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.
You never struck me as the kind of guy to trouble yourself over a little "wind in the gut."
ReplyDeleteYour post reminded me of several of my own exotic haircuts. None so much as the one I received in Las Vegas by a barber wielding 18-inch shears while half-distracted by the Playboy channel. Somehow, my ears remained intact.