The Ox Cart Part II

So, after a few minor distractions we had finally arrived in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Zambia, all of us ready to take care of business.

And, to clarify, the pressure was on to take care of said business. While Marvious always gives us a much lower price for his services than any other truck driver in town, it was still costing us a pretty penny to get to Lusitu and back. Making another trip out in the future would be costly and certainly would not be optimal. It was imperative that we unload the ox cart and get the cows back to Siavonga then and there.

Kanyama led us to the first of the two potential buyers. We pulled up to a small house with walls of burned bricks and a grass roof, typical of the area. The guy’s wife and children were around, washing plates and clothes in front of the house. He was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he had gone out on some other business and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Awesome, I thought. 0 for 1. Plus, we now only had one potential buyer in the area and no leverage going into the negotiation. Just awesome.

I know, I know, we should have made sure the buyers would be at home before going out there. But this is easier said than done. We had tried to call him, but while the vast majority of families in Zambia, even rural Zambia, have at least one person with a cell phone, the reception in such areas is usually very spotty. We had to come out and take a chance.

We jumped back in the truck and continued on along the dirt road deeper into the village, at last coming to the home of buyer number two, another burned brick, grass-roofed number, again finding a wife and children outside. The good news was that this guy was around town and very interested in buying the ox cart. The bad news was that nobody knew exactly where he was and we had to go find him. So, Kanyama, Marvious and I set out to track the man down. The hour-long search was not without its interesting moments…

Every single woman we encountered, and I mean 100 percent without exception, was breastfeeding a small child. It was unbelievable. I don’t know how they do it. Well, I know how they do it, I just don’t know how they do it so much.

I almost lost my life in a cow stampede. Those things came out of nowhere. I felt like Simba but with no Mufasa to rescue me. While I may not be as spry as I once was, I somehow managed to scurry away and survive. You gotta stay on your toes in the village.

Oh, and I saw a young boy that had been walking in front of us squat down right beside the path and drop a deuce right before our eyes. Yikes. Welcome to the village.

At long last we tracked down the buyer, an old man with gray hair and only a few teeth, hunched over and slow-moving. His English was mediocre at best. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a button-up shirt with pictures of Saddam Hussein all over it. Obviously amused by such an absurdity, I kicked off the conversation after greeting him by commenting, “Hey, Saddam Hussein…great guy,” to which he responded, “Oh, thank you, thank you,” apparently not picking up on the sarcasm dripping thickly from my voice. What a sarcastic jerk I am.

Shortly after introductions I became aware of the fact that Kanyama and this guy were actually related in some way. Kanyama hadn’t mentioned this before. Now I had to deal with a clear conflict of interest because, in my experience, even when you have people committed to the Namumu organization, as Kanyama clearly is, helping out one’s family always seems to take precedence over helping Namumu. I’ve seen it time and time again. So, even though, as you might have guessed, I don’t have much experience in cattle negotiations, I’d have to take over and make Kanyama assume the role of spectator.

The old man, with the assistance of some 20 or so boys/young men who had come to gather round as we arrived (I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they were all this guys’ sons), checked out the ox cart from top to bottom. After a lengthy inspection, he led us to his cattle, some 30 or so heads, and then brought us to a small nearby hut, beneath which we sat on stools to chat and negotiate.

So, there I am, a single, bearded white guy, sitting under a small hut surrounded by a large and rapidly increasing number of young men, women and children, all gathered around to see what was happening, few of whom spoke much English. At our feet beneath the hut were chickens, ducks, a couple of pigs and a dog, roaming around in one large, bizarre group. I was wearing open-toed sandals at the time and, as if there wasn’t enough to distract me from our talks, the ducks started nipping at my toes. Resisting the urge to Jackie Chan the nuisances I sat still and focused on the negotiations.

Now, as I mentioned, Kanyama had come out with Vincent to this place some days before to set up the deal. He was supposed to have shown the guy pictures of the ox cart, which he did. He was also supposed to have checked out the exact cattle that the guy was offering so that we knew the guy was offering cows big enough for us to get a good price at the butchery before going all the way out there, which he did not do. He had previously told me that he had done so, but it was now becoming clear that he hadn’t. We had to work out the specifics then and there. Or rather, I had to, because of Kanyama’s conflict of interest.

The thing is, I am not a great businessman. I am not a great negotiator. I’m pretty confident at this point that it is not my life’s calling. However, after participating in numerous kapenta, carpentry and welding negotiations over the past months I have gotten the hang of the basics to some degree.

One thing I’ve picked up on is that, all too often, people have played on my conscience, attempting to exploit the fact that I’m a white American and that they are impoverished Zambians, pleading for me to cut them a good deal because they are really struggling. Oh, help us out, they say, give us this price, we are really suffering and you can afford it, etc. etc. Back in early 2009, when I was young and foolish, I used to fall into this trap from time to time, letting my empathy take over and giving good deals to help these people out. Oh no, not anymore. Now I am ruthless.

The fact of the matter is that I am working for an orphanage. The kapenta profits don’t go into my pocket. The carpentry and welding sales don’t go to my personal bank account. It all goes to feeding and supporting orphans and vulnerable children. My orphans and vulnerable children. While I’d love to help out all my brothers and sisters in Siavonga, our Namumu kids are my priority.

So, when the old man and the old ladies around started begging to be helped out, for me to cut them a break, to accept two very small cows in return for the ox cart, I never even hesitated. No can do, I said.

For a little over an hour we stood by his cattle pen attempting to reach an agreement, trying to pick out two cows that would be suitable. I’m certainly no cattle expert, but I knew the size we should be getting and this guy wasn’t giving them to us. He knew exactly what the ox car was worth and he was trying to work us over.

The guy wouldn’t budge. We packed up the ox cart and left.

Our lack of preparation really came back to bite us. Because we hadn’t worked out the specifics before bringing out the ox cart we were now stuck with a big transport bill and no ox cart buyers. We looked around for another one, but the sun was sinking down fast and we couldn’t find anyone interested.

Luckily, we were able to avoid complete disaster as Kanyama knew a guy who, having a house in the middle of town where people pass through quite frequently, had previously offered to let us leave the ox cart tied up on his land with a For Sale sign in case any interested buyers passed by. With no other option we took him up on his offer, dropping off the ox cart and riding off into the sunset, disappointed and cow-less.

Back in the day I would have been absolutely miserable. I would have felt like a failure. Things weren’t supposed to this way. We had had a plan. Everything had gone wrong.

But you know what? I’ve learned that if you let it upset you every time things don’t work out or go according to plan in southern Africa you are destined to lead a gloomy, miserable life, because things rarely, if ever, work out completely or go according to plan. If you let that stress build up you simply will not survive. You have to do what you can and, if things don’t work out, let it go and just try to do better the next time.

On the way back my man Marvious bought us all some sugar cane on the road side. With traditional African music on the stereo we headed for home eating away. The air was still warm and the breeze felt just swell as we sped south along the road. Yes, we had failed that day. But life was still pretty good.