ChaChaCha Road

     The town of Mfuwe is long. At one end, shops cater to the common taste and at the other, a cluster of lodges cater to expatriate tastes. Bright swathes of fabric blow in the wind, barber shops edge up to the side of the road, a market sells fruit and vegetables. A one-way bridge connects the two halves; and locals edge along on foot and bicycles while Land Cruisers carrying tourists muscle for room.  We woke before dawn, loaded a cooler of marinating meat, a box of sugar donuts, our day bags, and headed north. The road was mostly smooth, though potholes and speedbumps infrequently jolted us. We compared notes on people unexpectedly walking out into the middle of the road, minutes before a well-groomed youth did just that.  Two hours later, we were drinking cappuccinos in Mfuwe. Not much farther and we were sitting by the pool, sugar donuts in hand and the glint of the morning gleaming from our sunglasses. A monkey walked away with half of a donut, its wizen...

     The couch is red and clean. The fabric is decorated with small flowers that are now melting into the background. The cushion is only a suggestion and indented in that particular way. The Old Man sees all of these things, but doesn't see them, and sits down. Wise Wife sits across from him on the wooden chair. Her hands are at work breaking the ice block into smaller pieces that will fit in their cups. The taps give way to a satisfied crack. She looks up from her work to watch him watching her.  The drink is cool and sweet and washes down the heat from the day. Wise Wife looks over her shoulder for a moment, then begins clearing the table. The savory, warm smell of peanut sauce enters the room, followed by Daughter. The bowl is laid upon an ivory white cloth, words are spoken, and the eating begins.  It is only as the leftovers are being gathered that the thrum of a motorcycle fills the compound. A beam of light cuts across the window. It is a long moment bet...

The apple presses against his leg, so he plucks it from his pocket. It is shinier than before, rubbed by the cloth of his pants. He eyes it for a moment, then wraps his teeth around it. It is sweet, a little sour, and not juicy at all. He chews the first bite for a long minute and decides he is grateful to have a second one for later. The horse flicks its ear back and the thrum of a motorcycle grows in cadence. A minute later, it has disappeared down the trail. The Old Man doesn't recognize the rider, as he wipes the dust from his apple. The first tentative bite reveals that the salt of earth had enhanced the flavor somewhat. Or at least I tell myself so. His plants wave to him as he walks the border. With their tassels, they appear like bystanders in a parade. A celebration for a man, a horse, and a wooden cart. A plastic bag has caught itself in the gate, its belly filled with wind like a balloon.  He leans his bag against the tree and pulls a drink of water from his bottle. The ...

      ZamSomething is a very common trade name. There's ZamBeef, ZamChick, ZamShu, ZamFoot, Zamtel, Zambart, ZamNET, ZamPost, and the list continues. If I was going to start a barbeque and bowling franchise, I might call it Zambe-que (though the CEO of our partner thinks Strikes and Spares is better). So far, ZamFood is pretty good. As a start, let's talk about their obsession with cured pig. First imagine your local super market's meat aisle; what percentage would you say is dedicated to bacon?  2%, 3%, maybe 5%? In Chipata, it's 50%. That's right, a full half. They have shoulder bacon, back bacon, lean bacon, streaky bacon, beef bacon, shoulder bacon. I thought Americans had an obsession, but it pales in comparison. Right next to the bacon, another 10% of their meats are sausages. There's probably enough nitrates in the water supply to fuel an algae bloom. Thanks to British imperialism, large numbers of Indians call Zambia home. I've been to two of Chipata...

      The Old Man hears voices beyond the trees. They chatter and burst, a laugh and a shout. There is the call of the greeting and the push of the farewell.  Though he can't make out the words, they are comforting like the shade of a tree. At the edge of town, women sit on low wooden benches, their backs to the concrete wall of the community center. Laid in front are bright tomatoes, pyramids of potatoes, a bunch of greens, and a scatterling of onions.  Close at hand, but not close enough to touch, children play amongst themselves. There is a stick, and two marbles, wire tied in a hoop, a shred of cloth, imagination. A cluster of men stand at the back, a roar of laughter again. The Old Man stops at the place of the Vegetable Woman. Today, there are green, small apples. Shiny, so he unconsciously reaches. They make the eye contact of long-familiar friends. She smiles slightly and he lifts the apple from its pile.  "If you tell your son to stop chasing my da...

A bright yellow shop called 'By the Grace of God' lies along a row of concrete buildings roofed in sheet metal.  An empty cart lies outside, its yoke in the ground. We slow down for a policeman, who waves us through the checkpoint. Its just long enough for me to read a sign advertising the commodity buying prices; 2 kwacha per kg of maize, 4.5 kwacha for peanuts, 4 kwacha for sunflowers. Minutes later, the pavement disappears and we jump back and forth down a dirt road.  A group of farmers have gathered around a dumbu amala,  its bark covered in a pattern of black fruits ( I can't find any reference to this exotic ficus spp. online so I've used the Chichewa name ). They are dressed in various shades, sporting athletic pants, western suits, flip flops, leather shoes, balaclavas, grandmotherly sweaters, floral prints, and linen pants. The men sit on hand-made wooden stools and the women fold their legs under their bodies on a rattan mat.  They are polite and patient, e...