hit an electric switch. Ah, that grating whir, the one I’d heard all day. The machine churned the hard, yellowy kernels into a fine powdery dust, spitting it into a white plastic sack. The whitish residue clung to everything in the miller’s outdoor shop. The workspace reminded me of the workshop my father used to have in our basement—after he’d been cutting wood with his radial-arm saw. I used to vacuum the sawdust that the jagged blades of that powerful saw spewed out. In the miller’s shop however, the maize and cassava dust looked, as a Zambian might say, “a bit” permanent! It also clung to the gap-toothed miller himself! In a funny way, this pleasant Zambian looked like the dirty job yang to the dirty job yin of a West Virginia coal miner—brown-skinned and covered from head to toe, with white dust. I shuddered to think how much of that fine dust was caked in the poor chap’s lungs. OSHA would have a field day.

In Senanga I spoke with a man who also milled rice. He dried the husks in the sun and sold them as chicken feed. The usable output for our maize miller is mealie-meal, the staple of the Zambian diet. The chalky miller processed others’ maize so he could buy or mill his own. The church, whose operation this was, employed him. Many Zambian churches engage in commercial enterprises to support their ministries. In addition to milling maize and cassava, these include making bricks, and cooking up a homemade liquid refreshment called munkoyo.

The church charged the equivalent of about 60 cents to mill a 25 kg. (60 lbs.) or so sack of maize. My miller friend said business was pretty slow. With revenue of 60 cents/bag—including his wage—he can’t be making much doing this dirty job.

Freedom!

Recently, as Americans observed a national holiday, Memorial Day, so did citizens of dozens of other countries observe a national holiday. Americans remembered those who died to secure their freedom, while Africans, continent-wide, celebrated their freedom from colonial masters.

Three weeks into our month-long swing through Zam’s Western, Central, and Lusaka Provinces, we found ourselves in the capital, Lusaka—on Africa Freedom Day. The city was relatively sleepy that morning, Lusakans apparently taking the liberty of sacking in. As my colleagues and I ran some errands, it occurred to me that this might be an opportunity to get a closer look at the “Freedom Statue” we’d driven by so many times when passing through Lusaka.

By the time we arrived at the statue, the Zambian president, Rupiah Banda, had already come for a wreath-laying ceremony, and gone. The first time I’d seen the statue, an image of a big, muscular, bare-chested man breaking free from the chains that bound him (Zambians call him "Ma Cheni, Ma Cheni," one breaking free from his chains) it was obvious that it was somehow tied up with the concept of freedom. Now, up close, any doubt about this was quickly resolved by the block letters—F R E E D O M—emblazoned on its base. The monument had a satiny, black sheen, and appeared to be supported by the strings of triangular flags strewn from it, the kind you see flapping in the breeze at car dealerships. The colors—green, copper, black, and red—borrowed from the Zambian flag, signify Zambia’s rich land, copper, people, and the blood the people shed for their freedom.

The monument stands in the midst of a green, close cut lawn, fenced in at the foot a Chinese-built Zambian government building. Hundreds of children laughed, screamed, and frolicked on the grass around the statue. When I began taking some “snaps” (as Zambians say) of the statue, it was as if a magnet lured those kids in front of my camera—jumping, smiling, shouting, and waving. When I stood before the statue for my colleague to snap me however, those children closed in on me like a rugby scrum, grabbing my arms and legs, jumping on my back. It was like a family get-together with my nieces and nephews, or a mugging! My Zambian colleague-photographer would have none of this, either concerned for my safety or about getting a more dignified snap! He sternly reprimanded the children, commanding them to stand back; he appointed one young boy as “captain,” to restrain the others. After one such “appeasement snap,” I told him it was okay for the kids to gather round.

What freedom children have in their innocence. I noticed this while in the Western Province. Visiting a headmistress at an elementary school, I was introduced to a first and second grade class—and snapped them. Free as birds even in their crisp blue school uniforms, they jostled and jockeyed for position in front of my lens—fresh faces, all bright eyes and beautiful white teeth.
Their raucous laughter crescendoed to cheers and screams at the burst of the camera’s flash. My colleague urged me to stop, saying I was causing “pandemonium.” Pandemonium. For some reason that word made me laugh, maybe because it was true, but nevertheless this was a pandemonium borne of childish innocence. Rich or poor, everywhere I’ve been in the world children are innocently free, at least they look and sound that way.

Back at the Freedom Statue, as we were leaving, scads of children followed me, clinging to my shirt and pants, holding my hands, grabbing my legs, and patting my back. In that moment I felt joy, and sadness—joy for the obvious reasons, and sadness, at first, because I wondered how many of them were so eager to touch me because they’d been conned into believing that it’s good luck to touch a muzungu. Moments later though, I was told that many of these were homeless, “street kids” possibly high from sniffing glue. How free then, were they, really?
I thought more about freedom. Am I free? What I am free from? What am I free for? What am I doing with my freedom? I thought about what Paul meant when he said “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). Got freedom? Real freedom?

Working Hard at Hard Work

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Most Zambians survive however they can. Many scrape out a living with some sort of “business.” This often involves staking out some piece of property that no one else seems to have claimed—to grow something or produce something resourceful on or from the land. Over the last month or two a Zambian I met named Emmanuel (meaning “God with us”) has done just that. He makes bricks out of dirt from anthills. He chose a large unclaimed anthill just outside the gate that surrounds the campus where I live.


Emmanuel labors thirteen hours a day, from 5 a.m. to 6 p.m., seven days a week. Each day he makes three hundred bricks. Anthill soil is supposed to be the best for making strong, durable bricks because it is so fine. Emmanuel begins making a brick by first coating the inside of a rectangular metal box with some black oil, so that he’ll be able to remove the brick later. Then he shovels a heap of anthill dirt into the box. Next, he packs the dirt hard by pounding it with his shovelhead; he repeats the process piles more on and smacks it again. Finally, he activates a lever to release the brick from the box.
He ascends from the dirt pit to stage the bricks for drying. He covers his newly formed bricks with hay and lets them bake in the sun for three days. I forgot to ask Emmanuel what he charges for each brick. It can’t be much because the people who will buy them can’t afford to pay very much. Fortunately for Emmanuel he’s got almost no costs, though I don’t know how he markets his bricks.

There's not an ounce of fat on Emmanuel. For lunch he eats nshima, the porridge-like corn meal staple of most Zambians. He has no vegetable or meat to accompany this virtually nutritionless lump. Hooray for Emmanuel for taking the initiative to eke out an honest though very tough living.

(November to) April Showers Bring…

…explosions of color to Zambia, May flowers for sure. Lush green hills and grass color the landscape. Bright red wild poinsettias have been in full bloom since at least Palm Sunday (the week before Easter). The traffic circles and town center in Kitwe are bursting with color. The campus where I live is resplendent with color too.


The seasons are changing though. Most of the gauva have fallen from the tree in my yard. I've been enjoying walking out to pluck a lemon off my other tree when I'm preparing dinner,or looking to freshen up a gin and tonic! Some of the trees are losing their leaves as the “cold season” advances. When I run in the mornings, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I see Zambians bundled up with plaid wool or acrylic blankets, and puffy quilted coats. For them, this is cold; most mornings it’s probably been in the high fifties or low sixties! While riding the minibus to and from town I've been choking on the staleness of the air in the vehicle. Zambians are quick to clamp those minibus windows shut to stay comfortable. Now I try to stake out one of the window seats. At night it has been cool enough for me to cover myself with a blanket as I slide into my linen mitten (the latter a favorite expression of my friend Russell).

Mosi-oa-Tunya

We snaked our way to the outskirts of Livingstone, along the reasonably good paved road carved through tall, wispy grass, brush, and trees. The town is named for the Scot Dr. David Livingstone, the great medical doctor, explorer, and Christian missionary, for whom Zambians seem to have great respect and affection. There was a steady rumbling sound in the distance. Finally, through a clearing at an elbow in the road, one could glimpse the sparkling, royal blue waters of the Zambezi River that we had been shadowing. The sun was shining brightly overhead, tucked into a crystal clear blue sky. Another blue-sky day in Zambia, sort of. “Sort of”—because several hundred yards down river we could see some apparently very low-lying clouds hovering like smoke over the water. Courtesy of five months of persistent rain – virtually daily, intermittent but often seemingly of Noahic proportions –the water volume and rush of the Zambezi are greatest at this time of year. The fluid border between Zim and Zam is exactly that—fluid—indiscriminately encroaching onto (and later receding from) Zim and Zam soil.

This is where the bottom falls out of the mile wide Zambezi, for 350 feet. Thus, the rumbling sound we’d heard. Dr. Livingstone proclaimed in 1855 that his were the first European eyes to witness what the local Makololo inhabitants called Mosi-oa-Tunya, “the smoke that thunders.” Victoria Falls, the good doctor’s name for the place, doesn’t seem as respectful of this sight, one of the seven wonders of the natural world, or as imaginative. The clouds we’d seen were actually mist rising from below, generated by the indescribable force of the massive volume of water cascading over the boulders and crashing on rocks below. It is beyond my ken to convey the sheer power of this sight with words or pictures.




I’d been warned that I’d get wet viewing the falls—that it was useless to bring an umbrella or raincoat. Besides, on this cloudless blue-sky day, wearing a tee shirt, running shorts, and flip flops, I’d be dry in ten minutes anyway. So out I stepped, onto the footbridge connecting Zam and Zim. Because of the heavy mist, I could not see the falls to my right. At that moment, for all I knew, I had become part of them. I’ve had only a handful of showers since I’ve been in Zambia. The one I had on that misty footbridge was c-o-l-d, but with the most phenomenal water pressure! Once on the Zim side I glanced back at the biggest and most vivid rainbow I’d ever seen.

If the rainbow is a symbol of hope for humanity, of God’s covenant of faithfulness with us, so too perhaps, may this rainbow over the Zambezi be a symbol of hope for Zambia (Gen 9:12-17). With issues related to food production, clean sources of power generation, and water availability and distribution increasingly becoming problems in many parts of the world (South Africa and elsewhere in Africa, Middle East, western U.S., etc.), does not Zambia have an opportunity to use its abundant and water resources to diversify its copper-dependent economy? Let’s hope so, and pray that Zam’s government, business leaders, and neighbors will handle these resources as respectfully as their Makololo ancestors treated the smoke that thunders.

Artist's Inspiration

Friday. 8:15 a.m. Front door. Knock, knock, knock. I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked a young Zambian man who’d stopped by selling something late the previous afternoon to return at 8:30 a.m. Thus far those hawking goods door-to-door haven’t had anything that I’ve needed or wanted. Of course, always hovering in the back of my mind is the thought that anything I take out of Zam I’ll have to carry — for two months. Besides that, when traveling by air I’ll have to keep my checked baggage within the airlines’ baggage weight limits, which are slimming faster than the participants in a Zambian hot season sumo-wrestling match. The thought of schlepping stuff around for two months only to be forced to deep six it at the airline check-in counter holds no appeal for me. I don’t need the workout that badly.

I didn’t know what this man, Andrew, was selling, and I wasn’t expecting much. Was I ever shocked when I swung open my front door! Andrew had turned my front porch into an art gallery. He’d leaned framed oils on the porch wall. Unframed oils flooded the brick drainage gutter and spilled onto the grass. He had piles of watercolor greeting cards. Twice, my neighbor Jenny’s cat delighted in scooting over the canvasses displayed in the gutter.


What beautiful work. I’m no art connoisseur but I immediately sensed something special about this humble man and his artwork. To begin with, it is remarkable for a Zambian to show up on time, let alone early. Andrew is self-trained. His subjects are Zambian women engaged in the activities of daily living — holding babies, dancing, sitting at or walking to market, doing village chores. This choice certainly resonated with me. I come to have the utmost respect for Zambian women, who are to a large extent the glue that holds this country together.

Andrew is also a good businessman. He confidently offered to give me a deal once I’d decided what to buy. That time came, and rather than reduce his price, he offered to throw in extra work. Don’t discount; hold on to the cash. Smart.

One might say that Andrew pedals to peddle. With a bag stuffed with cards and rolled up canvases slung over his shoulder, he gets around on a bicycle, strapping his wood-framed oils to its rack.

Andrew’s skill, reliability, ambition, business savvy, and humility lifted my spirits. When was the last time you felt good about a person from whom you bought something, and hopeful for that person’s future and that of their country...and even felt like you’d had a mutually beneficial experience? For me, it was two Fridays ago.