Sarmakand and Other Markets I have Known
There was nothing routine about it. It just happened that I was stuck. To begin with I was lonely and alone, the music had since taken on an insipid familiarity causing me to switch off the radio with frustration. But the silence despite giving me a certain clarity of thought did little to lighten my mood and was soon replaced by a yearning for company, a living thing a body to converse with if you will. Yet I could not think of anyone, not at the time anyway.
And so I drove on, the wheels making a crunching noise as they rolled over the red earth. The picturesque beauty of the majestic hills around me doing little to lift my mood. I had been in Mbala for three days, staying at some overpriced lodge, watching locals brawl and even managed to fuse in a pointless conversation with a redneck from South Africa about his great grandfather who had also fought in the First World War..just like mine. He had approached me from behind on the second evening in Mbala while I was in the middle of decimating the over-priced fried fish placed in front of me. Everything was overpriced here. Camera hanging from his tree trunk of a neck, veins jutting like a Komodo Dragon he introduced himself. I forget his name now.
"Are you here for the centenary celebrations as well? " he didn't wait for me to answer. " My great grandfather fought in the great war. I traveled all the way from South Africa to see where it all ended. With luck am hoping to trace some members of his family here, he once said he sired some children with a Zambian woman but lost touch after the war ended". He chuckled nervously after saying this. Can I take a picture with you?"
I agreed to take the picture, a decision I regretted the next minute. My risk aversion having gotten the better of me. I imagined my picture being paraded back in South Africa as this man's great grandfather's long lost fourth generation love child or something like that. After that he went on this rambling and at times shamelessly patronizing verbiage about war, its evils its winners and of course his great grandfather. He kept up a torrent of shoulder taps, unremitted high fives and an arm around the shoulder that exuded this ambiance of us having been friends for a long time. I didn't like it. He had an ashen sweaty body smell, which became quite apparent once one navigated his minty breath and small sparks of saliva jumped out his mouth each time he talked rapidly.
Perhaps that contributed to my foul mood. I set off for Kalambo falls the following day, having already checked out from the lodge and aiming on immediately heading for Kasama once I finished viewing the falls. I drove briefly along Lake Chila, over a very bad patch of tarred road which was more holes than road in all honesty, heading away the fog from my screen before finally hitting the gravel. It had been raining but in a rather disinterested way.
I normally drive with music or one of those Wole Soyinka speeches, but since I could not put a finger on the source of my irritation, I decided to drive in silence, save for the chugging of the engine, the crunch of the tyres and the occasional morning bird sounds.
And so I drove on, the wheels making a crunching noise as they rolled over the red earth. The picturesque beauty of the majestic hills around me doing little to lift my mood. I had been in Mbala for three days, staying at some overpriced lodge, watching locals brawl and even managed to fuse in a pointless conversation with a redneck from South Africa about his great grandfather who had also fought in the First World War..just like mine. He had approached me from behind on the second evening in Mbala while I was in the middle of decimating the over-priced fried fish placed in front of me. Everything was overpriced here. Camera hanging from his tree trunk of a neck, veins jutting like a Komodo Dragon he introduced himself. I forget his name now.
"Are you here for the centenary celebrations as well? " he didn't wait for me to answer. " My great grandfather fought in the great war. I traveled all the way from South Africa to see where it all ended. With luck am hoping to trace some members of his family here, he once said he sired some children with a Zambian woman but lost touch after the war ended". He chuckled nervously after saying this. Can I take a picture with you?"
I agreed to take the picture, a decision I regretted the next minute. My risk aversion having gotten the better of me. I imagined my picture being paraded back in South Africa as this man's great grandfather's long lost fourth generation love child or something like that. After that he went on this rambling and at times shamelessly patronizing verbiage about war, its evils its winners and of course his great grandfather. He kept up a torrent of shoulder taps, unremitted high fives and an arm around the shoulder that exuded this ambiance of us having been friends for a long time. I didn't like it. He had an ashen sweaty body smell, which became quite apparent once one navigated his minty breath and small sparks of saliva jumped out his mouth each time he talked rapidly.
Perhaps that contributed to my foul mood. I set off for Kalambo falls the following day, having already checked out from the lodge and aiming on immediately heading for Kasama once I finished viewing the falls. I drove briefly along Lake Chila, over a very bad patch of tarred road which was more holes than road in all honesty, heading away the fog from my screen before finally hitting the gravel. It had been raining but in a rather disinterested way.
I normally drive with music or one of those Wole Soyinka speeches, but since I could not put a finger on the source of my irritation, I decided to drive in silence, save for the chugging of the engine, the crunch of the tyres and the occasional morning bird sounds.
The intention really was just going to a place where no one knows my name and just immersing myself in its inconsequential din. Visit local places, museums if any, natural wonders, read and write. That was the plan all along. For some time it seemed to work. I went to Moto moto museum, drooled at the witchcraft section, drove to Mpulungu harbour and marveled at the rowdy waters of Lake Tanganyika, engaged in small talk with cantankerous fish mongers, squinting away from the direct sun with their burnt skins. I even managed to buy some fish.
By the third day though, the thrill had gone. My real life rendition of "Samarkand and other Markets I've Known" gradually turning into ash. Is there rest for the weary? Is there clarity for those who keep questioning? Is it their lot to live and die insatiate. Their hearts rended in two like the slit in the Earth that birthes Kalambo Falls. When does the quest end, does it ever end, doe the hunger, the thirst ever leave?
Its been three years since. A book is on the way. The plan now is even more outlandish. There is dyeing of hair into a crazy green and having dreadlocks created, nails painted and an official new identity.
Aah to be a super hero.
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