Getting on the Boat

The timber industry in Senanga is likely one of the lowest-tech, but yet, highest-value sawmills I’ve ever seen. Utilizing the most jerry-rigged, abused WoodMizers I’ve ever seen, they churn out thick planks for the export market. The straw boss, who doesn’t appear to be a local and speaks in functional, forceful Lozi, told me the planks’ destination was likely (guess?) China.  Mostly, they are churn out rosewood (Guibourtia coleosperma [L. muzauli] ) planks that take four men to stack; I can’t imagine driving a nail into those planks for the life of me. Once in a while, they buzz up a Zambezi Teak (Baikiaea Plurijuga) or a mukwa (Pterocarpus Angolensis), which make the beauty of the rosewood pale in comparison; the teak swallows light when shined, and the mukwa features a striking contrast between the heart and sapwood that accentuates with age. Unfortunately, the likely reason you see fewer of those logs is that there are fewer of those trees standing; they have been cut commercially since the Brits rolled in one hundred years ago, and the burgeoning urban market and the voracious Chinese market is quickly mopping up what’s left. Also, people tell me the mukwa and teaks are incredibly slow growing; my experience so far tells me that any tree that can’t mature in less than 10 years is on a short timeframe in the endangered species list.

Anyway, behind the sawmill is one of the denser stands of velvet beans in town. Usually, to collect beans, I set off on peregrinations through the townships to collect a small handful of beanpods from of the fences between houses. Along the river, though, there are pure stands of velvet bean. It’s definitely a tradeoff … I collect far more beans, but you have to fight through all manner of verdant, thorny vegetation, all of which seem intended to set off some sort of allergic skin reaction. Mentally gritting my teeth and resisting the urge to scratch the itch (it creates a rather unpleasant negative feedback loop), I fill an old cement bag within a half-hour; the beans are heavy enough to warrant bearing on my shoulder, leaving one arm free to carry home relish for dinner. It being Sunday, I aimed to get my usual ndombe (catfish) to make chowder.

I was approaching the junction leading into the market when I noticed the police trucks and the large gentlemen clad in what I like to call “beating” wear … i.e. bloused pants, dungaree tops, and brown berets, sporting what appear to be Bren guns of WWII vintage. An arm hanging out of a green truck gesticulated in my direction; it was an acquaintance who works for the local prison. I greeted him, and he me, and he gave me some rare direct advice to go straight home, as their might be trouble brewing with the opposition party (PF) cadres in town. Quite a few were doing as cadres like to do, which is drink a lot of beer and act tough, and pummel any members of the opposing party.

Let me rewind a bit; politicking in Zambia is slightly different than the States. Sure, campaigns are getting progressively weirder back home, but you need to come live in Africa (this one I can generalize) to see a much more vivid upcoming.

First off, the way you demonstrate your allegiance to a party is to wear some sort of uniform, badge, clothing, etc. The “ruling” (what they call the majority party running government) party, the Movement for Multiparty Democracy, has the edge on this one; people sport very elaborate chitenge-material clothes bearing the president’s smiling image and the party’s symbol and slogan; for the MMD, it is the “The Hour Has Come” surrounding a clock face indicating one o’ clock), and for the opposition Patriotic Front (PF) it is “Pa Bwato” ([Get on] The Boat) with two gentlemen paddling a traditional dugout. For you Zambian history buffs, the old United National Independence Party has a right hand bearing a torch, ala the old Zairean flag.

The second way to demonstrate your party loyalty is a hand symbol that is waved vigorously at any party function, rally, etc. The MMD uses a gesture that emulates the clock symbol [koloko] by extending their index finger and thumb and rotating the hand rapidly (think like the number #1 sign commonly used at sporting events, but a tad different). PF is a bit simpler; they make a fist and shake it up-and-down, sort of like the Black Panthers (I guess ... not much of that in Upper Michigan).

As Peace Corps Volunteers, we are expressly forbidden from participating in any political events; we are guests of the government and our mission is intended to be apolitical, as it should be. This is quite easy in the village; a bit less so in town during an election year. Not wearing a party’s chitenge clothes is not difficult (duh!), but the hand symbols can get me for both parties. Both of my hands have been broken multiple times over the years thanks to football, rugby, labor, etc., so when I wave, some of my fingers remain curled and I give a greeting resembling the koloko movement; therefore, I have to consciously remind myself to stretch out my fingers. With the PF symbol, it’s less of a problem, but I still make mistakes. Today, for example, I saw one of our local Rastafarian community and greeted him in their way (fists up, touch them, then tap the chest) before realizing the context and the people eyeing me. Whoops.

Though I knew the rally was ongoing (it is hard to miss in a town this small), I broke my usual rule of laying low during rallies to pick velvet beans and get fish. It’s fish chowder night! This is a small town! Nothing happens! I’m bored out of my skull!

Lunch was the first clue that it was a different day; PF youth and cadres (none of whom I recognized as local) were in the restaurant I haunt, drinking beer like they were on a mission and hollering along with the near-deafening music. I pounded my nshima and village chicken in record time and headed for the velvet beans.  However, the warning I received from my buddy wrecked fish chowder night. Though I doubted anything happened in town, it’s never a good idea to find out firsthand.

So back I came; I listened to various PF party members speak from my back porch. Though the rally was at the football pitch a half-mile away, the speakers they used carried fairly well. Sata didn’t speak until the end of the day. The only comment I’ll make on his speech is that I think I speak much better Lozi than he does (he used a translator). Somehow, this was comforting to me as I picked apart sunnhemp, velvet beans, and bambara nuts and contemplated Zambian politics while anticipating my dinner of white bread.