Prairie Post
7-23-10
(this time from Lusaka)
The weather is glorious here, in this African city, the sun beams graciously from the dark blue sky. It is winter, a winter without frost, a winter without snow, a winter without icy roads. Seventy-some degrees and local people sit outside wearing their “winter” coats. The weather is kind at this time of the year, just like the people of this poorest of poor countries. No meeting without handshake, no conversation without handshake, no greeting without handshake – often with the left arm supporting the right elbow and the fingers locking up on your right thumb. No passing of young people without a friendly wave, no meeting of the eyes without a friendly smile, and no meeting with elderly people without kneeling in front of them. Their welcome is expressed with the traditional Makishi dance performed in brightly colored skirts, leg tassels and face masks covered by feathers or grass. This is a place of regard for others, of help, and friendly interaction.
This is not a place of time, punctual time. People “find each other” here, they don’t set a time. A challenge for those who come from the Northern hemisphere! Where should I go to meet up? When should I be at the meeting? Will I be the first, the last, or do I know? Time does not matter in this part of the world; time is simply a rule to be broken.
Animals don’t have a sense of time, animals roam, sleep, eat, as they please. How different can humans be? The drive to the resort takes many out of their comfort zone, dirt roads attacking the spine every second and at every turn. The guide simply refers to it as the “Zambian massage.” As the group of scientists arrives at the Lodge, they are given choices of activities, none really organized. “Would you like to go on a horse-back ride?” “How about taking a boat across the lake?” “Interested in a bush walk?” The scientists decline all – possibly because none of these activities involve books or journals. Oh – except one, a lone scholar who volunteers for a horse-back ride – flashbacks from childhood books must have helped make such an unreasonably quick decision. Soon enough, or should one say, sometime later, the guide comes back with “Champion.” “You are an experienced rider, are you not?” he wants to know – an adventurous pioneer never negates such a question. Off they ride into the wilderness, full steam ahead. Francis, the guide, hears noises coming from the West. “Here we orient ourselves around noises,” he explains. “Elephants,” he surmises, “those must be elephants.” The sound of cracking tree limbs is now discernable even to the naïve. “Mind if we ride off the trail?” Why would the stranger mind, he believes to be in good hands or on a good back, as it were. So they trot through the thicket following the unmistaken footprints until they see a family of elephants enjoying their lunch. After returning to the trail, they spot a few humans, “the most dangerous species of all,” explains Francis. In the distance they see children walking through the grasslands to school – three hours to school and three hours back home again. No time to stop, the two on horseback keep hasting overland, next to zebras, impalas, and toward the waterhole following the African eagle back to the lodge. Just before their return, the group of timid scientists comes across their way, shouting, “We could have done that!” They had better first watch some Westerns instead of reading Piaget and Erikson.
More wildlife is to be seen during the “game drive.” Majestic giraffes, lazy lions, active antelopes of all kinds, impalas, pukus, lechwes, more zebras and vultures, hooded vultures everywhere. But not only the animals amaze in this part of the world, it is the vast savanna with a seemingly endless supply of food and hiding ground for the weaker of the animal world. There is much to be in awe of; there is much to be respected. Every good Lutheran knows that this land is not our land; this land is God’s land indeed.
Back in town, reality returns. This is not only the land of the wild; this is also the land of AIDS, AIDS and AIDS again. And it is the land of malaria and cholera – a life not for the faint-hearted. At least thirty percent of all people here are infected with AIDS, street children manage without parents, grandparents supposedly are in charge, their meager Social Security helps the rest of the family. And the spirits help, perhaps. “We don’t just have one spirit, we have many spirits,” explains a local psychologist, “and the Western world wants to take them away from us.” His advice is to combine psychological and medical therapy with spiritual healing, a new form of therapy for everybody to benefit from. “We need to leave the spirits with the people, ”otherwise they will never seek medical help. Our ancestral spirits influence us before we are born, shelter us during the life-span and continue into the afterlife. Don’t take the spirits away from us.”
It is time to go to the market. The driver locks up the car and rolls up the windows as the tour group approaches downtown. Here it is, the famous city market: A place of sound, smell, and sight. Music blasting from every corner, rap, folk, African drums. And shoes, all these shoes! The penetrating smell of fish, of fresh-cut meat, of spices, a strange olfactory mix permeates the air, and people, people, everywhere people. Shouting and screaming, “over here, come over here,” “the best shirts,” “stop – I give you a good price,” and shoes, all these shoes. Simba guides his flock skillfully through this huge compound, through narrow alleys, some covered, others not. He buys some wonder wax, to clean his floors at home, he reminds the group to keep their belongings to themselves and to stay alert – this is not a place to linger. And shoes, so many shoes! There are eggplants, potatoes, and there are more fish. Young mothers with their babies wrapped in multicolored chitenge cloth, merchants who hope this will be a good sales day, and young men who just hang out at this most public place. Before leaving the market, there are more shoes; and then the tour ends in a dense atmosphere of buying and selling.
What a contrast the Kabwata cultural village is! A quiet, serene village of white clay and brown straw huts. Here they carve wood into masks, they weave straw into baskets, and they paint colorful portraits on canvas. It is time to bargain and to discuss and debate possible purchases. The merchants meet their masters in this group of lecturing scholars. These academics deal with kind, peaceful people so the negotiation does not take long at all.
There is more to see in Lusaka: the freedom statue, the government buildings, the museum, but Simba reminds his patrons that Zambia is not about all of this. Zambia is about its people. They learn English, know English, speak English, even though there are 72 other languages and dialects – in this town the language is Nyanja. A peaceful nation, friendly, warm and hospitable, people with trust and faith and hope, here in this capital city where the weather is mostly mild and dry, where animals run wild over golden grassland, and where you will leave with a firm handshake, always.