“You know,” said David,
“every time I see a kid carrying around a plastic bottle, I wonder who gave it
to them.”
And we both laughed as flashbacks of grubby little hands snatching at our soda bottles on the dusty winding paths through the marketplace danced fleetingly through our minds.
We were at a very different kind of market now. The little Indian girl with the Mtn. Dew bottle carried on closely behind her mother, and I breathed in deeply the aroma of curry and tzatziki and Cajun that wafted from the various restaurants at the food court at Nashville’s Farmer’s Market. I watched her with joy as she gleefully waved around that silly bottle, shaking it at the ceiling lights and putting it against her eyes to tint her whole world lime green. Never mind that her mother was carrying a pack with toys sticking out of it. The child was completely content and enthralled with that bottle.
But then, I was not surprised. Across the world a lot of fun can be had with a plastic bottle. The kids in Kazembe make trains, or cars, or dolls, or any other manner of entertainment out of them. They use them for games, and sometimes they just hoard them. The caps off of glass bottles are prized almost as highly, and David used to get a great deal of amusement out of flipping them to unsuspecting Iwes as we ambled along the road.
One day during the Mutomboko ceremony we were hanging out under a tree by the palace next to the booth where press passes and touristy t-shirts were sold. I don’t really remember now how the whole thing got started or who initiated the first flick (probably David, since his pockets were usually full of bottle caps), but suddenly David and I were sitting on the ground surrounded by a couple dozen dirty kids. We flipped the cap back and forth a few times, then innocently flipped it to a kid on the inside of the circle. He was so surprised that he didn’t even catch it.
He caught it the second time, though. And then the next kid caught it. And then the next one. And thus the most uncomplicated game of catch ever conceived came into being, and we sat there in the dirt as happy as could be, flipping bottle caps back and forth with a bunch of kids we had never met.
The palace official did not approve of our antics.
“You! You my friends, we are happy to have you here as guests! But send these children away from here.”
Now as a sidenote, it would be an understatement to say that I have a temper. It would also be an understatement to say that said temper has a tendency to flair when innocents—particularly children—are mistreated or devalued.
So I very calmly stood up, held my hands out so my dear little urchins could cling on, then resolutely began to walk away, saying, “Come on everyone, we’ll all go somewhere else.”
“Oh no!” the official hurriedly interjected. “You,” gesturing to those of us who are white, “You are welcome! Just get rid of the children.”
“If they are not welcome to sit under a tree, then neither are we,” I replied.
The official began to protest again, when suddenly Zeger stepped in.
“But my good sir,” our resident non-Christian pleaded smoothly, “are we not all children of God? We are no better than they, and so if we can be here, than surely they can be too.”
Well now he had him. All sacrifices to the ancestors aside, this man was not about to let some random white people think that he was not a “good Christian.”
“Oh yes!” he exclaimed. “My friend! In my spare time, I am an evangelist! Of course, yes, we are all children of God! The children may stay, yes…”
As the flustered official returned to his kiosk, David, Zeger, and I returned to our game.
(Also, I would like to point out that I don't think this official was really the "bad guy"-- he was just doing his job; part of crowd control in the village is kid control.)
Eventually the next part of the ceremony started, and we got up, brushed ourselves off, gave the caps away, and followed the crowds.
We retold the story many times in the days to come and indeed have recounted it on numerous occasions since returning home. It remains one of my favorites, because it turns out that even musungus can play the Zambian political game-- and even the lowest in society can often be protected from being devalued or shunted aside, if only someone with a voice will ally himself with them.
And we both laughed as flashbacks of grubby little hands snatching at our soda bottles on the dusty winding paths through the marketplace danced fleetingly through our minds.
We were at a very different kind of market now. The little Indian girl with the Mtn. Dew bottle carried on closely behind her mother, and I breathed in deeply the aroma of curry and tzatziki and Cajun that wafted from the various restaurants at the food court at Nashville’s Farmer’s Market. I watched her with joy as she gleefully waved around that silly bottle, shaking it at the ceiling lights and putting it against her eyes to tint her whole world lime green. Never mind that her mother was carrying a pack with toys sticking out of it. The child was completely content and enthralled with that bottle.
But then, I was not surprised. Across the world a lot of fun can be had with a plastic bottle. The kids in Kazembe make trains, or cars, or dolls, or any other manner of entertainment out of them. They use them for games, and sometimes they just hoard them. The caps off of glass bottles are prized almost as highly, and David used to get a great deal of amusement out of flipping them to unsuspecting Iwes as we ambled along the road.
One day during the Mutomboko ceremony we were hanging out under a tree by the palace next to the booth where press passes and touristy t-shirts were sold. I don’t really remember now how the whole thing got started or who initiated the first flick (probably David, since his pockets were usually full of bottle caps), but suddenly David and I were sitting on the ground surrounded by a couple dozen dirty kids. We flipped the cap back and forth a few times, then innocently flipped it to a kid on the inside of the circle. He was so surprised that he didn’t even catch it.
He caught it the second time, though. And then the next kid caught it. And then the next one. And thus the most uncomplicated game of catch ever conceived came into being, and we sat there in the dirt as happy as could be, flipping bottle caps back and forth with a bunch of kids we had never met.
The palace official did not approve of our antics.
“You! You my friends, we are happy to have you here as guests! But send these children away from here.”
Now as a sidenote, it would be an understatement to say that I have a temper. It would also be an understatement to say that said temper has a tendency to flair when innocents—particularly children—are mistreated or devalued.
So I very calmly stood up, held my hands out so my dear little urchins could cling on, then resolutely began to walk away, saying, “Come on everyone, we’ll all go somewhere else.”
“Oh no!” the official hurriedly interjected. “You,” gesturing to those of us who are white, “You are welcome! Just get rid of the children.”
“If they are not welcome to sit under a tree, then neither are we,” I replied.
The official began to protest again, when suddenly Zeger stepped in.
“But my good sir,” our resident non-Christian pleaded smoothly, “are we not all children of God? We are no better than they, and so if we can be here, than surely they can be too.”
Well now he had him. All sacrifices to the ancestors aside, this man was not about to let some random white people think that he was not a “good Christian.”
“Oh yes!” he exclaimed. “My friend! In my spare time, I am an evangelist! Of course, yes, we are all children of God! The children may stay, yes…”
As the flustered official returned to his kiosk, David, Zeger, and I returned to our game.
(Also, I would like to point out that I don't think this official was really the "bad guy"-- he was just doing his job; part of crowd control in the village is kid control.)
Eventually the next part of the ceremony started, and we got up, brushed ourselves off, gave the caps away, and followed the crowds.
We retold the story many times in the days to come and indeed have recounted it on numerous occasions since returning home. It remains one of my favorites, because it turns out that even musungus can play the Zambian political game-- and even the lowest in society can often be protected from being devalued or shunted aside, if only someone with a voice will ally himself with them.
Can you tell me more about what you mean when you say Mwata? Is that a tribe or is it a sort of office like a postman? Also... could you highlight what you're talking about when you say, "sacrifices to the ancestors aside." I thought it was a Christian ceremony.
ReplyDeleteHey Curious!
ReplyDeleteMwata means "Paramount Chief." The technical name is Mwata Kazembe. He's the chief of the the chiefs in the area of Zambia that we were in-- the head honcho. The name of the village is Mwansabombwe, but it's also known as Kazembe. Once upon a time, the location of the palace changed villages every time there was a change of Chiefs, and whatever village it was in was known as Kazembe. That practice has since been discontinued, and since Mwansabombwe was the last village it happened in, the name stuck (thank goodness, because Mwansabombwe is a mouthful).
There's a good deal more information about it on Wikipedia, if you're curious:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kazembe
Mutomboko is definitely NOT a Christian ceremony. It used to be a ceremony performed after a conquest or victory, but as time went on and war became less common it turned into more of a yearly celebration. There are actually several smaller ceremonies that make up the larger celebration, and a great deal of offerings and sacrifices are made (corn, chicken, a live goat... the spokesman told me two years ago that they used to sacrifice a human but are "more civilized now..."). Several shrines and different spirits that the people believe in are involved. There's no way I could explain all of the facets of it in one paragraph, but this site is the best explanation of it I've seen yet:
http://umutomboko.homestead.com/Events.html
So again, definitely not a Christian ceremony. We have since questioned the wisdom of attending it at all (it's kind of a I Corinthions 8-10 meat-sacrificed-to-idols thing... we attended for academic and curiosity purposes, but I'm not sure I would again, if only because I do not want to perpetuate the superstitions and beliefs it celebrates). Zambia is politically a "Christian" nation, but at least in the rural areas where we were, that Christianity--where it is present at all-- exists alongside many ancient or cultural religious beliefs and superstitions.
Please let me know if you need any clarification-- I know that was a lot.
And thanks for the comment! :)