One of my favorite things to eat is bambara nuts over rice. Bambara nuts are likely unknown to most of the Western world; it qualified for a place in the National Academy's lovely read "Lost Crops of Africa, Vol. II" (I & III aren't bad either). It is essentially a bean that grows like a peanut (groundnut to my Commonwealth friends). Comparatively, it is lower than the peanut in protein; however, as a complete cereal, it is far better foodstuff than groundnuts. Furthermore, it being an African crop, it handles the vagaries of rain that plague us relatively well in comparison to the much more widely planted peanut. It is therefore planted on a small-scale as an backstop in case of short rains. [This is a key point to remember when your working with subsistence farmers; when your life literally depends your crops, you hedge your bets, mix up crops, and so forth.]
It is therefore with relative eagerness I look forward to my regular evening meal of bambara nuts [lituwo] and rice. I absolutely believe in simple, nourishing foods ... if they taste good, all the nicer. However, my co-workers exchange worried looks when I express my oft-professed love of them; undercooking brings about what is kindly known as "wind in the gut". I think this stems from my habit of eating maize fresh off the stalk when we're on field visits; eating uncooked food, though not a taboo per se, has some inclination of being a faux pas. In short, if you're eating a salad, you are in the company of expats.
Anyway, on my short walk home from work, I stopped in for one of my few indulgences, which is a borderline necessity in this Philistine heat: a haircut and a shave. Zambian barbershops are something to behold; they are usually build with an eye on optimal economy of space, likely to keep the capital investment low; a generous size is around 2 meters by 2 meters. The walls are made of a patchwork of old cement bags (which are woven poly-fiber here, not paper), pine or gum slabs, reeds, planks, oil drums pounded flat, you name it. Within each of these masterpieces of shanty construction are one or two wooden chairs facing a mirror, with a small (6") shelf upon which are placed the tools of the trade: grinding powder, diesel, talcum powder, a 1" paintbrush, a bottle of methylated spirits, any number of cutting guides, and a stiff brush. Hung from the front of the shelf are any number of trimmers, some of which bear my surname, and none of which don't sport exposed wires. There never seem to be any scissors, combs, or picks ... I think no one really lets their hair get that long.
You take your seat and the barber drapes what was once a tablecloth, bedsheet, or an old set of drapes about your frame, which he snugs around your neck with the aid of an old clothespin. He then works the lever on the trimmer and applies drops of diesel to the blades until they run smoothly, followed by some of the spirits to clean of any residual hair. Following this rather simple ritual, he proceeds to remove all but a felt-like layer of hair upon your head (if you ask for a "potato" cut, he gets rid of the felt, too); he does this without prompting, and I've never in 5 years belabored the issue. Then, if you look like you need it, he gives you a shave with the same trimmer, managing to find every tender spot on your neck. Usually, I remind them to remove the mustache, but recently, I've acquiesced to leaving it in situ; after all, Mustache March is only a few weeks away.
Once the shearing, tearing, and heat burning has been completed, the barber brushes your raw scalp with the stiff brush; he then soaks the paint brush in the methylated spirits (think rubbing alcohol) and coats your freshly-shaven mug. Hell of an astringent, I have to say. He then removes the drapes/tablecloth/bedsheet and asks for K4,000 ($0.80). Lacking small bills, I hand him a K20,000 note; this is passed to his cousin/brother/some guy who is sent for change. This gives you a chance to watch the TV that has been over your right shoulder in the better "Barbing Centres."
Most fare on barbershop TV's is what I consider acceptable stag films in Zambia [pornography is illegal here] ... Congolese Rhumba; bands with roughly 18 guys playing either guitars or drums, and 14 female dancers bouncing their hips to-and-fro in inimitable ways. However, tonight my barber must have been feeling repentant; he had the "Jesus of Nazareth" mini-series playing (I think). It was drawing quite a crowd, as this version had been translated into siLozi. Thankfully, Robert Powell's portrayal of the Saviour as unblinking and pedantic in speech, makes Jesus' siLozi somewhat understandable to me; my knowledge of the Gospels fills in the rest.
It's difficult to express to folks back home how big Jesus Christ is in this country. Zambia's constitution actually defines Zambia as a Christian nation [i.e. a nation founded upon Christian principle], though tolerant of other faiths. The only establishments that outnumber bars or government offices are churches; in Senanga, a town of some 20,000+ people, there are at least three or four Seventh-Day Adventist Churches, five New Apostolic, six Evangelical Church of Zambia, three Jevohah's Witnesses, and of course, one small Catholic mission; and those are just the ones I've seen in my confined world. In my old village, which numbered 1,200 souls, we had five churches. An opening question to a stranger is often not "where are you from?" but "which church do you attend?" Every meeting is opened and closed with a prayer.
In my copious free time, I actively ponder the perception of church/Christianity in this country; is it a result of the history of the missionary movement? A seeking of social connections? A response to the tenuousness of life here? The promise of a Heaven? The active expression of joy? Who knows ... I can't even figure out why I go to church (St. Jude's) when I do, other than that I could use all the help I can get.
I won't delve into this too much further, but leave with this thought; my erstwhile readings of the Gospels depict Jesus as a commoner, or at least having a love for common people, often glorifying the poor over the rich (e.g., Mark 12:41-44; Matthew 19:16-26). He also told his disciples to preach where people were open and welcoming (somewhere around Matthew 10:5). I wonder how we as Westerners might react to a bunch of rough looking workingmen that we didn't know stopping over to chat. I know very little, but I know that I've never not been welcomed into any house here, regardless of my appearance.
I left the spectacle behind, my velvet head and nascent mustache unnoticed by the rapt audience, on my way home to ponder over two dishes of bambara nuts.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Adzuki
The rains finally broke the heat today; from 10:30 until almost noon, the skies opened. My body's first reaction was to want to sleep; though I'm somnolent at high temperatures, the constant sweat keeps me in a state akin to insomnia. Once the storm rolled in this morning, the temperatures sheered downwards. My sleepiness was somewhat justified; once the power went out, PMp immediately dozed off. I read the Golden Valley Agriculture Research Trust (GART) Yearbooks from the past two years, alternately giggling to myself over their experiments and nodding off.
....
No one must be fooled into thinking I know anything about farming. Today, I harvested my first seeds off a crop that I planted back in November, some adzuki beans. The pods came remarkably fast, even for legumes; however, the only reason that particular bush survived is because it was in the shade of a lemon tree. Where I planted the seeds turned out to be some of the most barren soil in all history; the twenty seeds I got off the bush represent a minor victory. Remarkable little plant, that one ... has a short habit, small diameter, and fairly fast maturing; possible complement / supplement to cowpeas?
My method to determining what works and what in terms of legumes, agroforestry species, etc., resembles the bull-in-the-chinashop model: whoops! oops! Du'oh! #$#@! etc. However, I can afford to make mistakes ... no one mocks me, I don't have to rely on the success (or at least lack of failure) of my crops to live, etc., etc. And we are getting some lessons out ... pigeon pea seems to do well, as well as leucaena, moringa, and jatropha (somewhat). Tephorsia, sesbania, not so much. It's a trial-and-error thing, but we are getting some insights into how agroforestry could be integrated into conservation agriculture programs, particularly in our peculiar sands.
Last mention for the night is my nascent experiments with terra preta. Remember some time back when I mentioned how big maize was near households where women daily swept there kitchen waste? I'm seeing if that can't be quantified in a way in which charcoal and/or ash is incorporated into the soil (as per CA requirements) and what effect that might have over the long term.
Anyway, it helps the weekends go by.
....
No one must be fooled into thinking I know anything about farming. Today, I harvested my first seeds off a crop that I planted back in November, some adzuki beans. The pods came remarkably fast, even for legumes; however, the only reason that particular bush survived is because it was in the shade of a lemon tree. Where I planted the seeds turned out to be some of the most barren soil in all history; the twenty seeds I got off the bush represent a minor victory. Remarkable little plant, that one ... has a short habit, small diameter, and fairly fast maturing; possible complement / supplement to cowpeas?
My method to determining what works and what in terms of legumes, agroforestry species, etc., resembles the bull-in-the-chinashop model: whoops! oops! Du'oh! #$#@! etc. However, I can afford to make mistakes ... no one mocks me, I don't have to rely on the success (or at least lack of failure) of my crops to live, etc., etc. And we are getting some lessons out ... pigeon pea seems to do well, as well as leucaena, moringa, and jatropha (somewhat). Tephorsia, sesbania, not so much. It's a trial-and-error thing, but we are getting some insights into how agroforestry could be integrated into conservation agriculture programs, particularly in our peculiar sands.
Last mention for the night is my nascent experiments with terra preta. Remember some time back when I mentioned how big maize was near households where women daily swept there kitchen waste? I'm seeing if that can't be quantified in a way in which charcoal and/or ash is incorporated into the soil (as per CA requirements) and what effect that might have over the long term.
Anyway, it helps the weekends go by.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Sweat
We've had the sub-tropical version of a winter thaw in the past week ... the skies have been relatively free of clouds and we haven't had more than a few drops of rain. You can tell farmers are getting edgy; it might be the worst time for a dry spell, as the maize has tasseled and is starting to fill the grains; similarly, the groundnuts are flowering or are starting to develop pods. Without delving too much into soil or atmospheric science, suffice it to say that this is one of the times plants are really thirsty. In our sandy soil, this means they dry up the available water quite quickly.
It's been a busy time for us; we're on a tight deadline to finish the food production site for the cooperative I work with, and we mostly get around by foot. I sweat in gallons, which makes me slightly embarrassed; Zambians seem to sweat only from their foreheads. Mr. Mu., our go-to guy, might be the hardest-working man in Western Province; today, he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt under a sleeveless sweater, and chatted endlessly in my ear as we walked up to a local abattoir to check on a water connection. He seems to bounce along without regard to the heat, making continuous half-circles to one side of me; I trudge along, mopping my forehead, nod periodically, and wonder when the good Lord might see fit to turn down the thermostat.
I should note that Barotses, out of years of practice no doubt, seem to bounce across the sand without sinking in, a trick I have yet to master. I wonder if as barefoot youths, they learned this technique to avoid 3rd degree burns on the soles of their feet. Needless to say, I don't bounce; I just slip and grind.
After our peregrinations I get back to the office totally discombobulated. Our office isn't much better; it is essentially a concrete box roofed with (corrugated) iron sheets, and on a sunny day, you could bake bread in there. If I have the office to myself, I peel off my shirt(s) and turn on the fan to dry/cool off, but it's mostly pointless.
One other contribution to the general feeling of torridity is the food. NSHIMA! BUHOBE! Ground maize [corn] cooked into a thick porridge and served a few degrees below a fission reaction. Filling your belly with corn cement at high temps really puts the day into low gear; Zambians refer to the post-lunch period as "the nshima coma"; funny it doesn't seem much slower than usual.
To give you some idea of the heat, it's almost 21:00 (9 p.m.) and I'm still sweating. Likely more a function of the "modern" house I live in; the place is engineered to capture as much heat as possible. Village houses (with thatched roofs) are far superior in these circumstances; they shed heat very well, quickly achieving equilibrium with the far cooler night air. No shower and no Internet, though. Couldn't write these loopy posts otherwise.
It's been a busy time for us; we're on a tight deadline to finish the food production site for the cooperative I work with, and we mostly get around by foot. I sweat in gallons, which makes me slightly embarrassed; Zambians seem to sweat only from their foreheads. Mr. Mu., our go-to guy, might be the hardest-working man in Western Province; today, he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt under a sleeveless sweater, and chatted endlessly in my ear as we walked up to a local abattoir to check on a water connection. He seems to bounce along without regard to the heat, making continuous half-circles to one side of me; I trudge along, mopping my forehead, nod periodically, and wonder when the good Lord might see fit to turn down the thermostat.
I should note that Barotses, out of years of practice no doubt, seem to bounce across the sand without sinking in, a trick I have yet to master. I wonder if as barefoot youths, they learned this technique to avoid 3rd degree burns on the soles of their feet. Needless to say, I don't bounce; I just slip and grind.
After our peregrinations I get back to the office totally discombobulated. Our office isn't much better; it is essentially a concrete box roofed with (corrugated) iron sheets, and on a sunny day, you could bake bread in there. If I have the office to myself, I peel off my shirt(s) and turn on the fan to dry/cool off, but it's mostly pointless.
One other contribution to the general feeling of torridity is the food. NSHIMA! BUHOBE! Ground maize [corn] cooked into a thick porridge and served a few degrees below a fission reaction. Filling your belly with corn cement at high temps really puts the day into low gear; Zambians refer to the post-lunch period as "the nshima coma"; funny it doesn't seem much slower than usual.
To give you some idea of the heat, it's almost 21:00 (9 p.m.) and I'm still sweating. Likely more a function of the "modern" house I live in; the place is engineered to capture as much heat as possible. Village houses (with thatched roofs) are far superior in these circumstances; they shed heat very well, quickly achieving equilibrium with the far cooler night air. No shower and no Internet, though. Couldn't write these loopy posts otherwise.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Pride of Senanga
On Sunday evenings, the Zambia National Broadcasting Company (ZNBC) plays a program called "Kulima [farming] Hour", and this week they featured our agency's work with SDACSS. Back in December, I had been interviewed by our friends over at Zambia National Information Services (ZANIS); and sure enough my mug was on TV for about seven minutes, talking about our business project, Munati Peanut Butter (currently our only product), our upcoming products (rice and cooking oil), challenges / opportunities working in Senanga, etc. This is not buzz clip TV; they let you talk and talk, so there was a lot of me, my manager, my agency's manager, our employees grinding peanut butter, etc.
The response was immediate; in town, people are giving me the equivalent of pats on the back, saying I am doing a good job bringing these things, they are proud of the product, etc. On one hand, it's unfortunate they think I'm the catalyst (I see myself as an impetus rather than the initiator) of the project ... my agency manager for Senanga, Charles Mjumphi is the real initiator. On the other hand, there is a lot of appreciation for the work that we're doing, not just with the peanut butter, but also the successes we are having with Conservation Agriculture, rice growing, building the cooperative, etc.
We've got a long way to go, but I've realized lately that building that sense of pride is key to our long-term success. In a twisted way, Senanga residents portray themselves in the same way Nathaniel portrayed Nazareth when he first heard of Jesus (John, 1:46); that is, many people can't see something good coming out of Senanga (good "things" emanate from Lusaka, outside Zambia, etc). We are turning this around a bit; hence our new Munati products will all carry the slogan, "The Pride of Senanga".
Speaking of pride, peanut butter sales have been on the rise, and the TV time didn't hurt; we are close to our first goal of 150 jars per week, and sales within Senanga have jumped. Our bakery owner is asking for 48 jars, up from his original order of 15.
Benevolent agricultural capitalism that builds pride, satisfies customers, and brings social benefits to producers? Yes, it's possible.
The response was immediate; in town, people are giving me the equivalent of pats on the back, saying I am doing a good job bringing these things, they are proud of the product, etc. On one hand, it's unfortunate they think I'm the catalyst (I see myself as an impetus rather than the initiator) of the project ... my agency manager for Senanga, Charles Mjumphi is the real initiator. On the other hand, there is a lot of appreciation for the work that we're doing, not just with the peanut butter, but also the successes we are having with Conservation Agriculture, rice growing, building the cooperative, etc.
We've got a long way to go, but I've realized lately that building that sense of pride is key to our long-term success. In a twisted way, Senanga residents portray themselves in the same way Nathaniel portrayed Nazareth when he first heard of Jesus (John, 1:46); that is, many people can't see something good coming out of Senanga (good "things" emanate from Lusaka, outside Zambia, etc). We are turning this around a bit; hence our new Munati products will all carry the slogan, "The Pride of Senanga".
Speaking of pride, peanut butter sales have been on the rise, and the TV time didn't hurt; we are close to our first goal of 150 jars per week, and sales within Senanga have jumped. Our bakery owner is asking for 48 jars, up from his original order of 15.
Benevolent agricultural capitalism that builds pride, satisfies customers, and brings social benefits to producers? Yes, it's possible.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The First Bank of Carl
One of my favorite people in Senanga is a young man of gantry-like proportions named N'genda. Each time I see him, his face breaks into a wide smile; he says (with a distinct intonation) "mukuwa!" [white man], and winds up to deliver a stinging handshake. He then hugs me, at which point I'm hauled full force into his chest. With his arm about my shoulders, the smile falls off his face, he squints his eyes, and says in a low voice, "Mukuwa, fiba yaka" [white man, my five hundred]. I refuse, and he proceeds with "Mukuwa, pinny yaka" [white man, my one thousand]. After some back-and-forth, I hand him a K500 note and he arrows away from me.
I don't mind giving N'genda 500 kwacha [$0.15]; number one, he usually takes whatever he can beg off of people to the bakery to purchase bread rolls; number two, he is severely mentally handicapped ... in one of the poorer countries in the world, you can imagine what facilities exist for them. It's pity, a handout, a charity, etc., etc. but if I get too hard to give a few pence to the infirm, the elderly, or what have you, please drag me behind the woodshed and let me have it.
On the other hand, being the only white who is visible in Senanga gives me something of a magnetic attraction. Senanga has something of a transitory nature, given all the traffic coming up and down the river, from Shan'gombo in the West, Mongu up north, Sesheke to the south, and from the hinterlands in the east of Senanga District. People mostly greet me; most times, they met me once and remember my name, whereas one of my great faults is forgetting names. Others, such as older men, regard me with a raised eyebrow (Barotseland was never colonized) ... I always tip my hat and initiate the greeting, as those men carry a bit of weight.
Where it starts getting tiring is the times when you are constantly treated like a tourist by a Zambian who's from out-of-town and has never met you; this happens on a daily basis when I eat buhobe [nshima / porridge made from ground white corn]. The statement always begins with "You eat nshima??" and evolves into broad statements such as "Here in Zambia ..." Most of these conversations are one-sided; during a workday lunch, I usually keep to myself and bolt my buhobe and village [rubber] chicken as fast as I can.
Where it gets really tiring is the constant requests for money. Hand-grabbing by men who reek of tujillyjilly, begging a pin [K1,000] or two to continue feeding their buzz. Men who approach and greet very cordially, then begin a narrative about their hard luck. It can involve a theft, a funeral, a broken oar, cattle disease, school fees ... you name it. It does say something for a culture when you can approach a total stranger and ask for financial help; however, by the fifteenth time, you start wishing for anonymity.
Where it is the most tiring is when friends you know well hit you up for money. It's mostly because you know their hard-luck stories more intimately than the guys who hit you up on the street. "No money for the rent ..."; "They are going to switch off the power and I've got my brother's family with me ..."; "My girlfriend's family is demanding money."; "The family has a funeral to arrange and I'm the eldest brother ..."; that's what I've heard in the last month alone from close friends. Maybe they figure that I blow a whopping three dollars at the bar every three or four days (it equals two beers), or that I buy nshima every day at the astounding price of a buck-fifty. Or maybe it's because I'm white (ding-ding!) and loaded; we all are. Or maybe because I rarely turn people down and I'm like the First Republic in my loan collection. Or maybe all of them together.
Someone very close to me told me recently that truly fitting in is an impossibility in this society. Your skin, your bearing, your speech sets you apart in enumerated ways that are obvious or in infinite ways that are imperceptible. I can walk the walk; I can talk the talk; however, to quote Popeye, "I yam what I yam.", and here, escaping yourself is tricky.
This sounds much worse than it is; I've found that once you accept your place, roll with the punches, this things don't get better per se; but they get far more tolerable. Tarnished, yes, but functional.
I don't mind giving N'genda 500 kwacha [$0.15]; number one, he usually takes whatever he can beg off of people to the bakery to purchase bread rolls; number two, he is severely mentally handicapped ... in one of the poorer countries in the world, you can imagine what facilities exist for them. It's pity, a handout, a charity, etc., etc. but if I get too hard to give a few pence to the infirm, the elderly, or what have you, please drag me behind the woodshed and let me have it.
On the other hand, being the only white who is visible in Senanga gives me something of a magnetic attraction. Senanga has something of a transitory nature, given all the traffic coming up and down the river, from Shan'gombo in the West, Mongu up north, Sesheke to the south, and from the hinterlands in the east of Senanga District. People mostly greet me; most times, they met me once and remember my name, whereas one of my great faults is forgetting names. Others, such as older men, regard me with a raised eyebrow (Barotseland was never colonized) ... I always tip my hat and initiate the greeting, as those men carry a bit of weight.
Where it starts getting tiring is the times when you are constantly treated like a tourist by a Zambian who's from out-of-town and has never met you; this happens on a daily basis when I eat buhobe [nshima / porridge made from ground white corn]. The statement always begins with "You eat nshima??" and evolves into broad statements such as "Here in Zambia ..." Most of these conversations are one-sided; during a workday lunch, I usually keep to myself and bolt my buhobe and village [rubber] chicken as fast as I can.
Where it gets really tiring is the constant requests for money. Hand-grabbing by men who reek of tujillyjilly, begging a pin [K1,000] or two to continue feeding their buzz. Men who approach and greet very cordially, then begin a narrative about their hard luck. It can involve a theft, a funeral, a broken oar, cattle disease, school fees ... you name it. It does say something for a culture when you can approach a total stranger and ask for financial help; however, by the fifteenth time, you start wishing for anonymity.
Where it is the most tiring is when friends you know well hit you up for money. It's mostly because you know their hard-luck stories more intimately than the guys who hit you up on the street. "No money for the rent ..."; "They are going to switch off the power and I've got my brother's family with me ..."; "My girlfriend's family is demanding money."; "The family has a funeral to arrange and I'm the eldest brother ..."; that's what I've heard in the last month alone from close friends. Maybe they figure that I blow a whopping three dollars at the bar every three or four days (it equals two beers), or that I buy nshima every day at the astounding price of a buck-fifty. Or maybe it's because I'm white (ding-ding!) and loaded; we all are. Or maybe because I rarely turn people down and I'm like the First Republic in my loan collection. Or maybe all of them together.
Someone very close to me told me recently that truly fitting in is an impossibility in this society. Your skin, your bearing, your speech sets you apart in enumerated ways that are obvious or in infinite ways that are imperceptible. I can walk the walk; I can talk the talk; however, to quote Popeye, "I yam what I yam.", and here, escaping yourself is tricky.
This sounds much worse than it is; I've found that once you accept your place, roll with the punches, this things don't get better per se; but they get far more tolerable. Tarnished, yes, but functional.
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