|
|
T
he Maramba market sprawls over several acres
of dirt near the town of Livingstone. It's a maze of hundreds of stalls
lashed together from tree limbs and sheets of plastic, a metropolis
of buying and selling: mounds of leaf tobacco, dried fish from Lake
Kariba, buckets of bright red oxides used as dyes, charcoal in huge
blocks, and row upon row of second-hand clothes-- resold by locals
after donation by aid organizations. Zambia is one of the poorest
nations in the world, where the average national income is less that
$200, but here local entrepreneurs are making do. We greet people
with a local phrase "muli bwanji?" which means how are you,
and they light up with smiles and reply "bweeno," fine.
|
|
Our guide Arthur buys us a fruit from
a Baobab tree, which immediately sucks the moisture from our tongues.
The fruit is white and dry, with the consistency of freeze dried
ice cream and the flavor of sour grass. When we finish, we spit
out the black seed and find ourselves thristy. We come up with the
perfect business plan, give away baobab pulp and sell beer next
door.
|
|
|
