The bustle and excitement about the International Trade Fair made its way under my skin weeks before it pulled its way into Ndola, and the government declared its national holiday.

Kenneth, Catherine, and I left the house early in the morning to catch bus and taxi on our route, hoping to beat the mass descending on the grounds. Did we beat it? No (I am still catching up from my lack of sleep, as described in earlier blogs, and use this excuse for lazy mornings, long baths, and sleep-ins). Shhhh.

Ahead of the crowds, no. But made it, we did. We started in the Kenyan Pavilion, which stood itself as close to the front of the gates as it could. Convenient enough. And I stood their proudly, bartering away (as hard, and as with as harsh a vocabulary Swahili will permit) knocking prices down on the wooden figurines that I decided needed to join my collection. The chance to speak again! My Bemba isn’t worth two sticks, but being back in Africa I’ve been craving the chance to really use my skills again. Those honed on the past three escapades in Kenya.

On to the Middle East! Persian rugs, Pakistani bubble gums, Egyptian leather jackets and hieroglyphic scrawls on papyrus.

Reams of fabric from Ghana. Women hawking Nigerian films with wigs and dresses elaborate enough for the most glamorous of drag queens.

We stopped by the booth for City Council to take our picture over the artificial pond. We learned about a new solar power bicycle. We splurged on ice creams and deep fried chips.

Pony rides, cotton candy, raffles, concerts, face paint (the boys opted most commonly for having “Obama” or “Michael Jackson” painted to their foreheads), balloons, dust, cat calls, and electric lights – all riding together with energy and pizzazz.

The highlight – even above the discount trinket tables from the Congo – was, though, the snake zoo.

You paid a dollar at the gate. Catherine led Kenneth and myself through the long winding tape towards the exhibits. Black mambas, spitting cobras, Gabbon vipers, rattlers, – the whole lot. All of those deadlies from Africa sitting in glass tanks around the park, waiting for you to tap the glass or lift the latch.

These cages were not the same as those found at the Toronto Metropolitan Zoo. No, siree, these were homemade cages, built by some Afrikaans farmer in his home outside Kitwe. Crocodiles in the swimming pool, and a guy who told me he used to let the little guys bite ‘em on the finger so he could get the buzz from the venom.

I smiled with as much confidence as I could, as the python posed himself around my neck for the photo. I pet the iguana. I tried talking to the parrot. I listened intently to the stories, I read the signs, and I snapped the photos… All as if I wasn’t scared to death of even the most docile of those creatures sitting there in their boxes.

Finally, enough was enough. Scared to wits that someone would bump over a box, and 400 fatalities would end up in the Zambian Post in the morning, I bid farewell to the scales and returned to the safety of wooden animals and vicious haggling.

Feet aching, with bags in each hand, and sunburn on my brow, we picked a bus, and drove all the way home, at the end of our marvelous day at the fair.

 Lovingly yours, 

Cam