The weekend

Sunday 5 September: Sunday and John Simba gave me directions to the church. It was not hard to find – up the track – left down the road until I see a foot ball field – and the church is the other side of the field with a large cross on top. It took about half an hour and some confirmatory instructions from a nun I met. I passed on the way the Mother Lubemba (African Methodist Episcopal Church) chapel from which was coming loud and spirited singing. As I crossed the football field I was mistaken for Wayne Rooney and had a chat with a local football team. Then to the church. I got there at about 11.00 and could see it was towards the end at the end of the 9.30 mass. It was a lively musical affair with a full-voiced ladies choir supported by 3 lads with drums but no other instruments. It is difficult to describe the music but one of the most dominant themes was what the kind of sound that as children we (and the old movies) thought red Indians made – if anyone knows what it is called please post a comment! I stayed for about half an hour and then left them to it – passing another, equally musical, church next door.

I walked back to the road and got the bus to Arcade. The bus was a minibus with fold-down seats which made use of (and blocked) the aisle as the bus filled up. I was in the back row and wondered what would have happened if the bus had rolled over – but it did not so, fortunately, I do not know. The conductor (?) took the fares as the bus went along but since he could not walk down the aisle we simply passed money hand to hand up the bus to him. And, instead of a bell, the conductor tapped the roof twice when he wanted the driver to stop. All very effective – a frequent, ventilated (all the windows were open) and good value (30p) service.

There was a craft market at Arcade and on the way in I think I was offered some drugs (there is inevitably a degree of uncertainty in such proposals.) I declined and settled for a cheeseburger and chips. In the craft market in the car park I met many of my friends from the previous day who tried again to sell me the things I had expressed an interest in. I was also offered some very light gold bracelets (do I look that gullible?) and some equally unconvincing silver ones. Interestingly, there were a number of other white people (a lot sounding like South Africans) – and it was probably the first time in my weekend that I have not been the only white face around. Then back to the bus and a long walk down the road to my apartment.








Saturday 4 September: Washing day – the drying here is good! I headed off to the National Museum to start my cultural exploration of Lusaka. I had taken a taxi back from Arcade the other night and the driver, John Lukwanda, had given me his card. In fact he is proving to be a useful man to know because I had met him again on Friday and so I telephoned him to ask him to take me to the museum. John told me he had 6 children plus one adopted child from his younger brother who had died. I did not ask but this situation happens a lot here because of HIV/AIDS. He had 3 boys and 3 girls. He told me that a lot of men in Zambia like to have more than one wife – perhaps up to 5 – but not in the city.

The National Museum was quite small and primarily an exhibition of native artefacts and a history of Zambian independence. From there I set off on foot calling in the Kamwaia market. Amongst other things I was offered arrays of phone chargers, CDs and the suggestion that I bought a wig to take home to my wife. A man sitting on the ground between a couple of stalls offered to share his nshima with me as part of his strategy to make a sale. I was not that tempted when he held out a greasy handful of it to me and politely declined. Shortly after I was accosted and embraced by another “Hey white man” but beat a hasty retreat with my hands on my pockets as I noticed he had a couple of friends alongside him! As I left the market, in a curious juxtaposition of cultures, I noticed a long queue of people waiting to get money out of an ATM.

I then headed into Cairo Road and lunch, not very imaginatively, in Subway - it was the only place I had seen that indicated it might have once (but probably not for some time!) heard of food hygiene. Shortly after, another man (I think inadvertently) bumped into me and, turning, grabbed my hand to apologise and to impress on me how important it was to apologise after bumping into someone. He was all over me in remorse. I grabbed my pockets again and we exchanged expressions of love for each other before I escaped.

Onwards into the Town Centre Market I found vast arrays of ‘bits’ cables, plugs, car parts, CDs and more. However, the most striking area was the corner where there were 6 or 8 large, greasy, black stoves cooking meat of various kinds to be served with nshima – a sort of Zambian food theatre!

I was too cowardly to show my camera in the markets – but did take a couple of snaps outside. I also negotiated and bought a new cover for my mobile phone.



Then a taxi to the Kabwata Cultural Village which is a small village in the traditional style at which the residents sold traditional crafts. There were some attractive craft items and souvenirs there (and some tat!) and some incredibly earnest sales people. I was more or less passed from one to the next with each offering me deal after deal to get my custom.

Finally I got home – and had my first power cut. At least the first while I have been here. The noises coming from the fridge make me wonder if I have discovered why my packet of ham was covered in water the other day.