City Market

The City Market Bus Station sits in downtown Lusaka. It’s crowded and dirty, jam-packed with people coming from and going to numerous locations within Zambia. While there are a number of bus stations in the city, any time you get on a minibus from Siavonga to Lusaka City Market is where you end up. I’ve been through the station dozens of times and it’s always an adventure. Allow me to walk you through a typical arrival into the capital city…

I’m always the only white guy for miles. That’s a given. Like I said, I’ve passed through dozens of times, and I can’t recall a single time I ever saw another white person. You might run into a few elsewhere in the city, but most of them don’t use public transport, it seems. Except me. What can I say, I’m a man of the people.

There are always numerous market vendors around the station, most of which fall into one of two categories.

There are the older women, gathered under umbrellas or makeshift tents, or just sitting out in the sun, selling anything from vegetables to kapenta to books to small trinkets. These ladies mostly just sit back and wait for the action to come to them. It’s nice. No sales pressure.

Then there’s the other, infinitely more obnoxious group, the young drunk guys who stay mobile, walking around and shoving their wares, CDs and DVDs (always bootlegs), clothes (always second hand), and jewelry (always total crap), into your face and pestering you mercilessly in hopes that you’ll buy something from them. Ok, they aren’t always drunk. But usually they are.

So, while there are always exceptions, most vendors fit one of these two profiles.

Upon arriving at the station I always mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of the young drunk salesmen. It’s never too bad coming into the city. Mostly they harass people sitting on buses waiting to leave the station. But I always mentally prepare when coming just in case.

Next, after exiting the bus and beginning to weave my way through the crowd I always brace myself for possible pickpocket attempts. As you might imagine, being the only white guy for miles makes me a walking bearded target. These guys can see me coming from a mile away and assume right off the bat that I’m loaded, because all whites are loaded in their minds.

Surprisingly, there have only been two all out attempts to pick my pocket, both unsuccessful thanks to my Chuck Norris-like reflexes. I don’t have the nickname for nothin’, folks.

I always shift my wallet to the front pocket and keep my hands by my sides, so there’s no chance of getting picked there, but sometimes I keep some small change in my front shirt pocket to have handy. I had one guy go after that recently. He was pretending to try to sell my plastic bags and was shoving hem in my face. I saw his hand sneak down towards my shirt pocket and slapped it away briskly. I said some very unkind words to him and he cowered in fear before walking away. Nobody messes with Uncle Chuck Norris’ shirt pocket and gets away with it.

As for the second attempt, a guy walking behind me once tried to quickly unzip my backpack without me noticing and slip something out. I felt a slight tug and turned around immediately. He scampered off in the other direction empty-handed. He didn’t see me staring him down, but I’m confident he felt my eyes burning into the back of his head. I’m an intense stare-er these days.

Finally, before making it out of the station I always face one final obstacle, the most dangerous obstacle of all. The buses themselves.

Let me tell you something, the bus drivers in the city are maniacs. Maybe some are intoxicated. Maybe some are just reckless. Regardless, they shoot in and out of small spaces and in between people and other buses with no apparent regard for human life. It’s crazy. You really have to stay on your toes.

It’s kind of like you’re in a real life version of Mario Kart battle mode. Only you don’t have a car yourself. And if you get hit you don’t lose a balloon. You lose your life.

Oh, and to add to that, while in Zambia they drive on the left-hand side of the street, my brain is still wired to expect them to be coming on the right-hand side. When I cross a street my instinct is to look left and then, if it’s clear, to start to cross. You can see how this might cause a problem. I’ve trained myself to stop and think before crossing, but sometimes I’m in a hurry and my mind is elsewhere and I get into trouble. I’ve had some close calls. I think Namumu should assign someone to hold my hand as I cross all streets in the city.

Honestly, I think the fact that I haven’t been hit by a bus yet proves that God loves me and wants to keep me around for one reason or another.

A wave of joy and relief usually washes over me as I exit from the City Market gate. Sure, there are still crazy, drunken salesmen, schiesty pickpockets and maniac bus drivers on the outside, but it’s all spread out and easier to handle. Lusaka is really a nice city.