Tan Roads

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, explaining just how and when and where they cultivate their fields. They tell us about the distance between the rows, between seeds, between the fields. When they spray, when they weed, and when they know that the harvest is ready. But most importantly, they tell us what they want.

Its simple, and not simple.

They want to improve their homes, to buy school uniforms, and ride their own motorcycles. They want to know that their field will yield in both dry years and wet years. They want to avoid the stress and sorrow of a pest outbreak. They want to have food on the table every day of the year. They want to know that someone is listening to them. 

We are invited into the home of a farmer who doubles as a private extension agent. Silky cloth drapes the walls and a wood and glass cabinet fills one corner. Couches and padded chairs cluster around a coffee table. A bowl of nshima takes center stage; filled with cakes of white corn that fit in the palm of the hand. Keeping attendance: a platter of scrambled eggs mixed with onions and tomatoes, a dish of beef livers, and a mess of collared greens. Everyone reclines on the chairs, our bellies full in the cool, shady house. Conversation turns to Senegalese rice, the spicy catfish of Lagos, the nearly unbearable heat of Indian spices. Everyone agrees that Zambians can cook pretty well too.

Outside, children have gathered by the door and peer in. Cows and pigs browse in the dry grasses. A middle-aged man reclines against his bike. He wears a faded brown jacket against the cool air of the Zambian winter.

We squeeze into the double cab of the Hilux and drive back. Steep hills shoot up in the distance like the spines of ancient colossi. We wind through contours punctuated by bridges over shallow streams, up and down little hills, across scrubby flats. I am reminded of Wyoming, if they had more trees there. A fire licks at the truck from the side of a burnt field and smoke churns from the nearby hillsides. Banana groves cluster near the stream banks.

We slow to a stop outside of a village. A minister leads a group of the white-dressed devout in song. The common people walk beside and in front of them. Some keep a grim look, others cry; a wail emphasizes the feeling as they pass by. A few cars follow behind. It is a funeral procession and we show our respects too.

The dirt road returns to pavement and we head back into Chipata.