Who Needs Walmart?

While my brother Jedd, his wife Marsha and their family were here, we visited the marketplace in town. The market is huge. It stretches over several city blocks. Within its depths you can find everything from toothbrushes to suitcases, plumbing parts to avacados and hair extensions to the latest curio item available from Malawi.  Before we departed on our grand adventure that day we tried to prepare them for what they were about to experience. We couldn’t come up with a very good description. We ended up using inadequate words like interesting, crowded, and different. “It’s like something you have never experienced before.”  

We set off for town, taking 2 vehicles to hold all twelve of us. I have mentioned in earlier posts how our kids hate going to the market, but today they were keen on showing their cousins the craziness that is now normalcy. Driving across town, we realized that some of the boys had neglected to listen to their parent’s advice to wear boots or tennis shoes. I smiled to myself realizing they might discover their parents know a thing or two.

Upon arrival we piled out, Erik was to be the leader and I was to close the pack. A sandwich, so to speak, to ensure we didn’t lose anyone. It was the day after Christmas and each of Jedd and Marsha’s kids had some kwacha as a gift from us burning a hole in their pockets. The amount was equivalent to about 16 US dollars. For most people in Zambia, about 3 days wages. Erik began to weave and dodge through the crowds on the outskirts of the market. We followed behind like a long snake turning this way and that avoiding bowls of live chickens, sellers of pirated DVDs and various fruit and vegetable stands, and  sundry merchandise sellers, each person laying their wares on rough tables of pallets or just attractively arranged on the sidewalk. The sounds and the smells began to blend into the cacophony that makes the market what it is.

Before we got very far, we stopped by the curio market. This is usually as far as we take our visitors. We spent some time here looking at the interesting items for sale. The vendors all do their best to get you to buy from their stalls.

“Looking is free, Madam.”

“Sir, come see, I have many nice things.”

 “Ah, my friend, you bring many Americans with many US dollars, yes?”

The Rocke kids are set loose to begin searching and bargaining for some special item to take back with them in remembrance of their trip to this colorful, crazy place. There was no power so we all held our phones up as flashlights to make out the indistinct shapes of carvings, statuettes, jewelry, wooden bowls, toy cars, semi-precious stones, paintings, nativity sets, slingshots, various beaded items and soapstone figurines to name a few.

Upon finishing there, we again set out, this time intent upon giving the kids a real cultural experience by taking them deep in to the market. As our line begins its weaving, vendors step to the front of their stalls whistling to let their friends down the way know that muzungus are in the marketplace. Friendly faces with brilliant white smiles beam from dim stalls. Overhead, tattered tarps and feed sacks sewn together attempt to form a protective cover from the rains of the season. Beneath our feet, slime and muck is everywhere. Thankfully someone had the foresight to place random rocks, pallet pieces or different lengths of timber to form a random stepping path. If you miss, the black sludge oozes onto your feet (and between your toes if you’re wearing flipflops…boys!) and you know you will be taking an unplanned special memorial of the market home with you.

In the main aisle-ways, there is just enough room to walk and get around others. If you turn into one of the lesser used “arteries” of the market, the path becomes narrower. Stagnant water pools in empty spaces.  It is dark and close and you get the feeling you are in a labyrinth with no way out.  The booths are small and without number.  It is hard not to feel out of place, like we are in a place only for locals.

As you pass the food section, it is tempting to stop and buy fresh fruits and vegetables, but a little further on you hit the dried fish section. A rather unpleasant smell fills your nostrils as vendors wave the flies from the piles of fish. Blend this together with the smell of unwashed bodies, questionable liquid pooled here and there, chicken cooking over charcoal fires, cornmeal boiling in pots to make nshima and not only is your vision overwhelmed by all your seeing, but now your nasal cavities are having a really hard time sorting and identifying as well.

After losing Jedd and Marsha once, (sorry we stuck you guys at the back of the line!) we finally arrive in the chitenge section. The girls have been looking forward to taking home some cloth to wear as skirts. As they begin to pick through the tall stacked piles of myriad colors and patterns, the boys search out a place to wait.

Two young Zambian boys chattering excitedly step forward to shake hands and greet us. They seem particularly taken with Jonas and my nephew Trevor who have decided to dress identically for our trip in to town. When Jonas gets a chance he hisses into my ear, “Mom…his breath reeks like paint!” My heart falls and I say, “I know, you know why.” The street boys that roam the streets of Kitwe will often carry empty soda bottles with a bit of jet fuel in them. They will huff the fumes regularly to stave off hunger pangs. It is heartbreaking. Many, many of the boys struggle with this addiction for the rest of their lives. This particular young man insists on having his picture taken with Jonas.

The girls take their time choosing. The Zambian boy keeps saying the same phrase over and over to Jonas and all the adults are smiling and laughing. It’s not a phrase we recognize but we later found out he was saying that what he was experiencing was like something from a storybook.

After the girls make their choices we make our winding way back out of the market. Its funny to watch heads turn as they count our long line of white people traipsing through the streets.  When we finally reached the van, there was a sense of relief.  Everyone survived.  What fun exploring what so many find to be a normal part of their life, but for us an adventure in culture.