Flamingo - Art, Craft & Culture - The Caprivian market, a box of chocolates
It’s business as usual at the Ngweze Open Market in Katima Mulilo. The sluggish smoke of the cooking fires is curling into the air, mixing with the traders' laughter and chatter. We stop by the entrance to scan through the bays and listen to the traders as they confidently advertise their meals above the hubbub of voices. “Fried fish!” “Masanza!” “Shima and Zamwamba!” Scores of customers are already sitting on concrete benches, deftly moulding shima (pap) into round balls and dipping them into different kinds of appetising Caprivian sauces. "You were right about this market, Cecil. It's certainly the 'stomach' of most Caprivians," acknow-ledges Don, the American. "No one goes hungry here, my friend. The local dishes are great, inexpensive and come in generous portions." I tender a benign smile. "Would you like some vetkoek?" "Of course, I would!" He picks the smallest 'fat cookie' from the bowl, eats it in one bite and closes his eyes, savouring the moment. Impressed, the American glances at the stocky lady selling vetkoek and a crackling magic in the air forces him to smile. The lady smiles back, her dimples sinking deep into her cheeks. "She's beautiful!" Don's eyes pore over her as though drinking in every detail and as if he doesn't want to forget her in a lifetime. "Just like a water mermaid!" "Yeah, she is. But remember our main mission here is to...." "Of course, to choose Caprivian products to send home for Christmas! How could I forget that?" “So, can we then move on to…?” “Before we get there… eh… is it true that there’s a zoo in here?” “Zoo?” I laugh. “Yeah. Someone told me that there’s wildlife here that…” “Wildlife?” I hold my chin in amusement. “Maybe they meant… OK, come this way, my friend.” The market, which cost the governments of Namibia and Luxembourg N$20 million to build, is not only well designed but also spacious. It’s divided into three sections and a restaurant marks those demarcations. We walk past the restaurant opposite Miss Mbule’s office and into the Arts and Craft Centre. “Please meet Morgan. He’s an artist who’s been here forever and is well versed in everything that happens in this section.” I remain at the reception while Morgan ushers Don into the art gallery. “Look at this! Where’s Cecil?” Don can’t hide his excitement at the sight of handcrafted Caprivian curios. “I’m right behind you,” I reply, giving him an apologetic glance, “There’s no zoo here, Don. These curios are the Caprivian version of your…” “They’re so… so amazing,” he exclaims, impressed. The American moves around, caressing the carved lines of every piece, enjoying the firm feel of the wood. “This art form is basically a way of telling folk stories,” explains Morgan. “And folk stories are an equivalent to the biblical setup in the Garden of Eden where animals talked and co-existed with humans in love and harmony.” “Why is your art also about women who are big? I mean with big and perfectly rounded bu…?” “That’s a typical African woman! The beautiful ones are curvy and with fleshy bodies,” I reply. Morgan nods in agreement. “I see,” smiles Don. He pays for the curios he selected. Morgan neatly wraps them up. “Now we’ll move on to the last section where I’ll ask computer wizard, Hilary Muluti, to design for a special 2010 World Cup calendar and Given Makoni to…?” “Sure. But, no, no, no. Maybe later. Let’s go this way.” “Let’s go this way,” I mimic him, baffled. “I thought I was the one showing you around the place.” He doesn’t answer, but gives me the curios and slips away like an eel. I find him holding hands with the lady whose heavy hips are swinging in a whirlwind of passion. He seems to have melted, and his blood turned to honey. “I’m not going to disturb this lovers’ nest,” I smile. “I’ll go to Hilary’s office for your calendar and proceed to Given’s to have my cellphone repaired. See you in about two hours or so…” “But Cecil, we’re about to…” I’m already at the corner, facing the restaurant, and am drawn in by the aroma of fried fish and potato sauces. I find a seat next to a lovely lady with Japanese looks. “I’m Cecil.” “Akasuki,” she responds, smiling sweetly. “How do you find the Caprivian market?” I ask, desperately trying not to stare at her lovely face. “Honestly, the market’s unbelievable! In fact, it’s like a box of chocolates, because you never know what you’ll get,” responds the Japanese lady, her white teeth glistening in the crescent made by her beautiful smile. As the restaurant becomes almost packed and noisy, I stretch my neck to whisper something to Akasuki. She laughs in a voice that would keep an ice-cream solid for a week.
