I started off the morning smiling and full of excitement to visit my friend up North in Chienge. It is part of my Province, Luapula, but a different District about 6 hours north. I packed my yoga mat, a book, dal and spices for chana dal as well as soya pieces and jalapenos for some quick tacos. He is a gracious host, but pretty clueless about what vegans eat, so I planned to cook a few of my favorite go-to meals. I drank my coffee and before I knew it, the taxi was at my gate honking.
I got to the UB Market and immediately men started shouting out destinations in hopes that I would hear my own destination and choose their company over the next. These transportation men are smooth talkers, and I know from experience they will tell you just about anything to ensure the ticket money slides into their hands as opposed to the next. I knew not to decide too quickly and I certainly knew not to hand over my bag, but after what I thought was some valid answers to my many questions and refusals at the price, I came to a deal. The bus wasn’t leaving at the time I had been told, but that wasn’t too shocking. I enjoy wandering the stalls of UB Market and I was far overdue for a visit to my favorite market mama, so I agreed and handed over my money and bag.
After shooting a few texts and unsuccessfully trying to convince my best friend to come and join me in my 4 hour wait, I set off to visit with my market mama. I walked down the muddy market street and arrived at Sister D’s nshima shack to the sound of my name, Mapalo! Mapalo! and loud claps filling my ears. It is always a joy to be welcomed with such warmth, especially when you are making a new home overseas. I climbed up the steps and was embraced in a hug that matched the warmth in which she had called out my name. My heart settled in place and I was grateful for the wait.
The hours I waited were filled with a lot of sitting, but it felt purposeful and relaxing. Ba Carol, my market mama, insisted I sit and be the guest while she continued to wash plates, cook all the relishes and greet just about everyone walking by, all while being 8 months pregnant. I finally convinced her to let me stir the nshima, but I eventually gave into her teasing, because indeed I couldn’t handle the enormous pots cooked over coal. I settled for entertaining her two youngest children, Mary and Mapalo—my namesake.
Just before I was to leave for my bus, we all sat to share our meal. Mary, Mapalo and I ate from one plate and I guess that was the signal for Mapalo that he could also drink right from my Fanta and water bottle as well. ‘Building immunities,’ I convinced myself.
The nshima was done and it was time for me to head back to where the buses were. I hugged Carol and looked over at Mapalo with his head wedged between the table and the wall already fast asleep. That nshima will get you every time! I thought to myself with great anticipation, ‘now I will sleep on the bus and before I know it, I will already be in Chienge.’ Carol’s daughter, Patricia, escorted me to the bus station (I love how Zambians are hospitable beyond belief that I almost always have someone to walk with) and we sat down thinking I would leave shortly.
Short is all relative I suppose, but I would consider my wait anything but short. I was glad that Patricia was with me. She opened her heart and shared about her dreams and frustrations. I listened and challenged her to take action, What will you do for your country? But eventually Patricia had to leave and still no bus.
I waited, waited and then waited some more, I’ve gotten much better at waiting, but at the point of 6 hours of waiting for the bus just to arrive, my waiting stores were beginning to crumble. Even if the bus did eventually arrive, I would have to sleep over night on it as the government just passed a new law banning all night travel. I made an executive decision, I was going home and the trip would be postponed. Now just to get the money back.
I was determined to get my whole K180 back, but my fellow passengers were less convinced as they openly laughed and said, ‘you will not get it back.’ I had to call in the big guns, and that certainly wasn’t me. After about 45 minutes of my failed attempts to coax the money out of the bus worker’s hands, I called my friend to complain. I hated it, but I was close to tears—the long day was finally putting a cloud on my normally chipper attitude. My friend told me to give the guy the phone. I hesitated, came up with excuses of how I didn’t want to be rude or pushy, then finally bit my tongue and handed over the phone. As he still held the phone, the bus worker started counting the money and handed it over gruffly demanding I count it as well. In amazement, gratitude and relief I grabbed the money and my bag.
I walked home to give myself a little space to process. I called my friend back on the walk to find out what he had said. I’m not entirely sure I believe his response, but either way I was glad to have the help. I walked and let taxis go by calling out to me. I just wanted my legs to work out the rest of the frustration. I got home and just moments later it began to rain. I popped open a beer for good measure and decided to listen to the rain from the comfort of my own home instead of on the road to Chienge.