The Ndola Trade Fair

One of the reasons I’ve pitched a tent in my friends’ backyard is that all the hotels in town are full up, this being trade fair week. Even my trusty hoteliers at Castle Lodge had to relinquish my room in exchange for the bloated rates to be made off trade fair goers. So yesterday I went to the Ndola Trade Fair with a friend to see what all the hoopla was about. I am aware that it began over fifty years ago as the Northern Rhodesia Show.

I spent very little time there, an hour at most, but I came away with a grab-bag of impressions. There was even time to perform an act of patriotism.

Because there was an admission price, more actual business seemed to be conducted outside than in. The ticket price also meant that there were more people outside the gates than in, a sort of general reflection of the dispensation of having and not-having around here. On our way in we have to navigate through this chaos of informal commerce. After stepping over a little spread of belts and shirts, some asshole (who I suspect was in no way associated with that particular spread of items for sale) tried to shake me down, saying that I had damaged his goods. I had heard about this scam, and ignored him completely and successfully.

Inside, my first impression was that there was more fanfare than substance. The most prominent buildings and displays were given to the long and greedy arms of the Zambian government. Each department had its own building, with its own staff and displays. The Department of Immigration, the Department of Disaster Mitigation and Control, the Department of Agriculture, the Department of Mining and Natural Resources. Each had a colorfully painted official insignia, and below each insignia was the same subtitle: Economic Growth through Competitiveness. Walking through these displays was like touring a petrified forest. The staffers were all sitting, eyes downcast, and for the most part could not be bothered to respond to our greeting. They had nothing for sale and nothing to say. Just going through the motions.

Even worse was the official stand of the Democratic Republic of Congo, whose staffers were downright surly. Their displays consisted of poorly executed graphics illustrating their various doomed economic initiatives. Each display was spruced up with an arrangement—either a half-circle or a pyramid—of beer. My attempts to purchase a beer were rejected. On n’est pas ici pour vendre des boissons, Monsieur. No indeed, they were there to promote large-scale industrial initiatives.

Later I tried to get a cup of water at the bottled water company’s stand. They regretted to inform me that they did not have any cups just then.

When I tried to purchase a T-shirt from a parastatal garment company, I was informed that they only accepted bulk orders. How about that one, I asked, the one that says “Economic Growth through Competitiveness?” I’m sorry, Sir.

But just around the corner there was a sea-change. From one step to the next, the sterile atmosphere of parastatal business was replaced by the spicy drafts of the bazaar. All of a sudden we were in the thick of enterprise. People were jostling, yelling, appraising, exhorting. I was crowded by a gaggle of Chinese men in a hurry. People were coming from every direction with some sort of purpose written on their faces. There were Pakistanis selling rosewood furniture inlaid with brass, Nigerians selling fancy ankaras and leather products, Iranians selling rugs, Zambian women selling jewelry they had made, an infomercial-type guy rattling off the benefits of a new kind of vegetable peeler to a crowd captivated by the rhetoric of the market. Enthused, I bought a goatskin briefcase from Nigeria, and then several pieces of jewelry. My critical side gave way to thoughts of filling up a container with African artifacts and making a killing.

The last place we stopped by was the mining tent. I met an employee of Nkana Mining named Justus. He seemed amenable to my curiosity, and we made a plan for me to see their operations either this week or the next, both open cast and underground.

On the way out we walked past a rank of international flags. Old Glory was hung upside down on the pole. We lowered her, righted her orientation, and raised her high on the mast. No one paid us any mind.