Free From…
Looking through our food cupboards you might get the impression that my Husband and I are vegan diabetics with seriously high blood pressure. At any moment you might find one of us prone on the kitchen floor in a diabetic coma, with the other slumped a few feet away, mid-call to the emergency services, having suffered a shock-induced stroke.
We are actually pretty much in fine health. Our cupboards tell the story of my Husband’s eyesight. Blind in one eye, and routinely forgetting to wear his glasses, his shopping choices are based on brand colour recognition and size of packaging. As long as the item is vaguely in the expected place in the shop, it’s fair game. We’ve tried the whole gamut of ‘Free From’ products: herbal toothpaste, dairy-free butter, gluten-free bread, nut-free peanut butter and sugar-free sugar. Over the years I’ve unpacked the surprises of dairy-free cheese, meat-free bacon, low-salt marmite, and numerous jars of diabetic jam. An embarrassing number of crackers and biscuits have hit the bin as I realised why they were just inedible. The fat free cheese bounced straight back out of the bin like a kid’s rubber ball.
My Husband’s enthusiasm for shopping was never diminished by these forays into the unknown. Sometimes, not wanting to crush his spirit, I would quietly push another jar of reduced-salt Marmite to the back of the cupboard, hiding it behind the seaweed-based lasagne sheets. That’s one of the things I appreciate about him – he loves shopping. It could be for food, my clothes or toys for the grandchildren, he is always up for it. As long as he isn’t spending money on himself.
Here in Mfuwe, a rural corner of Eastern Zambia, shopping has an entirely different flavour. There are many small shops and market stalls along the roadside, each selling more-or-less the same thing. There is one store where products familiar to my Western palate can be found. Often half the shelves are bare, apart from the labels stating what you might have bought, had you only come earlier.
Shopping in Zambia has taught me to save time by asking very precise questions. Otherwise, a visit to the pharmacy might go something like this:
‘Good Morning, How are you?’
‘Good Morning, I am very well, thank you.’
‘Do you sell Ibuprofen?’
‘Yes we do.’ A broad, warm smile as is typical of Zambians
‘Great. I’d like to buy some please.’ An equally broad smile of relief from me.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any.’ Genuine sorrow on his face.
‘But you said you sell it?’ Disbelief on mine.
‘Yes we do, but we are out of stock.’ Still smiling.
‘Oh. When will you get some in?’ My smile fading.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you do sell it?’
‘Yes, he said, still smiling. ‘We do.’
Zambians, I have learned, hate to say no.
Zambia forced us to cook everything very healthily from scratch. We can only indulge in fast food when we take the four-hour round trip to Chipata where there is a Hungry Lion. Chicken burgers and chips, followed by ice cream, is the reward for navigating the tiresome, pot-holed filled road to the nearest town.
We took this trip after we moved house a few months ago when I realised there was no mirror in the house. Not one. Without glass in the windows (only wire mesh, which is usual here) or a microwave oven, there was nowhere to catch a sneaky glance at my reflection. For a whole month, I got up and went to work without a clue what I looked like. After I’d worn a dress back-to-front for the second time, I campaigned for a trip to Chipata.
Chipata is where you can get most things you need, if only you can find them in the mêlée of dusty back streets and market stalls. We bought a car battery there, and sent it back via taxi a few months later because it no longer held a charge. Despite a phone call to the shop to arrange its return, the battery arrived back to us a few days later (in a taxi that we had to pay for) with a note saying it didn’t work.
Buying most things in rural Zambia is hit and miss. If it’s boxed, there are likely to be pieces missing. If it’s complete, you’ll find it will fail or fall apart within a few months. I now have two ironing boards in the spare room, neither of which are useable unless you iron in a kneeling position, as if in prayer to the God of Laundry.
I had a list of things to do this weekend, which included tidying out the walk-in pantry. First on my list was ‘Get out of Bed’ followed by ‘Take a Shower’. Having a list means I don’t have to think about how I’m going to get through each day since my husband returned to the U.K. And there’s a little injection of dopamine when I diligently tick off the things I have done, however small.
Over the last few months the generous pantry has become a muddled hotch-potch of tins and bottles, weevil-filled packets of flour and moth-infested bags of herbs. Jumbled at the back are the remains of recycling projects, ones my Husband started but never finished.
Ready to start the task this morning, I flicked on the light and stood in the doorway, looking at the jumble of it all. A couple of beetles scurried away from the light, disappearing behind a pile of old bottles on the floor. Cobwebs hung from the upper shelves, stickily embracing embrace the items below.
I picked out things I hadn’t noticed before; cable ties, assorted nails, empty yoghurt cartons, Flavour-Free salad dressing. As I tentatively reached for an old plunger, wondering where it had come from, I realised that disturbing the shelves would bring surprises of not just the eight-legged kind.
I decided that for today, I could leave it. Another day, when I’m feeling more resilient, would I sort through the remains of our life together.
