Food: nshima, chicken, and caterpillars, oh my!

The staple food of Zambia is nshima (pronounced in-shima), which is ground maize (like corn) cooked up with boiling water to form a cross between porridge and mashed potatoes, with about the same weight. Zambians eat nshima every day, and in the poor regions, every meal. It is bland and has little nutritional value, but it fills you up – therefore the staple. It is served with “relishes,” which are not what we in the West consider relish but instead like sauces or a sort of veggie stew, often cooked pumpkin leaves or rape. For those that can afford it, it is served with meat as well: chicken on the bone or a whole fish served up on the plate.

Regardless of what it is comes with, nshima, being the main part of the meal, takes up fully half of your plate – or, in the restaurants, a second full plate to accompany your meat and relishes. Imagine serving yourself a meal in which mashed potatoes covered half of your plate. I guess that has been done in hard times in our country as well. I find the nshima so filling that I can hardly eat 1/3 of that portion, which becomes a problem since nshima is also the eating utensil.

The way it works is like this: you take an amount of nshima in your right hand (right hand only – left hand is for…toilet duties…). Then you work that amount around with your fingers and the palm of your hand to form a ball – right hand only! Then you make an indent in the ball with your thumb and use that to scoop up either some relish or a piece of meat that you pull off with the same hand. Yep, it takes some getting used to. For myself, I find my balls start out the size of half a golf ball, and get progressively smaller as I get fuller. Otherwise, I’d never get anything else eaten from my plate – I just fill up too fast. Unfortunately, it’s a lot like rice, and you feel hungry again before long.

Our first night in Zambia was the first opportunity to have nshima, where we went to the home of one of EWB’s long-term volunteers and had a big feast. Among the dishes were – yes – deep-fried caterpillars! They were short and fat and black from frying, and yes, I tried them. Cold, full of oil, and tasteless, if not a bit fishy, is how I would describe them. Will I have them again? Maybe I’ll give it a second try, but I don’t think I’ll go out of my way for them!

Next post will be upon my return from the rural areas (early July), so will have lots of pictures and stories to tell.

Minibus riding 101: “Drop me off at the robots”

So, the minibuses that you catch to get around town are actually minivans, but you cram 16 people into them, and occasionally a live chicken or two. There is no such thing as personal space; you are basically all on top of each other. So much for ironing your clothes for the office.

Stops are a little tricky when you don’t know where they are, what they are called, and there is no way to indicate that you want out. I pick significant landmarks, like churches (90% of the population is Christian), or for my office in Lusaka, I simply ask to be dropped off at the robots. Yes, the robots. And I get there every time. Now, Zambia does not have some weird architecture or has not been taken over by overzealous technology. The “robots” are the traffic signals, and with roundabouts everywhere courtesy of the colonial days, “robots” are few and far between, so that they make for a good landmark. Apparently, some people still believe that the signals *do* function by robots controlling traffic, and so the name has stuck.

With so much of the population deeply religious, questions often come up about what my faith is. Many people are aware that North Americans are not so faithful, but they are still quite disappointed to hear it. So I have begun to answer that I do not attend church in Canada, but have done so sometimes, which is true. That being said, I am always fascinated by religion and the strength and community that it gives people, and love to observe and participate. So what better time than now! Only one week in Zambia, and I decided to attend Catholic mass with my friend Elina, for the celebration of the Eucharist. Now this was unlike any Catholic mass I’m sure any of you have attended! A short mass (performed by a muzungu minister) intermingled with traditional Zambian drumming, dancing and songs – I enjoyed it so much. Of course, of the 500 or so people in attendance, I only counted two other muzungus besides myself, so again: here I am! Plus, towards the end, the minister called on all the visitors to the church to stand up and be recognized, and Elina nudged me to join in. No blending in here. But this was not the market; here I was welcomed into a community, and again I realized why it is that people put so much into their faith.

Following the mass was a procession through the streets, and if you have ever seen those giant swelling crowds on CNN that fill up the streets and seem to go on forever, picture me in the middle of it. I just tried to keep up with Elina and her 18-yr-old daughter Mercy. All in all, it was a wonderful way to be a part of people’s everyday lives here.

Dorothy is everywhere

In Engineers without Borders, we use the name of “Dorothy” to refer in general to any disadvantaged person in the Third World, those who we are trying to help, our beneficiaries.

So, as I mentioned, “Dorothy” is everywhere here. I don’t even have to leave Lusaka to find her, or him.

I see her in Teddy, the 20-ish-year-old who works here at the hotel from 7:30am to 5:30pm every day, who was orphaned when he lost his mother when he was in grade six, after losing his father in the Rwandan war in 1993. He worked piecework in other peoples’ farms in order to earn money to pay for his secondary school (junior high and high school), which costs $230 per semester, a fortune here. He finished with top marks, and now works at the hotel in order to save money and pursue his dreams of college.

I see “Dorothy” in Elina, a woman who lost her husband some years ago, and now raises her own four children as well as four of her brother’s children who were orphaned when they lost their parents in an accident. They range in age from 8 to 20, with one of her brother’s daughters being lame which required special surgery for her legs to be able to walk. “Dorothy” is also in Elina’s son, Lizwe, also 20-ish, also recently finished high school and planning on accounting college next year. In the meantime, he is the man of the family, and so supports the household by running the “shop” – a small stand that sells the basics of pop, bread, snacks, phone cards – for six days a week, and then working in the parish bookstore on the seventh day, after mass. Their family lives in a building that is the size of a backyard shed, where the main room serves as living room (a worn-out couch and two chairs, plus boxes), kitchen (an electric two-element portable burner), and dining room (coffee table). Still, their house is made of cement, and they have a tv and cell phones, and all the kids are in school, so their life is better than many.

Although these people have so little, they insist on giving me gifts. How can I feel okay accepting their gifts and hospitality, when I have so much in comparison? This will become more striking when I am in the rural areas, where “Dorothy” will be more prevalent, and probably more poor. But who judges what is poor? Of course, everyone needs the basic necessities of food, clean water, access to health care, a bit of clothing and appropriate shelter. However, other than that, the rest of the material items have little true value. The real wealth lies in the familial bonds and the social relationships of the community. I see a greater wealth here than money can buy.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig...

Now that I’ve given somewhat of a description of the market, I can talk about more of the adventures that happen there. Every time you go to the market it is a true adventure. I never see other muzungus at the market; it is definitely intimidating, but it gets easier once you figure things out, get some local language, and know how much you should pay for things. One of the first things I bought at the market was a chitenge, which is a piece of cloth the size of a giant bath towel, in all different colours and patterns, worn most commonly as a skirt, but you can have “suits” (two-piece dresses) made out of them as well. It is the traditional piece of clothing for women here, since tops are usually t-shirts or any other regular shirt. It is worn by simply wrapping it around your waist and tucking the top corners in, and is worn over pants or a skirt. I see it a lot around the market, less so anywhere else in town, but it will be a must in the rural areas. It is also the sling with which women carry their babies on their backs, which you see everywhere.

Wearing my chitenge when I walk around town has earned me some buy-in with the locals. Since muzungus usually haunt the fancy shops and malls, those at the market and – gasp! – walking (instead of taxi) tend to stand out and draw attention. There are so many people on the street wherever you go, and basically 4 out of 5 are looking at you, with 1 or 2 of those actually calling out to you: “Hello madam!”, “Taxi?”, or “Muzungu!” When I am wearing my chitenge, the comments are usually: “Muzungu in chitenge!”, “You are looking very nice in your chitenge,”, or “You are looking like Zambian in chitenge!” If I throw a bit of Njanya (the language in Lusaka) in there – “Zicomo!” (Thanks!) – that brings on more approval. It takes the edge off of all the attention, but you still feel like a bit of a celebrity, albeit one of those celebrities that is both loved and disliked.

To buy at the market is to barter, and if you have trouble bartering, you will constantly pay too much for even the smallest items. Since things are relatively cheap here anyway, many muzungus don’t mind, and just go along with whatever the shopkeep says. However, this just perpetuates the perception that muzungus are full of money and you can charge them exorbitant prices and they will pay. The trick is to have some idea of what the regular price for the item should be, and to be prepared to walk away – i.e. don’t get your heart set on it – if the shopkeep won’t come down in price. This is where local friends or cultural informants come in, because they can tell you what you should be paying for things. Failing that, I sometimes ask the seller of one item what the price of a different item should be; they have no reason to tell me an inflated price. Mostly, getting around in the market just takes a lot of just-do-it. It is no place for the meek, that’s for sure, which can make it hard if you’ve had a long day and just want to slip in, buy what you need, and slip out.